Aaron's Assonant Adventures in Asia

Music Monday: LCD Soundsystem

2011-11-07T11:54:00.002-06:00

I must have been a bit late on this phenomenon; LCD Soundsystem is a name that I've heard popping up for years now, but never really hunted down. I knew it was some sort of dance music, which scared me away at first. This was until my friend Chris gave me a burned CD of their newest album, This is Happening. What I heard was dance music, but more of a rehashing of late 70's David Bowie and Talking Heads. This was my type of dance music.

I been a fan since then and all of their three albums are great, but none matches their first. The first track, "Daft Punk is Playing at my House" lays the whole idea of the group on the table in a quick, fun, funky, danceable rock song. It simultaneous pokes fun at the nerdiness of the hip, yet embraces it at the same time. The rest of the album switches between electronic workouts and jumpy rock songs. I would not call anything here truly original. "On Repeat" sounds like a modern retake of post-punk, just more electronic. "Never as Tired as When I'm Waking up" sounds like a cover from The Beatles White Album, even in its quality, but despite the rehashing of ideas, producer James Murphy always keeps a strong humor, the songs paying homage to his influences, not copying them.

The second disc is made up early singles. The first, "Losing My Edge" is a hilarious nerd battle between the old school record collectors and children of the internet age. The rest are not nearly as great, but the two extended versions of "Yeah" are both fun dance songs.

Overall, this is one of the most fun albums of the last ten years. It is simply likeable as both a listening experience and a background party album. This is great dance music for people who don't like dance music.

One night in London

2011-10-10T19:46:00.001-05:00

I wanted to make sure I'd make all of my connections into Norway, so I booked my tickets to leave an overnight in London, hopefully giving me a chance to see a few things. My trip was not without its complications. I fell asleep before my plane even took off from China and I awoke hours later in the middle of the meal service. Everyone seemed to be finishing up, so I went right back to sleep, waking just before landing in Moscow. I sleepily went through customs and hunted down a cup of coffee and walked around admiring the beauty of Russian women. My gate was on the opposite end of the airport, but I didn't know that until shortly before my flight boarded. Right as I was entering the gate area, I had one of my strange anxiety moments where something didn't seem right. I mostly fight these checking obsessions, but this time, I really thought my backpack felt too light. So I stripped it off and realized that my laptop was not there. I could have only left at the x-ray machine. Therefore, I had to run all the way back across the airport (couldn't you just get a shuttle service Moscow airport) and found my customs entry point. Thankfully, the woman had set it aside for me. I was so happy, I forgot to say “thank you” for one-second, which the customs lady pointed out. “Thank you!” I yelled and ran all the way back, just making the boarding.

The second flight was nearly as long as the first, but I stayed awake for the duration; I had to conform to Europe time. I landed at noon and easily found the subway system, purchasing an “Oyster Card” a frequent rider program which paid for itself on my ride to the hostel. It was located in the Northeast part of the city. I noticed right away that every building looked the same, just an endless row of town houses as far as I could see. It was oddly charming though.

My hostel didn't take cards, so I hunted down a money exchange for my Norwegian kroner. What I got was just enough to pay for my room that night, hardly enough for food or anything else. And no place cheap enough for my budget took cards. So I stayed on a constant hunt for card only establishments. I was knackered when I arrived, but I ignored this, dropped my bag and caught a subway to the main part of town. I didn't even take a shower; there was no time. I had to see everything that day.

I don't know why I always adopt these mindsets, this never works out for me, but somehow in London it worked. Everything was so expensive, I could only see the sights from the outside. Very few thing are worth thirty dollar admission. My first stop was Buckingham Palace, where I jumped a fence, slipped and fell over. I could hear Elisabeth laughing. There was a lovely park on the way to Westminster Abbey. The cathedral itself was quite incredible; I would have loved to see the inside. The parliament house was also pompous and beautiful, but Big Ben was a letdown; it was so much smaller than I expected. The London Eye just across the river was not a draw since I couldn't afford to ride it, but the view from that side of the river was great. The bridge was packed shoulder to shoulder with sausage and caramel corn vendors; the parliament member must love these snacks. Sadly, they only accepted cash.

I continued walking along the river, admiring all the sight.s. London is a very characterful city. I loved how such old buildings sat with all the new. Like a western version of Kolkata. I walked all the way to the tower bridge, passing Christopher Wren's great St. Paul's cathedral and other popular sights. I got some decent photos and saw most of the things on the postcards that afternoon, so that was nice. It was obvious that I was not just burned out on Asia, but tourism in general.

I headed home around the same time as the city was leaving work. The subway was packed with quiet, tired people, strung out from work. The women wore a mask of makeup and didn't know where to stop with the eyeliner. Most of the people were fat and lifeless; they seemed so dead compared to the Chinese, who can be quite cold and lifeless themselves sometimes.

I had a traditional London dinner of Polish food, the only restaurant in the area that took cards. It was lovely but pricey. This is only a lead-up to the outrageously expensive Norway. There were no more dollar dinners in my future.

Cities in China

2011-10-09T14:12:00.001-05:00

I doubt that many people who have never been to China can comprehend the sheer population of the country (outside those in maybe India.) In China has a population of 1.3 billion, four times that of the United States, in roughly the same land area. Just keeping people busy or housed in itself is a major job for the country. Despite their attempts to curb growth with the one-child policy, the population still grows too fast. Plus, given the citizens' preference of men, many females have been aborted since this policy came into effect. The government will lift the one-child policy soon, but this will not undo the damage emotionally and mentally by such practices. The population may actually go down, since millions of men all of China cannot find wives, due to the over population of men.

A city of a million plus doesn't even blip on the radar of people. Most provincial capitols are at least 5 million or so, not to mention the large number of multimillion population cities all over the country. I was very surprised by the number of huge cities I'd never even heard of before. Take Shenzhen for example, the second largest city in China. I and many travelers had never heard of it before, even though it has a population of 15 million, nearly a million more than Los Angeles. Here's a little exercise, I'll list China's ten largest cities, with its population and a city in the world that is about the same size. I'd be surprised if an American could recognize more than four of these.

1. Shanghai 18.6 million, about the same size as Mexico City
2. Shenzhen 15.3 million, just a bit bigger than LA.
3. Beijing 14.3 million, just smaller than L.A.
4. Dongguan 12.2 million, just bigger than Rio De Janiero
5. Guangzhou 11.9 million, the same size as Rio
6. Hong Kong 7 million, nearly the size of Bangkok
7. Tianjin 7 million
8. Chongqing 7 million
9. Wuhan 5.5 million about the size of Dallas/Fort Worth
10. Shenyang 5.3 million, about the size of Philadelphia

Of course this list is a bit controversial, given the many ways of listing population. Chongqing has been considered the largest city the world, with over 30 million (if you count the whole province as Chongqing). Once you get to the last 5, many of these are interchangeable. All in all, China has about 20 cities with a population larger than five million! So, keep this in perspective when considering China. 1.3 billion is A LOT of people.

Shanghai

2011-10-09T12:57:00.000-05:00

My last day in Asia was spent in the megacity of Shanghai, on the central coast of China. Essentially serving as the financial capital of the country, it has been growing bigger, and taller steadily for hundreds of years. Standing at the point where the Yangzhe meets the Pacific, it is an obvious strategic point, leading to it division by foreign powers in the mid-1800's and eventually, most of Europe and the US controlled a portion of the city. This foreign control led to it being the most modern, westernized city in China (outside of Hong Kong of course).

The first thing I noticed was the smog, reminding me the wonderful skies of Beijing. I had sadly gotten used to the sight of skies above 10 million+ cities. My first stop was a hostel where I stored my bag for the day. I'd planned to spend a night in Shanghai, but due to my inability to find a bus out of Xiamen the day earlier, I had only a quick 22 hours. The hostel was right near the bund, the old financial district of the city, along the river, facing the ultra-modern skyscrapers of Pudong. I headed here after a quick and delicious breakfast dish, not unlike the egg rolls of Kolkatta. Walking the bund is the main tourist draw of the city. It is actually quite neat to be sandwiched between the 19th century Victorian style pomp and some of the highest skyscrapers in the world, representing our current trend of projecting wealth. Since I had arrived before the sun, I chose to witness the area at sunrise, sadly, the smog and fog were too thick to see much. Thankfully though, I had one last chance to witness one of my favorite quirks of Asian culture. Throughout most of China and SE Asia, it is common for groups to congregate in open public squares for tai chi or aerobics to projected music during both sunrise and sunset. I couldn't help but feel a strong fondness for this sight, one I'd no longer see when I left. Other ushered the sun with kite flying. The white expats just jogged.

I crossed the river by ferry to see the three iconic skyscrapers of Shanghai up close. The most famous is the 460m Pearl Tower, a tripod with little balls that is the most common representation of the city. The other two, the 420m Jinmao bulding and the Shanghai World Financial center, a giant bottle opener, 492m tall (and the third tallest building in the world) were so tall, it was ridiculous, the only purpose for such height is showing off. The craziest part of this is the construction of another tower, The Shanghai Tower, which will be 630 meters, making it the second tallest building in the world. The city features more building over 400m than any other in the world. I thought Hong Kong was tall.

The bund side was less focused on size than intricacy, showcasing some of the best art deco buildings in the world. This seemed more like something I'd expect in the New York or Chicago, but little touches made it seem more Chinese than western. I can't say as I found Shanghai to be pretty (it just lacked the charm of Hong Kong), it was definitely impressive.

As the temperature was hitting 100, I decided to hunt down an internet cafe and waste a few hours; there was not that much I wanted to see in China's largest city. I had little luck as every net cafe in the book that was in the area had been shut down. I did find an assortment of dumplings and other munchables, that I found to be too sweet for my taste.

I figured that I'd take shelter in the air-conditioned Shanghai Museum, one of the most regarded collections of Chinese art in the country, and free. I was impressed with much of it. I learned oodles about porcelain and other local crafts. It was quite interesting, though, I only walked through the collections of calligraphy and rubber stamps.

Next, I stopped by Shanghai Number 1 food store on Nanjing Road for some random food court fun. I settled on a soup, but quickly realized I was not eating the right thing. Everyone was chowing on these fried dumplings, sprinkled with sesame seeds that looked fantastic. So I figured, since it is my last day, I can pig out on two lunches in one sitting. It was well worth the uncomfortable level of full. They were stuffed with semisweet port filling and fried in a thin layer of oil, they covered so the top and insides get steamed by the moisture and the bottoms get crispy. It was a medley of textures and flavors that tasted great in chili and vinegar. I knew I'd have to come back.

According to the book, there was an internet cafe in the French Concession, an area of the city I wished to see. I'm glad I made the trip. The neighborhood was green, relaxing, and beautiful with many cafes and beauty salons. I stopped at one of the latter for a great, professional level haircut for back alley barber prices. Eventually, I reached the location of the internet cafe, but the building had been leveled. Thankfully, there was a shopping center with a netcafe just down the road. I hid out there until sunset, then headed back to Nanjing Road for my farewell meal or more fried dumplings. Shanghai is one of the culinary centers of all of Asia, but I decided to bid goodbye to China with the simplest of food court dishes. It was a fine sendoff.

My last stop was to grab a few quick photos of Pudong at night. The bund was packed with masses of tourists and it took much too long to get my shots. I picked up my bag and jumped on the subway to the airport. I did not realize that the trains to the airport ended at 9pm, so I had to catch a taxi for 20 miles to get there. I then hunkered down for the long wait until my 2AM flight left. While sitting outside, being mobbed by mosquitoes, a young Chinese man and his Persian friend showed up with a stack of beers, offering me a couple. So we sat outside and drank beers while chatting for a few hours before I headed off to my flight. I'm glad my last moments were enjoying the special kindness of the Chinese.

Taiwan

2011-10-04T18:24:00.001-05:00

I arrived, as was becoming the norm in China, early, and in the middle of the night in a random place in a strange city. I had no clue where I was since it wasn't even a bus station. It was merely an urban street, lined with taxi drivers ready to take me anywhere. I was already starting to question if visiting Ray was worth it. It was not a part of my grand plan, but before he left for home, Ray used the magic of the sad Asian face to coax a promise from me. In the end I could only spare five days in Taiwan, since my plane was leaving from Shanghai in seven.

Getting to Taiwan is a bit of a pain. For some reason, well, for a very obvious reason, flights from China to Taiwan are stupidly expensive, despite its close proximity and legal status as a part of China. The Peoples' Republic of China is a bit bitter about the civil war and their fights for independence, their open market which makes them quite rich, and other grievances, so they make transport between the mainland and the island expensive to keep people from going to Taiwan. A flight from Fuzhou, just 100 miles away is $300, one way. There is however a very cheap loophole; simply take a boat from Xiamen to Jinmen Island, owned by Taiwan. From here, one can catch a much cheaper domestic flight to Taipei.

So I found myself in Xiamen, which was much bigger than I had original though. It used to be a major port city known in the west as Amoy. Now, it is still an important port, but not quite up to its original prominence. Tourism has taken over as a major industry, as well as general industry. It was not a place I wanted to linger, but I didn't really know how to leave.

I spent the night ride learning the how to ask in Chinese, “Boat, Jinmen.” None of the taxi drivers could help. Some of course offered to take me there for an inflated, off-meter price. In the end, I just asked to be taken to the train station, a typical 24 hour, lighted public place where I could reorient myself. The train station was closed, but KFC was not. So I had a coffee and found an internet cafe a block away; they are always open all night. For many, hotels and apartments are not quite as comfortable as sleep in an office chair, playing the Chinese version of World of Warcraft.

Only a couple miles away was a passenger boat port, so I strapped on once the sun came up and began my walk. I was hoping to hail a taxi, but some reason, despite the hundreds of taxis on the road, not one was vacant. It was a a long hot walk. I entered the ferry terminal and looked around until I saw the symbols for Jinmen. I went to the office, but even though the sign said both boat and Jinmen, the boat was not going to Jinmen. Nobody spoke English; the man just pointed out the door, along the waterfront. So I walked for a kilometer before I realized there was no other passenger ferry terminal. I asked a police office where I could find the Passenger Ferry Terminal and he gave me directions back to the original building. I asked the desk again for a boat ticket to Jinmen (I was learning a lot of words that morning.). They could not communicate why they could not meet my needs. So they wrote something mysterious on a slip of paper, pointed out the door and said something about a car...I assumed a taxi. Apparently I was in the wrong place. I sat for a moment, trying to decode the symbols at that desk and found one that meant circle...so the boat just went around the island, but not to it. I wanted to just give up, decide that the money and effort was not worth five days in Taiwan, a place I knew nothing about save its history and the giant skyscraper in Taipei. But I pushed on.

I got in a taxi, handed him the slip of paper and hoped he would take me to a helpful place. If not, I was just going someplace else instead. After a ten minute drive, I was dropped off at a giant building on the waterfront with a large English sign “International Ferry Terminal”. There it was.

I bought a ferry ticket and plane ticket in one simple transaction and both were discounted since it was a package. The ladies at the airline were smart, they used google translate and a pictures to ask all the relevant questions instead of getting embarrassed and not trying. They must have been Taiwanese. A bilingual, Taiwanese businessman adopted me on the boat and got me all the way to Taipei with no problems.

Taiwan reminded me of Hong Kong in its near resemblance to China, but with a different culture. Again, people lived with order, followed rules, and kept their bodily functions to themselves. They also seemed happier and more wealthy. Mostly they did not seem as phobic in the presence of Westerners.

I was met by two of Ray's friends at the airport, which conveniently in the center of the city. Ray was unable to meet me that day, he was off in the South. My timing for my visit was very lucky; Ray and his friends were on a week-long circuit of the island by 100cc scooter and I was invited to join. They were half done by the time I'd arrived, but I would be joining them for what is the most beautiful chunk of the country, the jungled East coast. After a quick lunch, we went to the train station, where I caught a train to Yuli, about 2/3 down the East side of the country.

The train ride was lovely, skirting a small band of land between the central mountains and the Pacific coast. Ray met me and instantly tried to scare me with food; forgetting that I've already spent a year in the country. He succeeded though, serving me a black egg, the only item to have made me horribly sick on the whole trip. I passed on the egg, but ate the tofu served with it. I could tell instantly from seeing Ray's infectious smile that this visit would be well worth the trouble.

We departed the next morning early, one of our group members had an exam in Taipei so I got to man a scooter myself. I'd done plenty of this, but no long-distance travel. It was awesome driving through the open country at 40mph, zipping up and down mountain roads, flying by the sea. This is the way to travel; fast enough to be thrilling and fun, but not so fast as to be scary. We stopped by the beach for a swim in the rough, typhoon fed waves. Ray lost the key to one of the motorbikes in the ocean. Because of some AAA equivalent, this turned out to not be a disaster; it was towed to Hualien that night. Sadly though, this marked the end of my driving for the trip, reserving me to the back for the rest of the way.

We spent the night in Hualien, the largest city of the East coast. The whole group all knew each other from boarding school at this town, so they were able to show me some great views and sights. We visited their school, which was founded by Cheng Yen, founder of the Tzu Chi Foundation, one of the most prolific and successful charity foundations in the world. They were very fortunate to attend this prestigious Buddhist High School.

Hualien is one of the top tourist destinations in Taiwan, home of Ocean world, near beaches, but mostly for its proximity to Taiwan's main natural wonder, the Toroko Gorge. We abandoned the coast to go through the gorge to Taichung, a city in the North Center, where Bella was from. The gorge was incredible, but freezing. Ray had not informed me that we would be heading into the mountains, especially not 12,000ft high mountains. It was fine though, he didn't bother informing himself, so we both died in our t-shirt and shorts. I've seen similar landscape, but there was a special quality to the jungle mountains of Taiwan. It may have been the great company.

The rest of the group left in Taichung, but Ray and I continued on for four more hours to his family home. It was the longest ride ever. Something happens to a man's butt and knees when riding on the back of a scooter for ten hours, some of that time spent in a torrential down pour, some of that time spent going up and down the mountains with a speed demon. Ray and I took frequent breaks during the last two hours, ever time disembarking the bike like sufferers of Vitamin D deficiency.
Ray's family was lovely. We were greeted by his cute mother and father who surprised Ray with his English vocabulary. Our dinner of various home cooked Taiwanese dishes was great. The highlight was a sour, ginger flavored organ meat. They were all impressed by my rabid love for this unlikely dish. I fear not offal. Our dessert was coffee at a local cafe, overlooking the city.

Being near a fault, Taipei has some fantastic hot springs. Ray's father took us to one in North of the city. It had been turned into a spa, but was lovely. I spent 2 hours rotating around from the hot pools, the steam room, and sauna, stopping to cool off in the cooler pools. Backpacking and hot springs go together so well, since I spend so much time carrying a 50lb bag, my back loves this treatment.

On my last day, Ray went with me to Taipei, where I had the local style of beef noodles, which was great. Before catching my flight, we rode out to Taipei 101, which is stupidly tall at 509 meters. It was the tallest building in the world from 2004 until 2010, when the 828m tall Burj Khalifa opened (this is like adding an Eiffel Tower to the top of of Taipei 101). The rest of the city looked tiny compared to the monster. When flying out of the country, I could see the symbol of Taiwan sticking out for miles, standing as tall as mountains, until it disappeared with the horizon. This trip was very much worth it, mostly for the company.

Hong Kong and Macau

2011-09-13T17:47:00.012-05:00

I'd always planned to visit Fai and Eddie from the moment I purchased a ticket to Beijing. I bought a special visa, which allowed multiple entries over a year. For some reason, despite being a part of China, Hong Kong still counts as leaving China. As my trip kept getting longer, Fai and Eddie would keep sending me occasional emails, wondering when the hell I'd get there. About eleven months after entering Asia, I finally arrived.

As was becoming common in China, my bus arrived earlier than planned. I was used to the opposite and couldn't decide which I preferred less. I awoke at dark in a strange bus station someplace in Shenzhen, a 15 million population city just North of Hong Kong. I quickly deduced I was at the border, but I had to wait two hours for it to open.

As they lifted the gates, the Chinese started running and ducking under the partially opened doors. The German I met on the bus and I simply walked leisurely through customs, making fun of the ridiculous impatience of the Chinese. As I crossed the bridge, I couldn't help but notice the giant razor wire fence separating one Chinese city from another.

To call Hong Kong a Chinese city would be a bit unfair. Hong Kong quickly showed itself to be very different. They even rolled their eyes with the westerners as the Chinese mobbed the currency exchange before it had even opened. Hong Kongers waited in line patiently; they didn't spit; on escalators, if they were merely standing, they did it to the right to allow other to walk up, as opposed to the staggered chaos in China. Traffic followed laws and people followed rules. It was crazy!

I called Fai from his workplace at Hong Kong Polytechnic University, where I had to wait for an hour while he got up and showered and all that. As I said, my bus came very early.

I was just finishing my breakfast of eggs, bacon, toast, and a sweet corn soup with a hot dog in it, when a man, older, balder, but still unmistakably Fai emerged through the door. I couldn't believe it had been seven years since I'd seen my long lost brother. Fai was the exchange student who wouldn't go home. He first came in 1997, but was back just months later to enroll in UW-Stout in Menomenie, just an hour from the Twin Cities and three hours from home. He was a regular presence on weekends, summers and holidays. He also enrolled for a summer term in Germany while I was there for a month in 2000. We were party buddies for a whole summer before he ran off to England in 2003. Despite only completing an undergrad, Fai managed to hang around until 2004, with a major in computers science and a list of minors to fill a page. I had not seen him since.

We hung out in his office while he finished his work for the day, then headed to the harbor to enjoy a beer and catch up. It was a wet, rainy humid Hong Kong summer day and we spent most of it either eating or walking through endless air conditioned shopping centers.

I was invited to stay with him and his delightful mother in his middle class apartment on the 16th floor of one of the thousands of residential towers all over Kowloon, the penisula that makes up the middle of Hong Kong. We had a feast of tasty Cantonese favorites at their local restaurant, many of which I'd already tried, but loved.

Fai had to work the next day, so I put on my tourist gear and headed to Lantou Island, home of Hong Kong's famous giant Buddha. Despite being one of the densest cities in the world, Hong Kong is mostly green jungle outside of Hong Kong Island, Kowloon and parts of the New Territories. It has somewhere near 1,000 miles of hiking trails with many hidden beaches on its outer islands. Lantou seemed mostly green outside of the International Airport and Disneyland.

I met Eddie, our colorful, long-haired exchange student from 2001, for dinner at a touristy, but delicious street restaurant in the heart of Kowloon. I was not surprised when he arrived late, but I was shocked by his appearance in a Ferrari. I know that we've had wealthy students over the years, most anonymously living our middle-class life without complaint. Eddie was one, but I don't think he took to our standards of living quite so comfortably as some others. He had mentioned his family's riches gained from large-scale construction and how his father lost it all playing baccarat. I didn't really believe him and for this, I was wrong.

We had a great conversation over a beer and a feast of crab, pigeon and mussels. He gave me a quick life update, talking about his hot job as an oil trader. He also mused about the happy simplicity he found in his year living with our family. I was touched.

Fai arrived and we headed to a nearby nightclub to meet some friends. As we walked into the KTV room, Fai's mouth dropped open. Inside was a Sikh and two attractive women. The Sikh shook hands with me and introduced himself in perfect English, "Hi, I'm Paul." He shook Fai's hand with no introduction; he needed none. Apparently, Paul was a famous Hong Kong television star and a pioneer for minorities in show business (as in non-Cantonese). Other TV stars came and went as did young groupies or models. Most started off friendly, then ignored Fai and I once they realized we weren't rich or famous. We got drunk off Chivas Regal, playing a drinking game involving dice and my terrible Mandarin (I didn't speak any Cantonese). Some karaoke ensued, eventually the night dwindled to Eddie, his brother, Fai, Paul and I. Paul was a real cool guy; not stuck up at all. I think he found it relieving to talk to somebody who did not care or know who he was, somebody who just saw him as a nice guy.

Thankfully, Fai had the next day off and spent most of it just relaxing and recovering from our late night. It started with Dim sum, a Cantonese style of eating involving a series of tiny dishes, mostly dumplings. We visited a few places around the city, including the mid-levels escalator on Hong Kong island, at a kilometer of length, stands as the longest in the world. Sadly the never ending rain limited our desire to do much. Besides, we needed our energy for the next day when we headed to Macau.

Macau, much like Hong Kong was a foreign colony of, in this case, Portugal, that was given back to China only recently. It is the Vegas of the East, and with the inpouring of money over the last few years, this is becoming more and more true. It was but a mere hour ferry from Hong Kong and we caught a free casino shuttle to take us for free to the area of the old city we wished to see.

Of course, we had to stop inside, just to look. Our first casino was the Venitian, which was apparently, just like the Vegas version, only bigger. The whole 2nd floor was a shopping mall, but cleverly disguised as an oudoor, daytime Venetian street, with its own river and punted gondolas. The groud floor was the largest gaming area in the world. I quickly lost HK20 (which was strangely the only currency that was used, whereas I found it difficult to spend the Macau money I'd picked up) on a slot machine and quit. Fai however was more successful, winning HK100 (about $13).

I tired of gaming, so we hit up some old colonial houses and stopped for a mediocre Portugese lunch. On the way, I saw the City of Dreams a famous casino I saw featured on some engineering television show. We had to see it. We walked around inside, not gambling, but just watching people play while drinking free coke. One man was feeding HK500 bills continuously into a machine, sticking a toothpick into the roll button for fasting gambling. The credit just went more and more down until it hit zero, then he'd pop another bill in the game. One spin, he won HK1500, but didn't even react; he just stared blankly as his money disappeared. We came across one man at a roullette table, and based on his chip stack, he was doing well. We watched as he carefully dispearsed a stack of chips on various numbers, lines, and corners, each time keeping a few plays and shifting a few others with each new roll. He won something every time, his collection of chips getting unmanagably large, a much desired problem. After watching him win three times in a row, I just had to try it myself. I changed in an HK100 and randomly placed my chips around the numbers. The ball twirled around the spinning plate. My heart went crazy realizing that with one hit, I'd make a lot of money, but with one bad number, everything goes. Finally, the ball landed, but I couldn't see where because it was spinning too fast. The dealer put a crystal marker down, none of my chips sat under it.

So, I changed another hundred, reaching the HK250 gambling budget I alloted myself, and divided my last chips around the table. This time, the ball hit eight, where I'd put a small stack of chips. The dealer then pulled out a massive pile of chips and carefully stacked them in front of me. I'd made my money back. So, I pulled aside the original HK250 in my pocket and left the rest for gambling money. Using this system for years, I rarely lose money at casinos. I set a budget; when I lose, I quit, when I win, I put aside enough to break even and have fun with the winnings.

Fai joined for the next spin and we both won. The next spin as well. Our chips went up and down for the next 30 minutes until we both decided to move on. I walked away with HK300 extra; Fai had lost a bit. We caught the bus to MGM; of course we had to stop there as well. We wandered around and found a crowded table full of cheering players, always a good sign. It was craps. I knew nothing about craps except sevens weren't good, people feel let down when snake eyes emerged, and most seemed spend their winnings on a fresh pair of footware. Even though I was completely ignorant, I pretended poorly that I was confident in what I was doing, and placed a chip randomly on the number nine. Then boom! Nine was up. The dealer threw a bunch of chips at me and the dice were rolled again. Nine! Suddenly I was cheering with the crowd. Hell, I was getting thrown chips for completely unknown reasons. I was sad when seven came up. I gave the dice a go and tossed a seven in my second roll. People who were just moments before, hugging and hopping with me in the throws of mutual luck, glared at me in astounding anger, especially the one man who lost HK10,000 from my bad roll, so I quickly and silently collected my chips and left.

We finally left the gaming zone after spending thirty minutes finding a cashier, stopping to play random slots on the way, and realized it was already evening and there were a few things we wanted to see; Macau was an old colonial city after all. So, we strolled around looking at the architechture, which was honestly quite unremarkable. I'd already seen a bit of Portugese colonial buildings in Malacca and Macau did not seem much better. The most famous sight is the Church of Saint Paul, a stunning ruin with only the front wall remaining. We wandered in and out of little confectionary shops, all with free samples of cookies and beer jerky. It almost counted as a meal. We quickly bored of the city and went to another casino where I lost more of my winnings.

We had planned to catch the last ferry home; Fai had to work the next morning. Then he got a call from Eddie. He was coming and planned to take us out for dinner and treat us to a hotel room for the night. We were already quite tired, but I did want to spend more time with Eddie, so we hit the Sands Casino and watched apothetic gogo girls dance for an hour.

Eddie was late, but treated us to one hell of a dinner with mussels, fish, eel, chicken, and shark fin soupl It was my first time trying this expensive, controversial delicacy. Though it did not taste of much, the crunchy, chewy, stringy texture was extremly pleasing to eat.

Eddie booked a couple rooms at the iconic Grand Lisbona and judging from our previous outing, we feared the extravagence of the room. I would have been content just crashing at a youth hostel, but Eddie was being extremely generous. We got in the elecator and I tried not to look as he pressed a button for the top floor.

The room was so luxurious, I was embarrassed. Fai and I stood agape at the size and the view over the city. The bathroom was the most amazing part. It had a jaccuzzi and the greatest shower I've ever seen. It had a normal showerhead, afixed to an amazing adjustment apparatus, allowing the shower to stay fixed at any possible positon and angle. On top of this, there was a ceiling rain shower with setting to simulate various weather patterns, this combined with the steamy wind machine, help transport me into magical warm water storms of bliss.

Sadly, we could not enjoy the room much. After a shower, we all hit the casino again, where I gambled myself even for the day. We came home around 2AM. Since we needed to catch the first ferry home so Fai could work that morning, the alarm was set for 5AM. The bed was actually too comfortable. After nearly a year of old matresses, floors, tables with bamboo mats, I found it impossible to fall asleep on something actually soft. 'Twas a shame; it was a fantastic bed.

The next morning was rough. The shuttles weren't running so we walked the mile back to the ferry through the aready wet air, passing people wrapping up their epic nights in a city of sin. Fai and I spent the day, after his work, checking out a tiny pocket of old city in teh "New Territories." There were a few houses and pagodas hidden behind some massive high rises. It seemed unlikely they still existed. It was cool to see soem pre-eighteenth century history in Hong Kong, a rare glimpse into the lost pre-modern city.

One of the most famous ways to see the skyline is from Kowloon Harbor for the Symphony of Light, a monumental waste of valuable energy and natural resouces that takes place every night. Essentially, it is a cheesy display of the sky scrapers lighting in time to terrible music. It is not interesting or fun, but it is a great excuse to check out the impressive Hong Kong skyline at night, when it is quite lovely. It strange to call the pompous representation of everything I hate about this world, lovely, but if a skyline can be pretty, Hong Kong would be one.

Eddie took us all out to dinner at a hot pot place high up one of the skyscrapers. We had sashimi and an assortment of goodies for dipping (and no, we did not cook the precious sashimi). It was a hearty, delicious meal. We ended the night in the Soho district of Hong Kong island for a drink at one of the hopping bars, marvelling at the plastic display of urbanites on a Saturday night. Fai and I tired of this quickly and headed home early to leave Eddie to his flirting with over made-up, bitchy, cold women in ear-shatteringly loud conditions. He seemed to be having fun at least.

Fai saw me off in Shezhen the next morning. It was sad to leave and I wish I had more than six days to visit. We went back to the same great friendship so quickly. I quite enjoyed seeing him and his mother again. I was also a treat seeing Eddie as well. I think if I had visited Hong Kong alone, I doubt I would have liked it, but being shown around by locals, much less two great friends made visiting this fascinating city all worthwhile. Thanks.

Yangshuo

2011-09-01T15:57:00.004-05:00

China is home to some legendary scenery and the Li River is among the most famous. It features even more limestone karsts and though South Asia is riddled with them, Yangshuo is considered the best.

At one time Guilin was the grand capital of Li River tourism. The masses flocked here to inner-city scenery parks with multi-colored lighted caves and staircase-scaled mountains. The western backpackers flocked to Yangshuo, a city south of the main sights that was smaller, and merely a day trip for the million of Chinese tourists. Things have changed and the Chinese have now discovered the town. It may have been the most crowded tourist city I've ever seen. Somehow though, it maintained its small charm. This is helped by the two intersecting rivers and its location within a bowl of mountains.

The real charm is its easy access to the countryside. I met a cool Irish guy, who joined me at the Buddha Water Cave on my first day. This advertised "all-natural" cave/spa featured gorgeous stalactites and stalagmites, some of which were obviously sculpted and painted metal. Deep in the cave was an incredibly fun mud pool. The buoyancy was great for floating and gliding across its surface. Deep in the cave was an incredibly fun mud pool. After a rinse, we were then led to a hot spring which was surprisingly nice on such a hot day. It was a touristy visit, but my skin and muscles felt great afterward.

We spent the rest of the day and all the next biking around the countryside. Somehow, the villages nearby never got the memo announcing that this was a tourist hotspot, because even a mere mile from town, people went along with their pastoral lifestyle as if nobody was there. This was the true charm of the area, being able to view authentic rural life within sublime scenery, not more than five minutes from a bustling tourist ghetto. We left the road getting lost on small trails between the rice fields, eventually stopping for a swim in the peaceful Yulong River, while the locals fished. This was what China was meant to be.

The next day I bused to Kanting to walk a 16km hike along the Li River, the biggest draw of the area. I met a nice Chinese student who joined me for the day. He helped me negotiate prices for the boat trips across the three crossings of the trail and taught me many new Chinese words. The hike was beautiful, but lacked the quaintness of the Yulon. The entire stretch of river was crowded by "bamboo boats" (actually made from PVC) filled with Chinese people who preferred soaking each other with water pistols over soaking up the gorgeous scenery. The hike was not popular; we met nobody along the way except peddlers trying to convince to abandon the hike and board their "bamboo" instead. It ended with the area's most famous sight, the mountain on the back of the 20 yuan bill.

That night at the hostel, a few beers led to a walk, which led to a few beers along the river, which led to a British guy, a Chinese woman and me skinny dipping for a couple of hours in the surprisingly fast, but thankfully shallow river. I was the first to do it, they all at first jumped in with their clothes, but I was leaving the next day and didn't want them to get wet; plus, I'd broken the nighttime skinny dipping barrier in Thailand numerous times with various groups of women from Spice (Oh yeah ;-) ). The British guy joined as a coup to get our Chinese companion naked. It worked and he used teaching her to swim as a play into her lack of pants. I of course was dating Michelle and did my best to help in a non-suggestive manner (he took a more hands on approach to his teaching style). I didn't have the heart to tell him that I knew she was engaged and already had another boyfriend of the side who had just left that day, though her already infidelity might have encouraged him further anyway. At some point, an obviously drunk local wandered down to the water, hearing our splashing, so we hid under a ledge. The British guy took it for the team and emerged when he called out. He spoke fluent Chinese, making him a better candidate than me or the naked Chinese woman. I'm sure a big scandal might have arisen from the revelation of all three of us: two naked white men in the water with a poor young, pretty, "innocent" Chinese girl.

So the Brit talked while the two of us laughed silently, doing our best to stay hidden. Then she started to fondle me. I kept doing my best to avoid her advances without making a sound, which I found difficult, for a number of reasons. The biggest was I couldn't see her hands until they were upon me. The Brit and the stranger talked for ages, while I kept politely pushing the woman away from me. Finally, after ages of discomfort, the man left and I bolted away from the girl. Never thought I'd find myself in a position to run from an attractive naked woman making moves on me. I felt bad for the Brit who was stuck in a three-way romance with a girl who didn't want him, but fancied another man who wasn't interested. After she left for a toilet, sometime on the way home, I encouraged him to make a move if he was interested. In the end, it didn't matter as the girl passed out and we both had to carry her to bed. It was one of the strangest nights of my trip.

We had all planned a mass climb of Moon Hill; many joined except the Chinese woman who was too embarrassed or hung over to leave her room. Moon Hill is not high, but it has great views and was a tough climb in the humidity. I've never sweat so much in whole life. At the top, I stripped my shirt and wrung it out. It could not have been more saturated even if I'd dumped it in a bucket of water. A shower was a welcome coda to the hike before hopping on a bus to Hong Kong.

Nujiang Valley

2011-08-31T18:32:00.007-05:00

I couldn't take it any longer. Quiet, rustic, secluded Yunnan, home of the exiled, end of the line, land of the uncontrollable tribes and untameable mountain was too noisy, too touristy, and too commodified. I planned to venture further to Shangrila and Dequin, on the Tibetan border, but two travelers had warned me that these places were just as bad as Lijang and Dali. The locals had been driven out completely by developers. No culture left but that of the Yuan. It didn't sound like the place for me. It seemed there was only one unspoiled place left, where the locals still live, where the tribal life flourishes, where people still travel across the river by zip-line. The Nujiang is a valley so revered, so untouched, the people of China actually stood up to the government to prevent them from damming it. It is the only untouched river in China. Over half of the nation's endangered species live in its valley. It was the Yunnan I'd been looking for.

Getting there though was a bit of a trek. Though Dequin is only a few miles from Bingzhongluo at the top of the valley, one has to cross 6000m high mountains to get there. A road is planned for the future and given China's track record for destruction of nature and blind progress, despite any obstacle, it is probably not far in the future. For now though, I had to bus back to plains in Dali, then cross a series of valleys until I reached Liuku. From there, I caught an eight hour bus up the valley, on a cliff side road through the steep canyon cut by the Nujiang.

What I found was not what I expected, of course. The road was well maintained, paved the whole way, only a couple stretches were too narrow for the passage of two buses. Despite the modest population of this dead end road, traffic was continuous. The tribal villages looked like any small Chinese town: dusty, flat and architecturally characterless. I saw the famous zip-lines, but the villagers were more keen on using real bridges built by the government.

The valley itself though was beautiful, but not as dramatic as expected. The jungle was thick on both sides, but despite the deepness, it was not nearly as craggy as the Yangzi. I did love the green quilt pulled over the hills, sometimes towering to thousands of feet. I felt small in this forested wonderland. There was one mountain with a big hole through it peak that I thought was really cool.

When I reached Bingzhongluo, the end of the line, last city before the wild mountain frontier of Tibet, I could not help but be let down. Bingzhongluo was a dusty wasteland, with a sizable population of Han Chinese. All of the tribes wore their traditional LA Laker's jerseys. I was also the only tourist in town, which was simultaneously relieving and unnerving. When walking the streets, I was the White guy in town. Everyone knew who I was; it was that type of town. Thankfully, I wasn't hassled by anyone.

After a boring night alone, sipping beer and writing, I awoke with a mission. Since this wasn't the end of the line, I'd find it. So I strapped on my shoes, threw some water and snacks in my bag and headed for Tibet by foot.

The valley changed immensely once on foot. The unimpressive valley that just flew by seemed deeper; embarking alone made the jungle more formidable and the villages more charming. The people were smiling, interrupting their farming or bong smoking to wave and chuckle at the unlikely sight of a white guy walking alone through the valley. There were constant signs showing a police officer beating any who decided to cut down powerlines. Maybe this was the end of the line after all, just the end of the line China differs from Laos or other less developed countries. After about 10km, I passed a tiny village with a police checkpoint. Here was the border of Tibet. They waved me through with a smile after a terrible conversation between my broken Chinese and their broken English: the road just stopped a few miles ahead anyway and I doubt they expected me to trek up the mountains into Tibet proper without supplies. I could have gone further, but I'd reached my goal; I walked to Tibet and I was damn tired and had to walk all the way back again to Bingzhongluo.

The next day, I relocated down river. My goal was to see a zipline in action, then use one myself. A village with a wire bridge was rumored about 20km south of Gongshan. I walked a while, then hitchhiked 10km with a bus full of friendly Chinese tourists from Kunming. They dropped me off in the village which seemed to confuse the locals, and I headed south in search of the Lisu, the rope bridge. Finally, I found one. Two cords stretched across the river, quite high up, one sat a few meters above the other. They were just wires across a river. I thought there'd be a rope or a harness or something, but it was just a cord. A local villager whistled by in his Kobe Bryant t-shirt; I asked him if this was a rope bridge, he confirmed. I tried to get him to demonstrate, but he just encouraged me instead with a laugh. I crawled down to the wire and considered how it would work. I looked down at the raging river, a hundred feet below; I could see why it had the name Nujiang, "angry river". I decided to leave the local tradition in the past, instead starting up an unlikely broken conversation with now traditionally yellow and purple clad youth, until he left me at a real bridge. This is as close as it gets to authentic anyway. Much of China's past is but an idea. On my way back down the valley, I saw the villages for what they were, still lovely examples of the rare rural China with their markets and dust. I saw a woman hook up an elaborate pulley apparatus to one of the Lisu, but we sped by too quickly on bus to watch it work. I was the only who bothered to even look.

Tiger Leaping Gorge

2011-08-31T15:41:00.003-05:00

Tiger Leaping Gorge is the famous hike of China, and rightfully so. It follow the Yangse for 15 miles, high on the cliffs of Haba Shan, in the shadow of Yuelong Xueshan, a craggy mass. I expected the hike to be packed, but it wasn't at all. Which is strange, since everywhere in the province was bursting with people and the gorge was the best thing I saw in all of Yunnan.

We started with a quick breakfast at a guesthouse in Quiotou and headed on our way. The walls of the restaurant were scattered with both stories of the hike's greatness and stories of being hopelessly lost on the trail. The latter stories seemed odd, given the trail's popularity, traffic, and clearly marked signs. Some just aren't meant to hike.

It was a bit strenuous; my Nepal days were definitely long behind me, but it really wasn't too bad. The main test was the 28 bends, a series of switchbacks a bit before the halfway point. After this, the trail was mostly downhill. I spend the night at the Midway Guesthouse, home of one of the world's most scenic toilets. Starring right at the cliffs of Yulong Xueshan across the river, the urinal gave the impression of pissing thousands of feet right into the Yangse below.

The second day was even more intense. I left the main trail and descended deep into the gorge, right to the riverbank. The rapids were beautiful and intense, crashing along the narrow walls of the cliffs, flowing down quickly, with the type of speed expected to carve such a narrow canyon. Many tourists were scrambling down to see the Tiger Leaping Stone. From this point, according to a legend, a tiger, escaping a hunter leaped across the gorge to safety, hence the name. I was happy for the high given by such magnificent scenery, because the trail went straight up the cliff, in a dizzying gut-buster, featuring a 100ft ladder up an open cliff face.

From the top, the trail continues further, but apparently the scenery is not so great (comparatively). Therefore, I caught a bus back to Lijang and brought my hike to a close.

Dali and Lijang

2011-08-31T15:09:00.003-05:00

Kunming made me crave something more quaint, older and more authentic, and the old cities of Dali and Lijang seemed just the cure. Sadly, I was wrong.

Dali, a famous old city on the shore of Luhai Lake, sandwiched between two mountain ranges sounded fantastic. It was one of the first backpacker towns in China and I hoped to spend two days hiking in the mountains about town, enjoying the view of the lake below. What I found was more city. The people never stopped and the ancient city was just a small area within the mass. What set it apart from the rest were some gates (the wall was gone) and the masses of Chinese tourists buying stupid souvenirs. I chose a hostel out of town that sounded lovely and was, except I was the only one there. It rained every day I was there, so spent most of my time writing, only stopping into to town to have meals at a restaurant ran by a really cute owner.

Lijang proved just as touristy, maybe even more, but it at least maintained its charm. It was truly an old city, restored, but most of the well built buildings stood in their near original forms, minus the shops selling traditional Naxi costumes and the flute and drum shops, each featuring store keeper poorly playing the instruments along with the same song. It was so easy to get lost. I found a square, took a left, walked a bit, then came back to the same square. So, I went South, walked a bit and found myself again in the same square. I found it fun. Others did not. I distinctly heard one American woman yell into her phone in frustration, "We'be been walking this same street for hours and we keep coming back here!" There are worse places to get lost than amongst charming canals lined with Chinese lanterns and tree blossoms. I typically don't like such ridiculously touristy places, but Lijang was nice. Still, one day was plenty.

Kunming

2011-08-31T10:50:00.005-05:00

I had unfounded expectations for Kunming. the book painted a picture of a lovely small Chinese city, modern yes, but small. A population listed as a mere 1.2 million, sitting on the North shore of one of China's most famous lakes, the West side a towering cliff of rocky hills. All I saw when I arrived was freeway interchanges, twisting around and around into infinity. Where was Kunming?

The Brazilian woman I met in the rice fields and I exited the bus to the normal barrage of touts and taxi drivers, pouncing on us ignorant travelers; for many, Kunming is the first stop in China after Vietnam and Laos.

"Hello, I can help you, I speak a little English." said a tiny, nerdy guy with thick rimmed glasses.

"That's ok, we're just gonna catch a city buy into to town." I said mechanically.

"Oh no, there are no city buses here; you're far from the city." said the skinning man, as a city bus drove off behind him.

"Then what is that?." I said, pointing to the bus.

"Oh, these buses only go the villages. You have to take a taxi." The next line was no surprise. "I can take you town for only 100 quai!"

"Hell no!" I said with a big smile. Any sign of anger and you lose the battle.

"Ok, ok, 70." I kept walking away from him. "60!" Still walking. "50!"

"I am taking a city bus!"

"These only go to villages."

I stopped walking and turned to him. "So, what you are telling me, is that the thousands of people who arrive here every day, at this busy bus hub for Kunming, are either villagers or they take taxis."

"Yes."

"Liar." I walked away.

"I no lie! I can take you, only 50 quai."

"If I take a taxi, it will be with a meter."

"No, nobody has meters in Kunming."

"No meters on the taxis?"

The man was standing next to a taxi; I could clearly see the meter through the window. I pointed, "That taxi has a meter."

"Ok, they have meters, but they will all rip you off."

At that moment, the Brazilian had returned from sensibly asking the police for directions to the city buses. "He said we catch them over there."

"Don't take the bus! They only go to villages!!" the little man's glasses almost fogged up as he yelled.

"Since we are not taking a taxi and if we do, we'd never take yours, since you've been lying to us and you won't leave us alone. So please sir, could you kindly go find another tourist to swindle." I explained.

"Ok, I understand. but I want to help you. I will come and help you find bus."

"Thank you sir, but we've both been to China before, we know how to get by fine ourselves."

"I wish you a safe journey, just take bus 30."

"Thanks."

We went to the bus hub and there we found a clear map of bus system for Kunming. It was only in Chinese.

"Can you read Chinese?" The man had followed us.

"Not really."

"Oh, then map is no help for you."

"I have a bilingual map here, I just have to compare it to the bus system on this map." After that, I did my best to ignore him. The buses listed in the Lonely Planet were of course wrong, but the map was clear enough.

"Bus 30! Bus 30!" the man yelled like a tiny Pomeranian looking for attention.

Bus 30, according to the map went though the country and villages, just as the man said, but the 95 went straight to town.

"Let's take the 95." I suggested to the Brazilian.

"Oh, 95 is good too!" The man exclaimed.

So we stood in line to catch our bus.

"The bus is 3 quai each, so six quai total." the man explained to us, despite our attempts to start a conversation not involving him. When the bus arrived, the fare was clearly printed as only 1 yuan.

"You pay six!" he yelled.

"It only costs one each; it's clearly printed."

"Ok, now I tell you, I am not just a taxi driver, I am also security for this bus station." He pulled out his wallet which had a plastic fake American police badge, everything in English, nary a Chinese symbol to be found. "You two are in big trouble, come with me."

We boarded the bus despite his threats and only paid one each even though the man was yelling to the driver to charge us triple price. Finally he gave up.

"Goodbye friends! I wish you the best of luck!"

What a fucking wanker.

We took the bus into the town center and caught a real taxi to our hostel from there. Once we passed the maze of overpasses and interchanges, the city was a massive expanse of skyscrapers and flashing LCD signs. Not a single building looked older than two years. It was obvious that this city had more than 1.2 million; it was closer to seven. This was the quaint capital of one of China's most remote provinces?

I tentatively planned three days in Kunming, but I cut that down to one. Shilin, the magnificent stone forest, 100km to the south is the most popular draw, but I boycotted it due to its oppressively high $40 entrance fee. I wondered how Chinese family of three could afford it, having to spend a month's wage. Instead, I ventured to the West Hills, the craggy "mountain" to Kunming's South, along the lake. The main attraction is the Dragon's Gate, halfway to the top, a doorway carved into the side of a cliff overlooking Kunming and the lake. The hike was very neat, passing through little caves and cliff-side grottoes. I did not enjoy waiting for the super slow Germans who came with me, but they were quite nice. The view was a bit depressing: a polluted lake, an endless polluted city, but the mountain itself was nice. this was all I needed to see. Expats do tell me that it is a terrible place to visit, but a great place to live. Good news for my friend Mila who will move there in August.

Yuanyang Rice Terraces

2011-08-31T10:13:00.004-05:00

One of China's most famous sights is the endless expanse of rice terraces, stretching for miles, climbing up mountains during the sunrise. Normally, these spectacular shots are of the Yuanyang Rice Terraces in Southern Yunnan Province. It was another of the great places I first saw on Wild China, a great documentary by the BBC.

The writer for the Yunnan section of the Lonely Planet was terrible as I learned again and again. He drew a crude map of the area, but not of the town. His directions were unhelpful. He listed a hostel, but didn't tell where to find it; he didn't even list the village. I arrived with no ammo and no clue. I walked around aimlessly for fifteen minutes before a woman found me and brought me to her guest house.

She gave me a map, which was somehow even worse than the Lonely Planet one, seeming more artistic than based upon any kind of direction. So, I picked a road and walked. I'd gathered that the village was not walking distance to any of the spectacular terraces, but where I went was lovely; I spied locals going about their business, working the fields. I stopped to buy a water at tiny shop, and next thing I knew, some random villager was taking me by the arm to his home for food. I wasn't hungry, but such opportunities are fleeting and form the basis for everything I love about traveling: first hand exposure to another culture. The man and his family were Hanni and didn't speak any English; their Chinese wasn't too great either, but he could read and write the characters, which wasn't helpful to me.

I ate a few bites of food, got a bit drunk on some endless toasts of baijou, and smoked some non-intoxicating week, probably a type of tobacco, out of one of the giant bongs smoked all over North Vietnam and Yunnan. I stayed mostly silent, except to either repeat the last two words of any question asked of or to utter "Wo ting bu dong! (I don't understand.) They tired of my conversation quickly, but seemed to enjoy the random foreigner quotient of the evening. I doubt my random road choice sees many tourists. On my way out the guy scribbled something in the dirt, roughly translated to "Something Something Something China Something Something Good," and smiled. I take that as a positive omen.

I wasn't seeing too many westerners myself for a place featured on the first page of the book, I figured it would be swarming during the peak season. The next day, I emerged late in the morning after three coffees made on my Vietnamese coffee filter system (best buy ever before coming to the coffee anemic China). I finally saw six white people sitting in the lobby. "Foreigners!"

"Well hello." one said, "want some coffee?"

"Sure!" I replied. "Sorry, I haven't talked to anyone in three days. I was beginning to think foreigners didn't exist in Yunnan."

So I spent the day with this group, joining one for a sunset tour that got rained out. The next morning, we woke up for a sunrise tour, which was also rained out. Thankfully, it cleared up enough for a hike along the terraces. Our guide told us to walk in a certain direction, explaining it all the best he could in simple Chinese. I finally gathered we were to walk to the second village and not to take a left at any point, then he'd meet us with the van down the line. We got lost, having taken a right that led to a dead end and took so long, we were to miss our bus to Kunming that day. The walk was lovely though and we worked out an alternative route to Kunming that was cheaper than the direct bus. Sometimes seemingly annoying things work out for the best.

I think I've been travelign too long. The terraces of Yuanyang are gorgeous, but they did not excite me. This left me not only disappointed, but also with a great underlying guilt. Here I was, standing at one of the great sights fo the world and I'm unimpressed. What the other people see is gone. All that stands before me is a bunch of rice, yes, incomprehensible amounts, but rice all the same. This is the sign it is time to go home, but I still have a month left.

Going back to China

2011-08-30T16:21:00.002-05:00

Michelle left at six in the morning; I saw her off and caught a quick hour nap before departing myself. I had a long bus ride to the border that day.

Getting my ticket to Lao Cai was much harder than it should have been. First off, the station from which I had to depart was the main bus station for Halong Bay. Every thirty seconds, at least, somebody approached me. "Halong?"

"No, Lao Cai."

"Haiphong?"

"Lao Cai."

"Halong?"

"LAO CAI!"

I went to the ticket window, avoiding the rouge touts trying to get me to buy overpriced, unofficial bus ticket to a city three hours in the wrong direction.

"Lao Cai." I asked.

The woman spoke no English, but I could tell that getting to the border was not as clear cut as hoped. She talked in Vietnamese for quite a while, only stopping when somebody would interrupt us to ask me if I was going to Halong Bay.

"Halong!"

"No, Lao Cai."

"Haiphong?"

"Lao Cai!"

"Halong?"

"LAO CAI! LAO CAI! LAO CAI!!!!!!"

Finally I had a ticket in my hand. I marched outside, physically pushing my way through more people trying to force me to Halong Bay. A young lad grabbed me and took me back inside to the ticket woman. He didn't speak English either, but was much more adept at alternate forms of communication. Apparently, no direct bus left for Lao Cai until that evening, which was no good for me. Thankfully, the lad was the conductor for a bus heading halfway to Lao Cai, where I could catch a connecting bus. It is quite amazing how these crazy coincidences always arise in Asia. I sort of understood this, but the original ticket lady had called somebody on her mobile who spoke English and explained to me clearly. The lade gave the boy my full fare, even though he was only taking me part way.

Once out of the never-ending suburbs of Hanoi, it was a lovely trip, with beautiful mountain scenery, rice paddies, jungles, and for the first time in Vietnam, I saw small villages! The Vietnamese locals stared, made fun of me (you can always tell) and were quite amused by my habit of crunching up noodle soup packets and eating them dry (cheapest snack in Asia!). After five hours, the lad pointed to me, said "Lao Cai, Lao Cai!" I jumped off the bus, made an immediate change to the other bus. The lad paid the extra fare to the new driver, very clearly showing me he was honest. For a smug, conceited punk like that, I quite respected this gesture; it made up for his blatant mockery of me.

After a few more scenic hours, I arrived at the Chinese border and prepared for one of the most infamous crossings in Asia.

I'm not sure why, maybe it is the most common land crossing for China by tourists, but the Lao Cai/Hekou border is one of the toughest in all of China. I've heard many a horror story of tourists having their entire bags emptied, book inspected, or worse, having all printed material thrown away despite the content. Lonely Planet warns that all passing this border should at least masque the cover of their China Lonely Planets; apparently, they are offended by Taiwan being portrayed as a separate country.. I passed without an inspection or even a second look.

Hekou was a nicer than average border town. It appeared to merely be one giant market with prostitutes. I was lucky to have easily found a hotel owner (he may have found me), who had a cheap, but dirty room, only a block from the bus station; my bus left at 6:00am the next day. "You want pretty Chinese girl, boom boom?" he asked before leaving.

"Nah, that's fine, I have to get up early tomorrow." I left to get some food and a beer.

It was quite refreshing to actually return to a country for once. I knew already some of the essentials for the language and had a general idea of costs. I randomly ordered a dish by point method, beef fried rice. I would think I'd have remembered those symbols. It was still good. China may not be a new country, but I still had a lot more to learn.

Hanoi

2011-08-30T14:29:00.007-05:00

The bus that evening took us to a different bus station than expected, but I was able to follow the bus's course on my map and found out where we were. The Lonely Planet warned about the infamous taxi mafia of Hanoi, who overcharge, or worse, drop tourists at the wrong hotel, but with an identical name. We didn't want to be another victim. I'd learned early in my trip that taxi drivers were not to be trusted, so I developed a safe method to avoid scams and hotel touting. Simply have them drop you off at a high profile tourist attraction close to hotels, but also on a main road.

Our taxi driver was smiley and friendly, never a good sign in Asia, so I watched him closely, following his course on my map, noting the distance and spotting the meter. We pulled out of the parking lot and magically traveled two kilometers! I've never been too great with distance, but I doubted this tiny parking lot was among the world's largest bus stations.

"Hey man, meter broken."

He ignored me.

"Meter fast!"

He continued to ignore me. About every ten feet, the meter would add a hundred meters. It also kindly rounded .9km to 1.1km every time. Though we'd driven about three kilometers total (I watched his car odometer carefully), we'd somehow driven a total of ten kilometers, enough to put us well into the suburbs. He asked for his money from Michelle while I took down his registration for yet another email to the Vietnamese Board of Tourism. We sadly had no small change, so we gave him 50,000, half the meter. He stood there with his hand out wanting more.

"No!" I said. "Meter fast."

He chuckled, did not argue and got in his taxi and left. He still made twice the fare from us anyway.

We tried to find a dirty, cheap hotel, but had no luck. The cheapest (and we had to do a walkaway to get the price) was run by a mere boy who enjoyed playing online games more than doing his job. The room was ok, but it had its own computer with working facebook, so that made it all worthwhile.

Hanoi, or at least the middle is quite small. We saw most of the sites in a day, stopping by the Temple of Literature, a small lake in the old town, and some other random things along the way. We mostly people watched. It's a lovely city, much like Saigon, very green. In some ways it seemed like a giant small city, lacking skyscrapers and the soullessness of other big cities.

The highlight of our first day was a performance of the National Water Puppet Theater, an ancient art form done traditionally with floating puppets on the rice paddies, depicting scenes of rural life and old fables. We had to settle for a theater instead of paddies, but it was still wonderful. The puppets were run with many complex hidden mechanisms. I read that the secrets of the puppets were passed down through the generations and always to men (women could marry and potentially tell the secrets to their husbands of the other family). The troupe we saw did have a few women, so this tradition must be dead. The best part was the music, played by a talented traditional orchestra.

Our hotel flooded that night from the rain, so we moved to a new, less nice interior room. We had to pick our new room ourselves since the boy was still to busy with his games to point us to a new one.

We took it easy in the morning, then strolled through the old city a bit. Every street is named after the craft practiced by the storekeepers, so there's a hat street, a bamboo rod street, a wood bowl street, a toilet seat street. These days though, they should all be renamed to tourist shit street. Our main goal, however, was to hunt down some dog meat.

Lonely Planet mentioned some restaurants North of the city, by the West Lake, so we made an afternoon of it, getting lost in the suburbs north of town. Though it was nicer along the lake, the dog restaurants were just off the highway. Finally we saw a sign for dog meat and stopped.

The place we stopped was almost like a warehouse loft. In the states, it would be hip, eating on the ground of an abandoned factory, sipping imported Vietnamese beer and chowing on dog sausages with the soundtrack of barking dogs in the distance; in this real setting though in Vietnam, it was a little unsettling. We were given three varieties of dog, slices of roast, some sausage, and some fried, coated meat. It all came with a crispy sesame, rice cake. Dog meat is ok; it didn't taste remarkable in any way, just generic protein. I know I won't be looking at Zeke as a tail-wagging snack, but at least I know that if I find myself in a Jack London short story, I at least have some options. Sorry White Fang.

For our last day, we visited the national art gallery, which was ok. Nineteenth century sculpture is quite incredible. the subject is mostly religious, depicting pilgrims, but the stylized facial expressions, like three dimensional representations of Van Gogh's Potato eaters were quite powerful. The paintings largely derivative of European styles from 50 years before. Some of the war era works were good, primarily the horrific ones. I didn't care for the propagandist works with smiling soldiers helping the villagers pull buffalo out of the muck and other such heartless drivel.

On the way back, we stopped by the mausoleum of Ho Chi Minh, which was a sort of communist neo-classical style if you can imagine that. Much like other communist leaders, the people are allowed to view the embalmed body, despite his wished to be simply cremated. The viewings were closed that afternoon; I'm not sure if I was disappointed or not.

Michelle had her flight back home the next morning, so we stopped for a nice meal at Highway 4, specializing in Northwestern Vietnamese cuisine and some high quality rice and fruit spirits, where were quite fantastic. We ordered stir-fried water buffalo and some fantastic roast duck served on a bed of crispy, deep-fried herbs. Asia keeps introducing me to such novel, yet delicious cooking styles. Partway through our add-on dish of deep-fried, breaded chicken tossed in a passion fruit sauce, Michelle got a call with tragic news from home, quickly bringing our evening to a halt.

We stayed up for too late, packing , talking and just doing our best to enjoy the short time we had left with eachother. I wasn't looking forward to the next morning. Michelle and I have basically been spending every moment together for about two months and we'd been a couple for four months already. I fearing traveling alone again. Except for the two weeks in North Thailand, I'd had steady company for the last six months. I wouldn't be alond for too long though. In three weeks I would be visiting Fai and Eddie in Hong Kong, followed by a visit to Ray in Taiwan. After that, I was joining Michelle again in Norway for a couple weeks before we each start our lives again, apart.

Halong Bay

2011-08-30T12:01:00.005-05:00

Halong Bay is the one essential stop for all who venture to Vietnam. Karst mountains can make anyone drool, but with thousands, stretching for thirty miles along the coast, rising right out of the sea will make anyone...I don't really know of want to imagine the verb for an excess of drooling, but let's say it leaves travelers rabid, for more reasons than just the scenery.

I can't say as I was a fan of the four hour bus ride from Nihm Binh, through endless urban sprawl and dynamited mountains and coal plants. There is money in these peaks for sure, but I'd rather that come from tourism. Though they checked our ticket and saw our destination, the bus still drove past our destination. Thankfully, I caught this immediately, so it was only a five dollar cab ride back to where we meant to go.

The tourist ferry at Halong City was a zoo of people, tourist and touts alike. We brushed by them all and headed straight to the official tourist information building. A man stopped us inside, trying to sell us an expensive tour that did not take us our intended destination, Cat Ba Town, but we ignored him and tried to find someone official. I thought we did, he had lots of information, spoke English and offered us the same tour as the first man, but for only 100,000 dong, over half the price. We told him we wanted to go to Cat Ba Town and he sold us a differnet, five-hour tour through the bay, arriving in Cat Ba Town for 230,000 dong. We met up with a Swiss guy doing the same tour.

We stood on the dock for nearly an hour, finally leaving at 2PM. A five-hour tour would take us to Cat Ba Town around dark. About 20 minutes out to the sea, a man from the boat asked us how we intended to reach Cat Ba Town. "Well," I replied, "I was planning on taking this boat there since we paid extra to be taken there."

He then explained that the boat did not go to Cat Ba Town, but a port 40km away, meaning we were sold the 100,000 dong tour for double price. I argued, but he claimed ignorance, saying, "Somebody must have cheated you." But who? Nobody seemed to know this phantom ticket seller that has been doing business with the boat company. Nobody seemed concerned that they were doing business with a man who ripped off at least four of their customers, making them extremely unhappy with the company just that very day. Nor did they seem concerned that we were being dropped off at some outlying port on a giant jungle island, nor offered us any advice on how to get to some accommodation. And they most definitely did not offer us a refund for the extra money we paid to be taken to town. I threatened to talk to the police, but they weren't too concerned about that either. I'm sure this is a long-standing conspiracy. They even went out of their way to make fun of me, thus stirring me to make a personal crusade against this fraudulent boat company. Let's just say that the Vietnamese Board of Tourism, Lonely Planet, and some online forums will have some angry comments. Yes, it is only five dollars, but it's about the principle, the lying, not the money. I can be overcharged. I can be underwhelmed, but I will not be lied to. So, never do business with Canh Buom Halong tours. Also Pearl Tours as well. One employee from that company told me I was mistaken and our boat did go to Cat Ba Town, before condescendingly and intimidatingly slapped the back of my head before saying, "you're very intelligent."

Let's just say I didn't really enjoy my two and half hour tour much, with an hour and a half of that time docked at tourist attractions I had no interest to see. This is not to say anything bad about the bay itself, which was incredible.

Before I left, I got the captain to scribble the name of the man who fraudulently sold us tickets for the police report they knew I'd never file. Not that I could do much about the scribble anyway. The name was either Ley or Lem or Leu or Lacy or Lucy or Leey or Leej or Licy, you get the gist. We attempted to join the boat's bus to town for a little extra, but they essentially told us the shove it. Michelle, the swiss guy and I then attempted to find a way to town. The motorbikes were insanely priced and not a good option with our luggage. No taxis existed, but we found a local bus. They quoted us 100,000 dong, which was insane for the distance and we eventually talked them down to 70,000 each. Others on the bus did however pay the full 100k. The ticket lady tore off the tickets, but never showed them to us. A crumbled ticket on the floor showed the fare was 15,000. We attempted an uprising, but when they got angry and all but threatened to strand us in the jungle, we complied. I hadn't really been ripped off since Delhi, five months earlier and to have it happen twice in a day was bit much.

Cat Ba town was tourist taint, armpit, asshole, essentially any unattractive, stinky, undesirable part of the body. The room we bought however was lovely, spacious, clean, with air-con a comfortable bed and a balcony overlooking the bay for only $10 a night! We could, however, only book two nights since the entire town would book out on Friday. Michelle slept in quite late, so we decided to rent a motorbike, which we rode all over the gorgeous jungle-karst island, exploring hidden bays and hugging the turns on narrow cliff-side roads. it was a great retreat from the insanity of the one-street resort city.

Food was pricey, though crabs were cheap, so I had my fill of them for the two days I spent there. One night, we hit up a bustling karaoke bar where I attempted to sing a song. The lady assured me there were English songs, but there was no list; she just told me to write down a song. I did, but they never called me to sing. After an hour of hearing the Vietnamese serenade us with sappy, sad, bitter songs about the horrors of war with America, we left.

Day two was going to be our kayaking day, but the sea was rough and the sky threatened rain for the whole day. We hit up the beach instead. Michelle was glued to the Girl With the Dragon Tattoo and I body-surfed and fought waves for the whole afternoon. I was even invited by some Vietnamese men to play soccer. I stuck to defense to not betray my complete lack of skill.

We left that afternoon for Hanoi. I was sad to have not gone out in the bay with a kayak. In fact, I saw precious little of the natural wonder, which was unfortunate, but that tiny glimpse, outside of the crowds, the fraud, and the prices made it all worthwhile.

Nihm Binh

2011-08-29T19:05:00.005-05:00

There are few places worse to sleep than on a bus seat. it is impossible to get comfortable, there is hardly enough leg room, reclining impossible. One thing that is worse though is sleeping on a Vietnamese sleeper bus. Essentially there are a series of reclining seats, with a small wedged compartment for the feet, which makes the top half of the seat in front of you. Clever design, but actually worse than a seat, since it kills the vertical plane. They are too short for westerners and when you have a day pack, there is absolutely no room for feet at all. We traveled in one of these overpriced models of pseudo-comfort for twelve hours from Hue to Nimh Binh. I did manage to get some poor sleep,; it was much better when I discovered the doors at the sides of wedge so I could stick my feet out and wiggle my toes.

We arrived in Nimh Binh at 5am then immediately found a hotel for a nap. The city is not too pleasant: dusty, crowded and lined with unnecessary flashing lights. Thankfully we didn't come for the city; it was the range of limestone mountains just outside we came to see.

We rented a motorbike and rode to Tam Loc, a cave down a river that flows through the towering karsts. It was powerful scenery. Rice fields filled the river as we floated along by a rowboat that our driver rowed with his feet. The trip went a mile or so through two caves, past little temples, dwarfed by the mountains. At the end of the line, we met a wall of floating souvenieer pedlers, hounding us to buy useless stuff at prices twice that of the markets. "Drink?!"

"Sorry, we have."

"Drink for driver?"

"Sorry, they have water."

Thankfully, they realized quickly we weren't going to buy anything. I took a paddle from the old woman for the return trip, but instead of resting, she kicked her son from the other oars and kept rowing. They were friendly and fun; we didn't even care that they tried to sell us their embroidered t-shirts for most of the way back. It was a ridiculously hot and humid Vietnamese (I guess that is a bit redundant) day and since I did much paddling myself, I knew it was hard work. A tip was definitely in order, until they stopped paddling and asked if we were going to tip. We still planned tip after this, but the amount suddenly became significantly less. Their tip got decreased even more when they told us how much to tip them. The amount asked was what we originally planned to pay them, but their hounding us about it lowered the total to half of that amount. I then told them why as well. Principals you see.

I drove us to a nearby mountain that we saw from the boat and climbed to the top for some jaw dropping views. From there, we rode North quite a bit, along a bumping dirt road, giving me some new skills on the bike. Driving through town during rush hour taught me even more skills, the most important, how to avoid cardiac arrest during left turns.

The real highlight was our dinner that night, the best dish I had in Vietnam. Nihm Bihn is famous for it's goat meat, one of my favorites. We found a small place during a downpour and ordered a dish. It said "rare goat meat", but what were given was raw meat, tossed in spices and nuts, served with rice papers, pineapples and a divine sauce. Michelle and I basically melted in our chairs. I never imagined raw meat could be so orgasmic.

Hue

2011-08-19T14:46:00.003-05:00

Everyone we met was raving about Hoi An, an old city with great architecture, right on the ocean. It was apparently so nice, both sides in the war left it untouched. All buses there were sold out that day. We could not imagine spending another day in Da Lat, so we explored alternate methods, finally, we were told by one ticket seller that his bus to Hue stops at Danang, an hour from Hoi An. So we boarded the cramped uncomfortable bus for our 12 hour journey north. There are tourist places between but they were mostly beach stops, and Michelle and I had lived quite a long time on a beach. The road was quite amazing, heading over a giant mountain pass, cut through jungle so dense, it just looked like a bumping green coating. This was the real Vietnam from the movies!

Michelle was not in a great mood, which was strange since she's the calmer of the two of us, if such a thing could be possible. The ticket guy was a jerk, constantly making fun of us. The man in front of us was constantly farting vile gas. The driver seemed in love with both his break and horn, plus we were stuck in the dreadful wheel seat with no leg room, and me constantly uttering, "We're getting shipped to Den-ang!" in raspy tough, stereotypical American voice did not help her demeanor. We slept poorly, but at least we weren't stuck in the aisle like 15 other poor souls.

We awoke to some lovely scenery, driving along a narrow stretch of land, an aisle through the rice paddies on the small patch of land between the mountains and the sea. I was sad to have slept through such breathtaking sights. Based on the sunlight however, we were most definitely passed Denang. We never even stopped there; Michelle and I woke up whenever the bus seemed to even turn. It was all fine though, we wanted to go to Hue anyway.

Hue was once the capitol of pre-French Vietnam. It was a lovely city set on the Perfume River. We sprung for a nice hotel room with air-con. Though Michelle and I are both quite against the dry, headache-inducing, heat-tolerance killing machine, Vietnam proved to be way too hot and humid. We'd been without it for months in wet, 90-100 degree weather, but Vietnam was something else. I don't even want to consider how hot it was. Also, Laos, Cambodia, and Thailand were all in the middle of the wet monsoon, so the oppressive day heat was canceled by the regular evening rains. Vietnam was not, so even at night, it was over 100.

We took a long nap and decided it was a lost day, or rather a day for relaxing.

The next day, we rented some bicycles and attempted to get a night bus for the next evening to Nimh Binh. They were all sold out of tourist tickets, so we fought the heat and rode five miles to the North bus station for another round of Vietnamese hospitality. We asked if they had buses to Nimh Binh. The woman said no. We asked if there was any way to get there and she explained that we could take a bus to Hanoi, but disembark on the way. We asked if we could buy a ticket to Hanoi and she simply replied, "no bus."

"No bus to Hanoi?"

"No bus!"

I found it hard to believe that there were no buses between two of the largest cities in the country, especially since the schedule on the wall said otherwise. I pointed to the schedule, but the woman instead pointed to the door. We then thought maybe, maybe this was not the right bus station. We asked a police officer in our best Vietnamese, (here, translated to English) "Here, North bus station" He replied with an angry look, so we got on our bikes and rode around the old city instead.

What a difference a wall makes! The outside parts of the city were typical Vietnam, hectic, full of mass motorbikes, but the old city was empty, despite housing a large percentage of the city's population. It was lush and green with scattered parks and lakes. We stopped for one of the many local specialties, Bun Bo Hue (or beef noodles in the Hue style) at a tiny father and son shop before buying an overnight ticket the day after next.

Hue is famous for its foods and the five-star hotel near ours advertised a buffet for only $15! So we dressed up, headed up, but found no buffet, no customers either. A glance at the menu showed insane prices (for Vietnam at least). We were about to leave, but well, Michelle and I both like to occasionally treat ourselves to some fine dining, so we order a set menu of local specialties. I was still puzzled by the empty restaurant on a Friday night. Something was wrong.

The meal started with amazing seafood salad, a medley of spicy, sweet, and sour, served with crispy rice cakes. Adorned with squid, prawns, with big chunks of ginger and chilies, it was fantastic burst of flavors and textures. With it was four local spring rolls, rice paper wrapped wrapped around vermicelli green beans, lettuce, mint and prawns. Next was a thick fish soup that was better than average, but didn't really blow me away. The main was honestly quite terrible. There were dry, fatty, tasteless slices of pork served with fermented prawn paste. I'd had this paste in Thailand and was disgusted then as well. The second time was no better. There was some over-cooked chicken in a flavorless lemon-grass sauce as well. Finally we were garlicy fried morning glory that had been done better at hole-in-the-wall shitholes for mere pennies. All came with too wet rice. Our dessert was some lotus seeds in a sweet syrup that was only good because it provided some water; I refused to pay $5 for a glass of water. It was the worst $30 meal of my life. I could understand why they had not one customer on a Friday night.

Michelle and I booked a tour (shut up!) to see a far out temple and the imperial tombs by dragon boat on the Perfume River. The boat ride was lovely; the river led out of town quite quickly, leaving us with only the company of the green mountains, rice fields, and fishing boats. I felt like Martin Sheen in Apocalypse Now, except my motley crew of misfit soldiers were replaced by camera toting Vietnamese tourists and the machine gun in front was replaced with two gay looking dragons. We saw a peaceful garden and a traditional Vietnamese house, an impressive pagoda, and one of three imperial tombs. Our guide said the first was the best, and that was merely nice.

We had already spent three day in town, but had yet to see the grand citadel, home of the Forbidden Purple City, the great palace in Hue. Most importantly though, we wanted to send our packages. We walked to the post office, but international shipping wouldn't open for an hour, so we stopped across the street for some lunch. It was run by a rocking cool old lady and the food was great. A father and son (or so we assumed) were polishing off their tenth beer and we were invited to share a drink with them. Finally, we were able to share some social contact with some Vietnamese locals. Much like the Chinese, when the Vietnamese drink beer, they pour it into small glasses, toast, then down the whole glass in one drink. With the hot sun and quick drinking, it took us about three beers between the two of us to get a bit drunk. We needed more ice (they drink beer with ice in Vietnam) and the healthily drunk older man felt that ice picks were an unnecessary invention, considering that the Chinese invented the karate chop thousands of years ago. The young man implored him to not do it, to just let the waitress hack at it with an icepick, but nothing can match the stubbornness of a drunk Asian man. He reared up in what must have been a pseudo-kung fu pose--he was no Bruce Lee--channeled his qi, then slammed his hand down upon the ice. It broke with much applause. It was when he reared up for a second hack that his younger comrade put up a real fuss. The second chunk was smaller, lower to the ground, thus harder to break and easier to cause injuries. The older man would have none of it. He again channeled his qi (or was experiencing the spins, I'm not sure which) and slammed his hand with great force on the ice. It didn't break. Good thing he was drunk, because it was obviously quite painful. We took this as our cue to leave. We did not want to inspire more drunken antics that could lead to a hospital visit.

So we finally returned to the post office, a bit lightheaded and began the now difficult business of mailing packages. Thankfully, the postwoman knew at least the English names for the countries to which we wished to ship our parcels. It did not take long for the other inevitable effect of beer consumption to arise. Despite the awesome efficiency of the woman, not wasting one second, stamping in a blurred flurry, preparing post cards in the ten seconds it took us to fill out forms, she still was not fast enough for our bladders. We stood cross-legged for most of the process. Michelle's parcels were first and when the postlady finished, Michelle said with tears in her eyes, "I can't wait, I have to use the toilet...now!" She literally ran our the door. I suffered for five more minutes, then doing the same when finished, not caring that I'd even forgotten a couple items. I arrived a minute after Michelle; she got lost.

Michelle was not in the mood for more touring, so I headed to the citadel alone. Honestly, it wasn't too great, but that was mainly due to bombing from the war. Hue was captured by the North and much of the city, including the historic buildings was destroyed in the recapture. A shame; war is hell. Some of the temples on the East side were still intact and quite lovely.

I don't wish to paint a picture of Hue as a bad place; it is a beautiful, mostly friendly city, probably one of the nicest in the whole country. It was one of the few places where I had a chance to see some real culture. Despite being a touristy city, people still go about their lives normally. The food was mostly delicious, the cheaper the better, paradoxically, the people were quite relaxed and friendly, and most of all, it is simply gorgeous for a city. Vietnam seems to be a country of cities; any collection of people seems to exceed 100,000. I'd yet to see a single village. As far as cities go though, Hue is one of the best.

Dalat

2011-08-19T14:22:00.002-05:00

From my research, Da Lat sounded like a wonderful mountain town with delightful agricultural villages and peaks easily accessible by motorbike for exploring. This old French hill station proved to be nothing but a tacky, soulless tourist trap. For one, we were th only foreigners there. It was filled with tour buses bursting with domestic tourists looking to escape the heat of the lowlands and visit the lame attractions that I doubt anyone could like.

We rented a motorbike for my first excursion on the crazy streets of Vietnam. Our first stop and main sight we'd come come to see was The Crazy House, the greatest hotel on Earth. It was a surrealistic wonderland, brainchild of Dang Viet Nga. It was meant to resemble nature, but was too strange to exist naturally. With twisted staircases through caves, fake trees, featuring themed rooms, all occupied by animal statues with glowing red eyes, there has never been a more fun building in which to get lost. It was too bad we'd booked a room elsewhere because this fun house actually had quite nice rooms for a decent price, if you can handle tourists constantly walking through.

We had our second encounter with the warmth and hospitality of the Vietnamese nearby when we searched for our lunch. One place was hopping and the smells were divine. WE walked in and were ignored for five minutes before a woman finally greeted us and told us "No English menu". Vietnamese features a roman script, which is quite easy to figure out. We'd already learned enough food words to at least know the gist of what we ordered. I said kindly, "It's ok, Vietnamese menu" pointing to myself. The woman angrily pointed out the door. We were not deterred and stood in the doorway for a few more minutes before another waitress pointed to the door and yelled "Go away!" We had a lovely lunch next door.

We stopped at a palace, which was more of just a large house. Then we biked 10km North to the Valley of Love. When the word tacky was first used, my only guess is that it was used to describe this wasteland of cheese. Adorned with heart-shaped fountains, sculptures of lovers, benches built for two, a zoo of fiberglass and plaster animals including tigers, giraffes, deer, and even a velociraptor, the valley of love was simply stupid. We did have fun, posing for silly photos and gawking at the Vietnamese tourists who seemed to love it all; they even paid money to the "cowboys" offering tethered horse rides. By the time we'd reached the actual valley, which was not that pretty, we were ready to run.

We hoped on our hog (ok, a 100cc scooter) and headed for the tallest mountain we could see. We rode and rode for miles, the stupid city never ending. How could 100,000 people occupy so much potentially pretty countryside? We passed farms and terraces, between high rise hotels until we reached the mountain, which was lined at the gate by at least 20 megabuses. We retreated, finding a quiet cafe, devoid of tourists for a lovely Vietnamese coffee instead.

Saigon

2011-08-16T16:12:00.005-05:00

I didn't expect to like Saigon at all. First off, it's a big city and I typically hate big cities. Second, I'd heard so many horrible stories of Vietnam, how it was touristy, ugly, unremarkable, and ruthlessly deceptive in ways of business. I'd gotten to a point where I was considering skipping it altogether, despite being a convenient transit back to China. Well, Michelle was game and I didn't mind adding another country, so we went. I'm glad I did.

Saigon was quite nice. It was green, full of parks and trees, had delicious food, and a great riverside setting, with a chilled out vibe that seemed to ignore it's massive size.

Our schedule only afforded us one whole day, but I used the most of it. We strolled around learning quickly how to cross the ocean of motorbikes. Our first stop was to visit "the lunch lady", a sweet, jolly soup monger running a simple stall in the far north of town. She was featured on Anthony Bourdain, so I figured I could not go wrong. She makes a different fresh soup for each day of the week and people flock from all around to try her now world famous soup. Even with directions from Google, she was hard to find. A certain alley looked familiar from TV and I saw a woman who looked a bit like the one from the show. We wandered around undecided if we'd hit the right alley until the sweet old lady, wearing the classic conical hat with a purple chin strap, greeted us with her soft eyes, "You look for Lunch Lady? That's me!" she cutely exclaimed. The soup, Cau Lao, a Hoi An specialty was divine, featuring meaty hand-pulled noodles, prawns, a little liver, an orgasmically flavored sausage, with rice cakes on top in a rich mouth-watering broth. It was easily one of the best soup I've tasted in my life. Thanks again Tony.

The soup lady was very close to a recommended temple by Lonely Planet, which had no appeal to me at all. Thanks again Lonely Planet. Next was the War Remnants museum, a very one-sided but poignant museum on the US war crimes during the war in Vietnam. It was quite informative and tasteful, dedicated to the furthering peace. The museum wisely began with a thank you to the US government for opening diplomatic relations to further the aim of peace between the two nations.

Besides this, we ate more good food, saw the cathedral and experienced our first taste of the un-hospitality of Vietnam. We wanted to mail packages home so we talked to the post office. We timed our trip poorly as we were caught in the monsoon rain. After being trapped under an awning for twenty minutes, a passing peddler sold us some ponchos and we made it to our destination. After talking to the woman and learning the rates, we spent five minutes unpacking our things from the plastic bags, then arranged them into piles for where we'd be sending each package. The woman watched us do this for the whole time, then the second we went to begin our packaging, she shut off the light and told us they were closed. Why didn't she just tell us when we came in that we would not have enough time to get the business done before closing? Be begrudgingly repacked our things for another five minutes and headed back into the rain.

Cambodian Food

2011-08-16T16:00:00.002-05:00

For being sandwiched between three of the great culinary nations of SE Asia, Cambodian cuisine is much like its landscape, mostly flat, but generally pleasant. The flavors are quite subdued, unlike the flavor kick of Thailand of the fresh delight of Laos and the carefully crafted balance of Vietnam. It was quite good for some dishes. Amok, the national dish, a curry, which varied much in style and quality, wasn't too bad, like a Thai curry, but boring. My favorite was Lok Lak, a simple stir fry with a side of salt and pepper, made into a sauce with a wedge of lime. This was always cheap and delicious. The highlight though is the streetside BBQ, featuring juicy pigeon, duck, and one lucky night when we had suckling pig.

Battambang

2011-08-16T14:49:00.002-05:00

My friend Victor's ancestral home (or one of them anyway) is Cambodia. I felt that since I was visiting his ethnic homeland, I should check out the town from which his family originates, Battambang. It is the second biggest city in the country, though that doesn't make it big. I didn't really know what to see there, but Michelle and I stopped by anyway for a look.

As usual, when our bus arrived, we were chased by a mob of tuk-tuk drivers who saw white faces in the window. One energetic lad spotted us and was able to keep up by running until the bus stopped. I shut the curtain.

In the end, we hired him to take us to a guesthouse. He offered us a cheap tour of the area, including a few temples and waterfalls, which we turned down: we'd already seen enough of both. The man was quite astute; he read us quickly and changed his plan. He then suggested taking us through the countryside, around the villages, the bamboo train, a local winery, and finally stopping for a tour of his humble rice farm home. How could we say no?

Everytime I've booked a tour, I vow to never do it again. Dollar (what a name!) changed our views on tours. It was fantastic. He was funny, personable, and most importantly, passionate about Battambang. So many drivers have no interest in the place, it makes their tours quite dull.

Our first stop was the bamboo train. Simply, it is a makeshift bamboo platform on wheels. Originally, it was moved by punting, but now they are equipped with a small diesel engine. Zipping down the rickety tracks, through the rice fields, sitting on an open platform was simply amazing. When another train meets in the track, one is quickly disassembled to let people by. In the very near future (this has been in the near future for years now), the train will be discontinued to make room for an express Bangkok to Phenom Phen train line. This will cripple that livelihood of these simple farmers. The train not only provides a bit of supplemental income (the daily profits are rotated), but also transportation between the farms. Progress is going to kill some of these tiny villages.

We then ventured into the country for a tour of some local farms and communities along a lovely river. We stopped for nearly an hour to enjoy the view, playing with the local children, wresting and rock throwing contests included. It was great!

Our final stop due to time was the local winery, first in Cambodia. The wine was nothing special, but the grape juice, ginger juice, and brandy were all quite good. Dollar told us his story of how he used to admire an English learning book at a shop, stopping everyday to read it, since he could not afford to buy it on his meager rice wages. After years of this, the owner gave him the book as a gift. He then studied everyday by the river, stopping tourists to practice when he wasn't farming. Eventually, he saved enough money and learned enough English to rent a tuk-tuk for a day and gave a tour. He's been successful since. He also told us about the current politics and his own family's experience during the Khmer Rouge. It was enlightening. It was simply the best tour I've ever had. We both tipped him generously.

Our one day in Battambang ended with a riverside dinner at the night markets. I finally sampled the Cambodia specialty, Balut, a pregnant egg. It is a bird fetus, still in the shell. It was not too bad, tasting like a mixture between eggs and chicken, as one might expect. Another weird food item checked off the list.

K-TV

2011-08-16T14:41:00.003-05:00

We spent what would be our last night with Marian and Blancdine by hitting up a K-tv center. In Asia, karaoke is big business where groups rent rooms of varrying quality and spend hundreds on overpriced whiskey and snacks. When we walked in, the owners thought they'd hit jackpot, escorting us to their VIP room, with pool table, leather couches, and its own bar. It took three more downgrades in quality before they understood that we only wanted to sing a few songs.

For the first five minutes, set to a cranked up version of Justin Bieber's "Baby" we had three waitresses and a bouncer. It dwindled down to a single woman who merely showed up every ten minutes to delete songs that she didn't like from our list. We decided not to pay $100 for a bottle of Johnny Walker or Canadian Club and made no friends in the establishment. They were glad after we left, racking up a total bill of $10 for the rental of the room. Expecting us to be rich foreigners, who'd bring in lots of money, the owners did quite get what they expected. It was quite fun though and definitely an essential experience, but I prefer pub karaoke.

Temple of Angkor

2011-08-16T13:52:00.003-05:00

At one time, Cambodia was the center of a great empire, stretching into Laos, Thailand, and Vietnam. Their great capital at Angkor Thom, near the current city of Siam Riep, was one of the greatest cities in the world, with a thriving population of over a million in 1400 and home to some of the greatest works of architecture on the planet.

I spent three days here, mostly touring alone. Michelle had already spent five days here, but was kind enough to return so I could see the temples. The first day, I biked to the Roulous group, East of town. The map said 13km, but this was misleading as it was actually 20km from our hostel (13km from the far edge of town). It was a long hot ride and the temples were merely nice. I accepted the workout; I'd been lazy for the last few weeks in Laos, just chilling and drinking delicious beer.

The second day was even hotter. I bought a three day pass and decided to save the star attractions, Bayon and Angkor Wat for the last day. On day two, I biked the grand circuit, hitting up the secondary, but still quite great ruins of the ancient capital. It was over 100F and everyone thought I was crazy to spend eight hours biking 60km that day. It really wasn't so bad, somebody tried to sell me water far more often than I needed it and the temples were great. The highlights were the mountain temple of Pre Rup, the massive monastery of Preah Kahn, and Tha Proem, where the Tomb Raider movie was filmed. The last is quite popular for its rustic, eaten-by-jungle look, featuring many trees growing into the temple. The effect was killed by the wooden plank walkways and roped off photo areas.

The last day was the most spectacular of course, but I planned it that way. I shared a rickshaw with Marion and Blancdine to the Bantay Srei temple far to the north. To to a wise choice in stones, this temple contains the best preserved sculptures and carvings in the whole park and is deservedly popular. I left them near Angkor Thom and caught a motorbike to Bayon, one of the most famous temples in the world, simply known as "that temple with all the faces". It was both incredible and creepy. There were literally hundreds of faces, staring in the four cardinal directions on each one of the many towers. The carvings around the outside walls were quite amazing as well.

I ended my day at Angkor Wat, largest single religious building in the world, hailed by most as a wonder of the world (sure as hell beats the lame statue of Jesus in Rio). I cheated though. The previous day, I snuck a look from the East side to catch a good sunset photo. I was not too impressed honestly. The second time, I did it right, entering from main gate, facing west. (Angkor Wat is unique as one of few Hindu/Buddhist temples who entrances does not face east.) It is breathtaking. Huge, with hours of carving spotting opportunities, is is definitely a wonder. I arrived later, so I pushed through it quickly, but I could have spent much more time marveling at many hidden carved corners. The first floor has a giant carved mural stretching around nearly the whole building (over a kilometer in length). it is obvious why Cambodia adorns their money, flag and everything else with the awe-inspiring temple. Siam Riep was well worth the money and the time.

Phenom Phen

2011-08-12T16:32:00.003-05:00

We stopped at the capital of Cambodia to get our Vietnam visas. Michelle had scrapped her plans to visit India in favor of traveling longer with me. Phenom Phen was a nice Asian city, again on the Mekong. It had a few nice temples and a grand palace that was basically a much smaller, less ornate version of its Thai counterpart.

The main tourist "attractions" if you can call them attractions, were the S-21 prison, where the horrific Khmer Rouge tortured thousands of nationals they suspected to be traitors, forcing them to confess to crimes they never committed, then transferred to the killing fields for immediate execution.

In the early 1970's, Cambodia broke into civil war. Severely weakened by constant blanket bombing by the United States, the Sianouk's kingdom of Cambodia fell to the rebellious communists, the Khmer Rouge, who rallied enough support by the desperate farmer, whose lives had been destroyed by western powers. Capitalism was becoming a symbol for western oppression and the Cambodian people had tired of being bombed despite their neutral status during the American War (how the "Vietnam" war is called in Asia).

The Khmer Rouge took over in 1975, closing the borders and shipping all foreigners out of the country. Pol Pot's government had a grand plan that was executed in the most horrific ways. They believed that Cambodia should become a completely self-sufficient agricultural collective, a return to simpler times, before the corruption and the materialism spread, but with one central government to make sure all were fed doing their part. They evacuated the cities and sent everyone to agricultural work camps where the people became slaves for the government. It started out disastrously as a large percentage of the nation's population died during the initial migration. Food was rationed to near starvation levels. The former city dwellers became second class citizens under the villagers and were given far less food. Not there they was much food anyway, despite everyone in the nation's switch to agriculture, there was precious little food for the Cambodians to eat. In reality, the food was being sold for guns and ammuntion to wage war on the newly reunified Vietnam. Hundreds of thousands starved to death. Anybody associated with Sianouk's old government, lawyers, doctors, pretty much anyone with education were rounded up tortured in prison camps around the country and brutally murdered using sticks, hammers, and other crude instruments to save bullets. Babies bodies were whipped against trees.

Thankfully, the genocide and starvation only lasted for four years; the Vietnamese liberated the nation in 1979, installing a corrupt puppet government, though not well liked, was an improvement over the blind slaughter of citizens under Pol Pot.

Pol Pot and the Khmer rouge fled to the borderlands between Thailand and Cambodia and led a United States sponsored guerrilla war until 1993, leaving landmines scattered across the country that still kill thousands, even today. I was horrified by this fact that I never learned in school. The Khmer Rouge had a UN seat; the United States supported, armed, and funded the exiled government for 15 years after they committed the mass genocide of millions of their own citizens. they did this merely to covert continued war on the communist Vietnam to help prevent Asia from becoming communist. The Khmer Rouge let me add were communist as well. Eventually, the Khmer Rouge were finally hunted down and put on trial. Pol Pot died peacefully. Duch, the founder of the S-21 prison was the only one of the evil government to be captured and punished. For the murder of thousands, he got 35 years (reduced to about 20)in a cushy western political prison. Justice served.

So, suffice to say, it was the feel good tour of my trip. S-21 had the worst energy I've ever felt in my entire life. It was simply presented. The main torture building just had the beds and shackles in the center of the room. Some graphic, black and white photos of dead inmates taken during the liberation in a few of the rooms were unnecessary; I could feel the rooms that housed the most horrific acts. One room in particular floored me. Outside, I felt fine, but upon entering, I felt instant pain, as if somebody was driving their thumbs into my eyes and I could not breathe. I did not say anything to Michelle at first, but after we left the room, Michelle mentioned that it left her nauseated (I met another friend who had visited the prison and mentioned similar feelings in the exact same room). It was some serious bad juju. Some other rooms elicited similar effects, especially the blocks of tiny wooden holding cells, just big enough for somebody to lie down. There was a whole floor showing all the mug shots of the prisoners, The Khmer Rouge documented everyone. While in this room, there was a filming of a news story about another woman who had escaped, but was assumed dead until she saw her photo at the museum.

There was a fantastic room full of accounts of the soldiers working at the prison, telling of hew they had no choice but to commit terrible acts our of fear of the same being done to them. They also talked of dealing with having to do such things their lives afterward. It was a very tasteful, yet soberingly, painful museum. Except for the gift shop, which made me nearly as sick as the rest of the prison.

The Killing Fields were less intense. The whole area was turned into a park with paths going past the mass graves of the victims. The centerpiece was a giant stupa containing the skulls and clothing of many killed there. Sadly, this was one of many killing fields throughout the country. There was something chilling about walking through the paths with bone fragments and torn clothing of the victims still sticking out of the dirt. I personally wanted to torture the group of young Cambodians doing smiling "jumping" photos at such a peaceful, yet horrific place. Both museums were dedicated to peace and warning visitors of the reality of evil and how easily it can take over people and governments.

These places were all the more difficult because of the sad reality that these events were only thirty years ago. The holocaust in some ways is too distant to comprehend, but in Cambodia, every local over thirty lived in this dark time of our world's history. And genocide still happens.

What is more sad, is that my own government continues to ignore or support these acts in a vain attempt to make money. Southeast Asia has ultimately taught me how easily our government could turn against us. Even our current president, world-"saviour" Obama, signed laws to continue our own unethical torture and murder of our own citizens in the "war on terror." The Department of Homeland Security is using the same scare tactics and lies as Pol Pot to justify our own torture prisons. I honestly don't see the difference, except the scope and hell, we supported Pol Pot despite the murder of millions, so I really have little faith in the "goodness" of the American government. American citizens need to wake up, see these places first hand as a warning of what governments, acting for the "good" of the people, can do. Then maybe we can all stand up, tell our leaders that we don't want to be the next Cambodia. We don't support torture, racial profiling, genocide. We need to ignore the brainwashing of the media that is controlled by the same people who control our government and read the history of our evil nation and atrocities that it has committed and continues to commit around the globe, in the name of good and freedom they claim as their justification. We need to hold on to the rights that our forefathers gave us to prevent the current age of soft-despotism in which we currently live and not let fear-mongering force us to sacrifice these rights. Obama is nearly as bad as Nixon, he's just more savvy about it. He speaks well, is handsome with a good smile, but continues the work started by George W. with much of the legislation he passes. In some ways, I fear him more than George Bush because of the blind cult that surrounds him. Democrats are as corrupt as Republicans and it is time for some new leaders to take power before we become another version of 1970's Cambodia. Because, after all, the US helped create that beast.

Laos Time

2011-08-11T22:00:00.002-05:00

Laos is one of the most laid back countries in the world. People there value fun over money any day, so there is very little hassle, but it was sometime difficult to get service.

A common encounter is walking into a restaurant. The workers are watching TV quite intently, over beers and cigarettes. Upon seeing somebody enter, they argue over who has to bring the menus, which is done quite quickly. The next step takes much longer, taking the order can take up to 15 minutes or more. We've sat for nearly 30 minutes, menus sitting closed on the edge of the table, looking impatient, before walking out passively aggressively, after being ignored. They always say goodbye with a smile.

Food can take anywhere from 15 minutes to two hours to arrive, even for a mere baguette. Now granted, everything is made fresh from scratch in Laos, but they will often wait 20 minutes to finish their coffee and cigarettes in front of you before starting, which is understandable, Laos coffee is fantastic and well worth savoring. I ordered fresh spring rolls, a five minute job, then sat for ninety minutes patiently before the whole staff began a Buddist ceremony. I watched them for an hour before Michelle arrived. We sat for another hour, whispering to eachother before walking out without paying. We lived next door to the restaurant. The ceremony lasted for another hour after we left. When I came back later that night to pay for my breakfast, they were perplexed and partially annoyed they had to interrupt whatever they were doing to collect the money.

It isn't that Laosians are unfriendly, they just go too far with the whole "no worries" attitude. I've seen a group pour a cement sidewalk in a quick hour, just to get it done. It was crooked, full of stones, would probably need to be redone the next Friday, but hey, they had the whole afternoon open for drinking Beer Laos, easily Asia's best beer. Really, who could blame them. When you live in one of the most beautiful countries in the world, filled with lush French mansions, in front of which they grill snakes and chew wood, who could blame them.

Bags of Wood

2011-08-11T15:37:00.002-05:00

Michelle and I were addicted to public transportation, or well, I was anyway, then I showed her the wonders. Tourist buses are more comfortable and definitely easier, but they are also more expensive and lacked the potential for experiencing culture first hand.

One, you always get strange looks; westerners rarely venture onto the mobile joy. I often wonder what they seem to fear: a sore bum, a smelly neighbour, sharing a seat with a chicken? Well, a sore butt is a real possibility, actually an inevitability, but tourist buses are rarely better and it is a small price to pay for a candid glimse into the strange world of Asia.

From Pakse to Si Phi Don, we took a song-thiew, again loaded with freight and passengers. In this case, it was filled with four mattresses, sadly, crammed against the back wall and not set down across the seats for a mobile slumber party. We had to settle for being cramped on a bench with no real cushioning. The bus kept stopping, piling more people into the song-thiew. The ticket collector had to stand on the bumper and hang outside after a while.

At some ponit, an old woman who didn't smell very nice, nor look very nice, for that matter, came onto the bus. Michelle offered her a rambutan; she took six. When she began eating, I wondered if I should write a horror movie featuring her mouth alone. Her lips opened like eyelids over her teeth, what was left of them, which curved out quite like a pointy eyeball. They reminded me of horse teeth, but at least horses have tricks for keeping their teeth clean. Her teeth had a variety of colors, green, red, brown and black, with some odd touches of blue, oddly enough, white was not one of colors. When finished with her frightening mastication, she opened her bag and it must have glowed like gold to the rest of the passengers, because they started asking her questions and handing her money. I looked and saw the prized possessions, which were an assortment of bagged wood chunks. Everyone bought a bag; I even considered doing so myself.

I just couldn't figure out why everyone wanted the wood. Was it national BBQ smoker day, or were they some sort of incense of pot-pourri? Maybe this wood had special mosquito repelling qualities. I did not however fathom their true purpose. Ms. Horsemouth unrolled her lips and shoved a small handful of wood into her mouth and began chewing. The others followed suit; even the cute young woman across the van, the only pretty local I'd ever seen in Laos, partook. They all just sat around chewing wood. I can accept chewing wood as a something people may do, but I did not have a clue as to why anybody would choose to accept orally anything that the disgusting mouth found worthwhile. It must have been some sort of ineffective cleaning procedure. They were definitely eating the wood as, not a one spit the wood out. This is not something that can be seen on a tourist bus, that is certain.

Lap

2011-08-06T05:52:00.002-05:00

I loved the food in Laos (well North Laos anyway). No single dish better represents the delicious and complex flavors of their cuisine than Lap, which is a meat salad. You can get lap made from pork, chicken, beef, fish, or any other meat they have around. They first mince the meat and mix it with dripping slices of shallots and garlic, mixed with chili and lemongrass, fresh mint and sometimes basil, with a touch of fish sauce. It is a meddly of flavors, spicy, salty, a bit of sweet from the shallots, with a hint of bitter from the herbs, sour from the lime. It is traditionally served raw, but Michelle and I could not find anyone who'd prepare it this way. Tourism has encouraged the cooking of the meat.

It is served wit ha basket of sticky rice, the country's staple grain. Sticky rice is a slightly undercooked strain of rice, that is mostly dry and easily clumps together. Sticky rice has a fantastic chewy texture, that is so satisfying to eat, it is delicious plain.

To not dip it in the lap though is a crime to their national dish. It is eaten with bare hands. One simply breaks a chunk of rice, rolling into a ball, then flattens it slightly to make a makeshift spoon which is used to scoop up the salad. Laos did have other quite tasty dishes; steamed parcels of fish with dill in a banana leaf, lots of Thai style dishes like papaya salad and curries. And dear god, the grilled meat that just melts after dipping it in the ginger, chili, line sauce. Plus, the Frech taught this little nation how to make real, crusty baguettes. Good bread is rare in Asia, but Laos had it everywhere. Laos did not have a wide variety of dishes, but they were all amazing. The food got quite tasteless the closer we got to the flavor-anemic Cambodia, but in the North, with their surplus of fresh fruits, vegetables, and herbs, it is hard not to be happy. still, it is the lap that I'll always crave; it comprised at least one of my meals each day and I will strive to perfect it when I can home. I hope I can find sticky rice.

4000 Islands

2011-08-06T05:42:00.002-05:00

In one place on the southern tip of Laos, the Mekong widens, breaking the land up into countless small islands, I don't know exactly how many, this all depends on ones definition of an island, but the Laos people estimated it at the round number of 4000, hence its name, Si Phi Don, which I can only assume translates to 4000 islands. Despite the thousands of options, most tourists stay on one of three island, Don Khong, the largest, big enough for a few towns, Don Khan, a small quiet island surrounded by waterfalls, and our choice, the most popular, Don Det.

At one time, it was merely a rice paddy, but travellers discovered it, fell in love with the laid back lifestyle of the people and it became something a bit different than what drew people there in the first place. Don Det is still relaxing, and there are still rice farms in the areas without Mekong views. The shore of the whole island is filled with a line of poorly built bungallows. We stayed in one our first night for a dollar, then upgraded our accommodation for our next couple nights.

We didn't do much; it's not really a "doing" type place. We rented some tubes and floated down the river. I was sad to learn the river was too swift and high to allow us to rent kayaks, so we just hung out with Diogo, Marian, and Blancdine. We discovered a fun place called the Happy Bar, being run by potheads who were too stoned to do simple things such as cooking and baking (though the food was quite good). A Canadian woman did come to the rescue, attempting to help them with a cake. She asked the manager if he had a rubber spatula. He simply looked her in the eye and replied, "This is Laos." They were much better at bar-tending.

The Long Strange Trip to Kong Lo Cave

2011-07-06T02:15:00.001-05:00

I crossed my fingers and hoped for safety as the boat was enveloped in darkness. The navigator and driver, just moments earlier had finished their Beer Laos before reluctanly complying to do their job. We had been engulfed by Kong Lo Cave, a 7.5km long unground river. After a day and half, two buses, a van, a freight truck and and a taxi, we'd finally ended up exactly where we wanted to be.

Vientienne was a non-entity to say the most. The biggest tourist attraction was a worn down oriental take on the Arch de Triumph, and it wasn't even taht impressive. A sign on the arch read, "...up close, it is even less impressive, like a monster of concrete." If the city itself is mocking it, that is not good. It was a quaint riverside city, right on the banks of the Mekong, yet not a single cafe sat along it, no beers and coffee near running water for us. The only thing good to say about it was the food, which was fantastic. Michelle treated me to a great french meal for my birthday. I won't describe it, it'll just make you jealous.

Despite the great eats, we had to leave this place quickly. The second Michelle picked up her passport from the Indian Embassy, we took a bus going anywhere or nowhere, Paksan to be exact, since their were no direct buses so late to the cave.

We'd both fallen asleep on the bus and even though our driver knew our destination, he neglected to stop. Using a map and the course of the Mekong as reference, I'd figured we'd gone to far.

"Paksan?" Michelle asked the bus conductor.

"Pakse?" He asked back, referring to a city about eight hours down the road.

"No, Pak-san."

The man said nothing, but was obviously irritated. I wondered how far we'd gone passed the mark. It was no big loss though, Thaket, the next major town had transport to the cave as well. About 45 minutes later, the ticket collector yelled, "Paksan!" at us; we'd figured that maybe we were mistaken, the bus was just taking too long, as happens in Laos. The idea was squashed when we noticed we were in the middle of nowhere. We then thought we were being ditched, until a bus coing the over way stopped, pulled over and picked us up.

"Paksan?" We asked the new driver.

He nodded. The bus was packed, seats, aisles, space near the door, the small stairs out the door and all. Somehow, they managed to squeeze two plastic stools into the aisle for us. So we went back the way we came. Michelle and I took guesses of how far we'd gone as the bus packed even more stragglers from the side of the road. We were both wrong. We'd overshot by two hours! Our four hour trip became eight in the end and we arrived after dark in Paksan, a town comprised of nothing but dirty sell-all shops and noodle stands. We didn't see a guest house anywhere.

"I'll ask here if they know a good guest house." Michelle proclaimed.

"Nah, let's just walk further down the highway, there is sure to be a place."

We decided to be a perfect stereotypical picture of the differences between men and women.

"I'll just ask." Women are alway right.

The shopkeeper's daughter spoke enough English to help us and we were loaded into their van and taken to a guest house for free. It was a reasonably priced hotel as well, resembling the old motel of the United States past.

We'd already deduced that this one buffalo town did not have a bus station despite its 30,000 person population. The helpful hotel lady typed a time on her cellphone calculator when we asked, "Bus...Lak So?" 6:00.

We awoke at dawn and sat on our backpacks waiting for a bus that never came. We were almost about to give up when a song-thiew (essentially a pickup truck with benches in the back), filled with morning glory, boxes, pineapples, some scrap metal, and a giant bag of rice announced he was going in our direction, so we cleared a space in the freight and headed down that familiar stretch of highway for the third time.

When we finally left the highway, the scenery was fantastic. Our driver would stop every few miles and either drop off or pick up more supplies or pack more passengers, apparently, this was the bus.

Four hours later, we were dropped off at the gateway village to Kong Lo. After finding a guest house, which was not hard; depsite a complete lack of tourists, there were fifty guest houses. It was low season I guess. We finally caught a taxi to the cave.

It ws well worth it. There is a special feeling that comes from taking an underground river through a cave for nearly three miles. The chambers were huge, the ceilings towering sometimes 100ft above our heads. A quarter of the way in, we disembarked and the navigator turned on some lights to illuminate the spectacular stalagtites or stalagmites, I can never remember which one is which. He walked around with head torch, a large battery over his shoulder, lighting up transparent crickets and rock formations, always with a high-pitched giggle.

"Look! Heeheeheeheeheeheehee!"

"Oh look! Heeheeheeheeheeheeheehee!"

We were stuck a mile deep in a cave with a madman!

The cave was simply put, amazing. Surely a highlight of the trip. I'm not sure if another cave will ever wow me again. Just as amazing was the scenery around the cave. It was well worth the headache getting here.

Vang Vieng

2011-07-06T01:09:00.002-05:00

In the mountains of Laos, just North of Vientienne is a gorgeous river town along a wall of karsts, sitting like a green saw blade left on the ground. Villagers still live their simple lives, herding cattle through streams and harvesting their rice in conical hats. This slice of the simple, idlyic pastoral life in the spectacular scenery is not the main draw of this popular town; it is the orgy 4km upriver.

We jumped out of the bus in Vang Vieng with the typical dropped jaw the Nothern Laos scenery seems to inspire. It was late, so we booked a crappy room in the center of town which we shared with a giant spider, then migrated the next morning to a quiet, beautiful riverside hut on the other side of the river. We were excited about the twon's famous tubing. The hot weather seemed perfect for floating down a quiet river with a beer in th shadow of the towering wall of limestone mountains. Our first day was quiet; we hung out in the cafe with Diogo, Blancdine, and Marion, sheltering ourselves fro mthe torrential rains that were coming like clockwork every afternoon.

We saved the tubing for our second day, my birthday. Diogo, Michelle and I grabbed our tubes and caught a taxi to the start of the famous river run. WE'd read of the line of makeshift bars on the banks, expecting little huts, jutting into the river with ropes to grab while we ordered beers for the lazy flaot down the peaceful river. The reality was far from our expectations.

The makeshift bars were actually a circus of daytime nightclubs. At the start of the river was a young Laos man dispensing shots to everyone wishing to cross the bridge, a troll of debauchery taking our souls and sobriety as a toll to pass. The first bar was packed, which was odd since it was the lamest of the bunch. A fat, drunk Canadian woman stood at the entrance with a bottle of Tiger Whiskey, the national cheap hooch of Laos, pouring shots directly down our throats. We'd only been off the taxi for three minutes and we'd already started getting buzzed.

The dance music blared, echoing off the mountains as the British trash danced and yelled. It was as if East London had found a wormhole transporting the saturday night party to the prettiest place in Laos. We positioned ourselves in the far end of the bar, trying to reprogram ourselves from our expectations of a quiet river float.

That morning, I had awokedn to a broken laptop, crawled upon the previous night during a poweroutage, so I wsn't really in the mood to party, but as the cheap alcohol did its work, I couldn't help but notice the crazy fun downriver. I wanted to hate it. This was a scar on the place, a bastardized picture of disparity between a wild party and a setting so beautiful, one didn't have to do a thing but sit and stare in silent contentment, but I just couldn't ignore the ziplines.

"Why are we sitting here?" Let's tube to the second bar." I said over the dance music, revelling, and occassional yelling of "Woo!" followed by a splash. "They have ziplines over there!"

Diogo still had his beer to finish. I passed on one myself, not wanting to pay the insane prices, plus free whiskey was being distributed in every method by IV. He finished the beer and we threw the tubes in and headed 100m downriver to the next bar.

The river was swift; the bar was situated on near rapids. Burly Laos youths, looking more like inner-city hooligans sat the shore armed with tethered life preservers that they threw with astounding accuracy. Despite catching the floating ring, manoevering the tube to shore was not easy, but I made it. Michelle drifted downriver, we never saw her again.

No, she caught a rope hanging from a tree and eventually made it to land. We were rewarded for our troubles with more free whiskey.

The star of the second bar a thirty foot high rope swing that most men used to show off their upper-boddy strength to the trashy drunk women with their eternal cigarettes. Lesser men belly flopped. I tried it one time, landing safely, but with the slippery conditions from the pouring rain, the speed of the river and my loosening grip with sobriety, I didn't feel like pushing my luck further. I was merely content continually jumping off the seven foot high dock then swimming frantically to shore.

The whole idea was absurd: liquoring up large quanties of white tourists, then find way to chuck them into a raging, deep river from ridiculous heights. I had to wonder if this wasn't a secret form of warfare: kill the youth of Europe with booze as the Western powers did with bombs in the 60's and 70's to the youth of Laos. Again, I wanted to hate it so much, but I couldn't: I was having too much fun.

I drank more and dnaced around the mobs of people with makeshift headband advertising their penis size. Some colored theirselves with crude body paint. One man had even painted "I love rape" upon his chest. (I didn't get that one either.) Further down the river was a zipline, which I used mulitiple times, going forwards, backwards, dropped from high and even rode it all the way to spring at the end, with painful results. The whole idea of "tubing" was a formality really. Very few people tubed more than 200m. As the evening approached, we ventured to the last main bar, featuring a 50ft high tiled slide that was infamous for its lethal reputation, and fun. I couldn't stop sliding, it was stupidly fast, high and the adrenaline danger mixed with the booze gave me a special kind of high.

As the sun was setting, the three of us actually tubed the river. We were trailblazers, the only ones who actually floated down the river. The bars ended after only a kilometer and we drifted into th darkness.

Three miles is not a long way, but sitting in a tube in the complete darkness made it last forever. A chilling torrential downpour started with only a kilometer left, and it was quite unnerving to sit alone in the dark, in the rain with lighting all around us. Diogo had dissappeared; he was quite drunk and feared the worst, especially after he didn't return to our meeting place that night. Our hut was right on the river and we intended to float right to our door, but we were so cold from sitting, wet in the river that we docked at the first sign of civilization. It was one of the best birthdays I've ever had.

Diogo emerged the next morning and we convinced Marion adn Blancdine to join us on the river for a second round, sans tubes. Michelle chose to take it easy and stayed at home. There was no caution this second day, we embraced the party full force. I nearly won a limbo contest, right after sitting on the ground in a long line of open mouths as a Canadian guy emptied a whole bottle in our mouths. The swings and ziplines were sadly shut down; it is unclear exactly what happened, but something between a broken leg and multiple deaths had occured the previous day, none of which surprised me.

I got drunk, really drunk. We all capped off the evening with a shot of Lao Lao. I looked to the moutains, raised my glass and begged for forgiveness, then jumped on the waterslide again.

North Laos

2011-06-27T07:56:00.002-05:00

My boat arrived at Luang Prabang in the afternoon and I found Michelle's guesthouse. The city was gorgeous, sandwiched between two rivers, the mighty Mekong and the Nam Khan. A French colonial city, the city was lined with pillared white houses, each with a balcony. If not for the palm trees and tuk-tuks, one could imagine this was some far flung arm of Southern France, though I've never been there myself. Baguettes outnumbered sticky rice baskets and all food was dripping in butter. It was not without its Asian charm, such as beautiful, yet peaceful wat that were scattered throughout town. My favorite, Wat Tham Phu Si, sat atop a forested hill in the center of town, up a staircase with dragons for railings. The Laos wat were how Buddhist temples should be, relaxing, set into nature and possessing of a simple beauty. Thai wat are too institutional and ornate to achieve this.

Michelle and I watched three days melt away in the slow, relaxed pace of Laos. Most days were spent merely sitting along the Mekong, sipping coke and Beer Laos over lap or baguettes. We walked around a bit, leaving the old city by rickety bamboo bridge, strolling through the simple villageside, basking in the smiles of the children or the helpfulness of the scattered orange-robed monks. It was an easy place to love and relax; the two rivers were dotted with fishermen and the surrounding jungled mountains drew stares that could last for thirty minutes or more.

Luang Prabang was one of the greatest food cities I've ever visited. Every restaurant was incredible. I treated Michelle to dinner at one of the fine dining establishments in town, L'efant, where we shared two set menus, one French, one Laos, both fantastic. The French menu featured a mushroom-stuffed quail with a berry compote, melting in the mouth with pure bliss. The Laos set introduced us to a few of the local specialties: fried riverweed with sesame seed, a fish coconut cake steamed in a banana leaf, and the single best lap I've ever had, a simple meat salad comprised of green onions, shallots, garlic, chili, lime juice, mint leaves and fish sauce, all served with a heaping basket of purple sticky rice. A dry red accompanied our meal. It may have been one of the best meals of my life, but hardly the most memorable thing I ingested in Luang Prabang.

A group of Australians and we stopped by a riverside cafe for a Southeast Asian specialty, Cobra wine. This name, however, was a bit inaccurate for what we actually drank; the jar contained copious preserved carcasses, including lizards, geckos, centipedes, even turtles, and of course, some cobras. It tasted less like wine and more like taking sips from a natural history museum exhibit. It didn't taste too bad, just bitter, though we should have taken warning from the owner's decline when we offered to buy him a glass. Thankfully, we did not get sick.

My friend Daan from my travels in India, upon seeing my facebook status proclaiming my love for Laos, basically ordered us to head north to Nong Khiew and Muang Ngoi Neua. We had no plans and took his advice, heading in a minivan through the spectacular hills, mountains, and rice farms of the North. The van dumped us at Nong Khiew, right near a towering limestone karst, jutting right out of the river. "They at least could have dropped us off someplace pretty," quipped a Canadian from our van.

We were glad to have taken Daan's advice, as it was one of the most beautiful places of my travels. Michelle and I booked a lovely bungalow on the river and soaked in the beauty of the town. Though we never made it up river to Muang Ngoi Neua, we never complained; there is no point in rushing out of such a place. While there, we explored a nearby cave which hid the villagers during the American carpet bombing of Laos.

Our first week in Laos was quickly showing why every real backpacker in Asia had been raving about the country.

The Secret War aka The US War of Illegal War Crimes against the Nation of Laos

2011-06-27T06:38:00.001-05:00

In the mid-sixties, the United States was becoming increasingly suspicious in the growing power of communist groups in Southeast Asia, especially of the North Vietnamese government run by Ho Chi Minh. I learned of this in every school history book, but there seemed to be much neglected information. Laos lies along nearly the entire length of North Vietnam, stretching halfway into South Vietnam. To give up political control of this neutral nation could have provided a strong strategic advantage to the Viet Cong, especially in the middle of the Laos civil war between the newly formed government in the French absence and the growing communist opposition of the North. In response, the US launched the "Secret war" in 1961, a CIA run program to train Hmong warriors to rid Laos of the North Vietnamese and communist gorillas, who had been using Laos for the Ho Chi Minh trail to bring supplies to the South for their war of reunification. The Hmong army, led by agent Anthony Poe killed communists in Laos, mailing ears to the US government to show their success and dropping decapitated heads upon the houses of suspected communist leaders. Poe was the main influences for the character of Colonel Kurtz from Apocalypse Now.

In 1964, the US started bombing the East and North parts of the nation. I was told in school that the US bombed some parts of Laos and Cambodia in the latter stages of the war on Vietnam, either by accident or following troops down the Ho Chi Minh Trail. I wasn't told that they'd bombed Laos continuously for nine years, averaging one planeload of bombs every nine minutes. We weren't told how the US leveled more than a quarter of the coutnryside of the neutral nation, killing uncounted numbers of civilians and leaving nearly a third of the simple nation's population, mostly rice farmers and fishermen, homeless. The bombing did little to stop the Viet Cong, but it did manage to cripple an already helplessly poor nation and led to a staunch anti-Americanism that helped the Laos communists topple another domino in Southeast Asia. To think that our leaders approved of such horrific acts only to cause the opposite of their intentions angers me quite a bit. That our school system neglects to teach us this side of our history, to not teach us that even our home nation can commit illegal acts of war as a warning that our government can become too powerful and ignored the wishes of its citizens in the 60's and 70's angers me more. Just lounging in the beautiful country, surrounded by lovely, smiling people who choose to let go of their hate and sadness towards the west, is incredible. I hope John McNamara is proud.

Boat Trip Down the Mekong

2011-06-27T04:37:00.001-05:00

Among the more popular ways to travel from Thailand to Laos is to cross the Mekong river (and border) at Chiang Khong, then take a two day boat ride down the Mekong to Luang Prabang, one of the most popular tourist destinations in the country. River trips have always been pleasing to me, so I also chose this route as well. It was highly recommended.

One past the soulless border town of Huay Xai and its need to rip me off, I was instantly taken by Laos. Since it is the low season, there was one passenger boat a day heading down the Mekong, but it was still devoid of many people; all of us were tourists. The boat was a collection of car seats nailed to some boards which were easy to rearrange for optimal socialization. I shared the boat with Marian and Blancdine from Pai as well as a few others that I'd befriended at the port, including the awesome Diogo from Portugal. I would travel off and on with these three for the next three weeks. The scenery in Northwestern Laos was comprised of forested hills, seemingly untouched save a few huts. It was a rainy day, but the hills still appeared lush and gorgeous.

The first day was quite short, only six hours. We stopped for the night at Pak Beng, a tiny village that had endless guesthouses and restaurants to cater to the tourists stopping overnight. The rooms were cheap, everyone seemed intent on selling us drugs. Most of us passed on this temptation. Each restaurant ushered the crowds with free shots of whiskey. The town was quite pleasant, so it confused me that the locals felt that it couldn't be enjoyed sober. We still took our free shots though...they were free. The waiter plopped down a big bottle of Lao Lao, the local rice whiskey, imploring us to drink all we wanted. Four shots later, we were all blind drunk; thankfully, we didn't go blind: it was terrible. The alcohol content neared 100%. After I vomited out the window, I decided it would be wise to go to sleep and never touch the stuff again.

The second day was even more incredible, the hills had become towering green karsts, rising out right from the ocean. The rain had cleared, leaving only clear blue skies. Unfortunately, everyone seemed hung over; the lao lao left few untouched. It was also less comfortable. We switched to another boat that was fancier, but the seats did not move around, so social interactions were much more difficult. It felt more like a long smooth bus ride for the second leg. The spectacular scenery just passed by; most of us read, missing the random flocks of water buffalo bathing in the river. Eight hours after we left, the boat pulled into Luang Prabang, which stuck out, being the only town of any size we'd seen for the whole trip.

I would recommend the boat trip to anyone. The scenery could not be beat. It was much smoother and comfortable than taking a boat through the winding, bumpy roads of Northern Laos. I've heard rumors that the boats often get quite cramped during the high season, but we avoided such a fate. At one time, this was the only way the locals traveled: reliable roads being a recent development in this part of the world. Now, it is mainly a tourist attraction, a taste of the Laos of old. It's a shame though, I can't imagine a better way to travel.

Pai

2011-06-26T10:14:00.001-05:00

Pai wasn't on my list of places to visit on this trip. When flipping though the book on Thailand, I came across the town, read how it was a popular place, devoid of any sights or activities, with a serious dirth of significant wat; merely a sleepy (hung-over) mountain village that for some strange reason drew in the crowds, I passed it on without a thought. Why would I want to go to a place where people just relax?

Well, after living in the bay, I learned the value of stopping at these types of towns every couple weeks and recharge for a day or two. The hippies of the bay touted it highly, claiming it to be like Koh Phangan in the mountains, which really wasn't too much of a stretch to be honest.

It was a four hour ride from Chiang Mai, up a windy road that is famous for its gifts of nausea (I didn't notice, it was raining the whole ride, so just buried myself in a book). I did however, notice it was lovely place. The lush mountains were gorgeous and green, but not so high or enticing to induce the common reaction from me, "I MUST HIKE THERE!" The river was small, flowed a little too fast for swimming, but was so relaxing, but not so nice that I felt the need to grab a Thai guy, throw him against a wall and scream, "GIVE ME YOUR CANOE!" Everything about the town had the magic ability to make me feel as if it was a pleasant place, without being so amazing as to force activity. As you could guess, partying was a popular past-time.

I got bored pretty quickly. I really liked the place, but North Thailand has so many places where I could do things, that I tired of chilling out after a day. I had befriended an Australian who was quite fun, but for the first few days, he was only person with whom I wanted to socialize.

Everything changed the day I rented the 100cc Honda scooter. I've never ridden one before, so the Australian took some time to show me the basics. The minute I tried to leave to a nearby waterfall, the rain started. So he drove. The rain pushed us to shelter about halfway, which was fine, there were others in the hut, so we all just hung out and chatted for while. Suddenly, about four meters away, we heard a squeal! All but the one Israeli recognized that it was the sound of pig being slaughtered. So naturally, all but the one Israeli and the women walked over to watch the most primitive of human activities.

The group of Thai men started by charring the hair in the fire, then used a spoon to shave off the blackened fuzz. They washed the exposed skin, then opened the abdomen to remove the organs. We all knew that these were the main prize of the pig. The intestines were thrown to the side, but the liver, lungs, head, and another organ I couldn't recognize were thrown into a pot and boiled, while they cut up the rest of the pig.

Since they began cooking, we returned to our shelter to show that we were not trying to poach upon their dinner.

"Ah mate, wouldn't it be nice if they shared some of that with us?" the Australian asked.

"For sure! That little pig is going to be really tender and so flavorful because it's fresh." I concurred.

"You think they share with us?" The French Belgian asked.

The Australian joked, "They'll probably just throw us the penis when they're done."

"Hey, for all we know, they consider that to be the best part. It could be an honor to eat the penis." I'd learned in my travels that we all have different ideas of which things are worth eating.

To our great pleasure, we were gestured over and offered some of the pig. One of the guys handed me a chunk of some tube, surely not a piece of ham, imploring me to try. I popped it into my mouth; it was a delicious, tender, but with a enough texture to be pleasing.

"Aroi!" I said enthusiastically. "What is it?"

"Dick!" he laughed a minute, but I'd passed the test and was invited to feast on the rest. "Best part." He said seriously.

So we all snacked on the grilled chunks of pork. I was offered a piece of ear, which I found to have too much cartilage for my tastes. We all dipped pieces of lung, liver, skin, and other bits that I chose not to identify, but were equally sumptuous, into an impromptu sauce made simply of lime juice, salt and ground chilis, mixed onto a random leaf picked from the field. Surprisingly, I found the more normal pieces of meat to be the most boring, lacking any of the natural flavors of the organ meat. It's best to just not think too much about what you're eating. So many times in Asia, I'd see a bubbling pot of soup or curry, emitting the types of smells of which I dream, only to pass it up when a quick stir brings the kidneys to the top. I don't know at what point Western culture decided that only the muscles are worth eating, choosing to discard the tasty and more nutritious bits of meat, but I was proud to know I'd learned better.

Later that night, we walked into a hole-in-the wall-place, sandwiched between two more touristy and frequented places, and told the woman to just cook us what she likes to eat, once again putting blind trust into the rich-palated North Thais. She reluctantly complied, making us some stir-fried liver in oyster sauce concoction...my god! As we sat there trying to eat through our incessant needs to say "mmmm!", I wondered why liver has been so demonized. Maybe they just don't know how to cook offal in the west.

That night after we tired of paying the crazy bar prices and dealing with the anemic social scene, we went to the 7-11 picked up a bottle of Sangsam and coke, then just sat in front, creating our own bar. We started beckoning people to buy a beer inside then join us. Next thing we knew, our "bar" was drawing more customers than any of the regular joints in town. We met two seriously cool French women, Marian and Blancdin who joined our group for the next few days. We found ourselves all hitting the sack sometime after sunup.

The next couple days, we all hung out, riding motorbikes to a hotspring, then hiring a local to take us to an even better, natural hotspring. We stayed up until sunrise every one of the three remaining nights I had in Pai. Eventually though, I had to leave so I could make it to Laos and meet Michelle. Yeah, I had to skip a few of the places I'd planned, but it really didn't matter. After touching the Taj Mahal, it is hard for a building to impress me. After being surrounded by the 7000m peaks on all sides of me in Nepal, it is hard for a mountain to impress me. I, however, never cease to be impressed the by company of fun, interesting people. Moving around, in search of a fun time, when you've already found it is silly. I will also never cease to be impressed by the simple act of eating a chunk of penis with some kindhearted locals, showing the most natural act of human kindness, sharing fresh meat.

Chiang Mai

2011-06-26T10:06:00.001-05:00

Chiang Mai is a city. It's a city that everybody seems to like a lot; it's located in North Thailand, has a university and a thriving, hip music scene. It is the second biggest city in the country (or fourth, depending on the resource) and the gateway to the mountains. I'd heard so many amazing things about the place, I was nearly urinating in my pants anticipating all the wonders of this cool town; the can't miss destination of Thailand.

I didn't like it. I didn't dislike it; it was merely fine. A perfectly adequate city, not too big, but with enough to entertain a person. It was close to many cool places I was unable to visit without expensive tours. The old town was generally a pleasant place for a stroll. The weekend markets were interesting, though touristy; I had the opportunity to eat a bag full of assorted fried bugs and worms. All the people seemed cool. I didn't like it.

Maybe it was because, for the fourth town in a row, chosen the most socially anemic guest house in town, and paid too much for it. Maybe it was because I was missing Michelle or my other friends from the bay. Maybe it was a total disinterest in wat. Whatever the cause, I really didn't think it was anywhere close to the amazing that seemed to slip off of everyone's lips when talking about the place. Though this often happens when there are expectations involved. Somewhere along this journey I call life, I need to reject expectation. I'm getting better, but every week or so, I find myself disappointed merely because something didn't match the image in my head, then I vow to stop doing it, just take everything for what it is, then do it again five minutes late. This must be a part of the human condition.

I'd heard from people that Pai was AMAZING and I'd have to go because I would absolutely love it. So I left Chang Mai to see if Pai lived up to my expectations.

The Two Great Thai Kingdoms

2011-06-26T09:57:00.001-05:00

As I sprinted to North Thailand (my time was short, I was meeting Michelle in Laos in less than two weeks), I stopped at the ruins of two of the great ancient kingdoms of Thailand, Ayuthaya and Sukhothai.

I saw them in the opposite order as far as pomp goes. Ayutthaya was a later kingdom, reigning from 1351-1757. At one time it was one of the greatest kingdoms in the world. The empire stretched well into Mayalsia, Laos, Cambodia, and Burma. It is the great empire known to the west as Siam. It was eventually crumbled by invading Burmese soldiers.

The ruins are scattered around an urban area, which was an odd was to see such temples, sandwiched between 7-11's and noodle shops. I toured the city on a nearly 40C day by bicycle, maybe the hottest day of the year. Most who saw me thought I was insane. I went to visit two temples a couple miles outside of the city center, years of bike riding gave me the confidence to brave the highway by pedal. The locals got quite a kick out of this; though it is normal for Thais to bike crazily on any road, most tourist just take the bus. I got many congratulatory honks and thumbs up in my ride. I did have an accident on a tiny side streets, hitting a speed bump too quickly while entranced by another of the awe-inspiring buildings of the city. I was fine, merely skinning my elbow. Giant Buddhas, towering wat, crumbled palaces, Ayutthaya was quite amazing.

The next day I headed to the capital of the prior empire of Sukothai which lasted from 1238-1583, when the Ayutthaya kingdom absorbed them. The ruins of Sukothai are similar architecturally, with slight differences of styles. However, the ruins are more ruined and not as spectacular as their latter cousins. The settings however are much nicer. The jungle absorbed many of the buildings and it never became a modern city like Ayutthaya, so the ruins are set in a peaceful park. It has one of the most famous and powerful Buddha images in the world, with its iconic, half gilded hand, the Phra Achana at Wat Si Chum. I did only spend half a day biking around. There are only so many ruins a person can see in a short time before attention wains.

Both are lovely and worth a visit.

Bangkok...Again

2011-06-26T09:37:00.001-05:00

I flew back to Bangkok from KL. Because of the wonders of Air Asia (see my little song I wrote above), it was cheaper to fly than bus. I was sad to be skipping much of Southern Thailand, but when you get trapped on hippie island paradise for three months, you have to make sacrifices. Much like my initial visit to Bangkok, I want to do it as the popular hit from the 80's said, just one night, but I really wanted to spend some more time with one of my many foreign brothers, Nat. Considering how seldom I seem to be in Asia and the low wages for Thai nationals, it was a necessity.

We met at the Erawan Hotel, which is probably the poshest place in town, for dinner. It was a buffet that defies description. Simply amazing. Every classic Thai dish sat before us. That was only the start. I sampled my first real cheese since I left the west, gorgonzolla, real sharp cheddar, some Italian cheese which name I forgot. There was sushi bar, prime rib, rock lobster, opera cakes, tiaramisu, I can't even recall all I ate or did not have room to finish. Nat and I found ourselves talking for almost five hours, eating the whole time. For the third day in a row, I consumed more food than was healthy (it was so good, I won't complain).

I ventured to the same guest house I visited in January, finding it nearly empty. The whole Th. Khao San area was pretty dead compared to January, but I was there the first time in the busiest month of thai tourism; now is the low season. April brings intense heat and humidity before the monsoon hits in May.

The next morning, I decided to visit the grand palace. Last time, I found the idea that I had to pay twelve dollars for the palace, yet next door, the jaw-dropping Wat Pho cost under a buck. After seeing Michelle's photos, I realized that it would be mad to skip such a lovely looking place. Well, it was lovely; it was more than lovely: with towering temples and sculptures, bejeweled everything, intricate carvings upon every surface, it was one of the most amazing architectural achievements I've ever seen. So Thai government, you win, your grand palace is worth every penny of $12, especially when a ticket also gives access to Dusit Park.

Few tourists seem to make it up North to see the other main palace, which is incredible in its own way. I caught the ferry up, taking advantage of what was once the main form of transportation in the "Venice of the East". The highlight of Dusit Park is the Ananta Samakhom Throne Hall, a neo-classical style building that is pulled off better than some of its European counterparts. The building itself is awe-inspiring, but the exhibit inside made my mouth sit open wide for the hour I spent walking around. It housed a collection of gifts the royal couple commissioned for various events such as birthdays and anniversaries. Carvings, metal work, embroidery with finer detail than paintings, and my favorite craft of the exhibit, using the wings of shiny green/blue beetles embroidery, or inlayed into the different works of art. Stunning.

I figured that if I only saw the old city, I wouldn't be experiencing Bangkok, so I walked the couple miles to the city center to have a look. Somehow, I got lost in a giant air conditioned mall's food court for a long time. I eventually found a net cafe and let the stress disappear. I don't think I like the new Bangkok much.

I spent the night walking around Chinatown with Nat some more. He's a really neat guy. Since I wasn't living at home and I was just starting my relationship with Manda, my interactions with him were quite casual; and his English wasn't so great. Now, he's fluent; we had long conversations for both of our nights together. I would have loved to have spent some more time with him, but honestly, I saw the few sights in town and it's one of those cities that drives me crazy. Well, most cities drive me crazy, but Bangkok is especially insane.

Malacca Food Weekend

2011-06-26T09:30:00.001-05:00

When I arrived, Jacky informed me that he would be heading to Malacca, an earlier capital of Malaysia, for a weekend with his friends. He invited me along and of course I accepted. He then warned me that this weekend would mostly revolve around food, as if it might be a bad thing; this excited me, food is the most important part of traveling for me. Little did I realize the ramifications of this statement: Asians, especially Malaysians are particularly passionate about food, so when they say there would be a focus on food, they really mean it.

Our total group was 14 Chinese Malays and me. Our group size would induce fear in US, but in Malaysia, this was apparently normal, except for the random white guy hang out with them. Our first stop was a market's food court about an hour from KL that was famous for it's beef noodles, a common breakfast for the Chinese. It was delicious and does make a quite decent breakfast. In Asia, food courts do not quite have the stigma as in the US. Some of the best food I've eaten on my trip has been in random malls and few countries are as food court obsessed as Malaysia. Most buildings in commercial districts are just lines of food stalls, each featuring a specialty dish that a family has been making in that spot for generations.

Next, we drove for an hour to a pier just South of Melacca to sample some great seafood for lunch. The specialty was prawns cooked in a spicy sauce with a small green bean that is quite bitter. I didn't care for it much. The bean I remember is from a pod that some people in the US hang from their houses as a decoration (at least my grandmother did). The fish and mussels we had were quite delicious.

An hour later, we stopped for a refreshing dessert of Ice Kachang or ABC as the Malaysians like to call it. Now, this is dish that sounds horrible; it looks horrible as well. First, they take shaved ice and squirt some random syrups into it, essentially a snow cone. Then they add cendol, green strips of some sort of bean, sweetened pinto beans, and corn, then top it all off with vanilla ice cream. I initially tried it in Penang, merely because it sounded so strange. Then I realized that it is simply the most amazing, refreshing, tasty thing a person can eat in such a hot/humid climate. From there, we walked around a bit, seeing a few sights, a clock tower, a park, before driving an hour to our hotel in Malacca.

A short rest later, we were back on the street, hitting up the markets in Malacca for some snacks, finally stopping at a Chinese restaurant featuring one of the local specialties of the town, Chicken rice balls. We had these with some excellent chicken, vegetables, and the highlight, a whole steamed fish, drenched in a spicy Thai style sauce, a bit tangy, a bit sour, with a chili kick. I tried my best not to drool or orgasm in the company. The chicken rice balls were used instead of rice; they were basically a ball of rice flour, flavored with chicken stock. They were ok.

We separated after this to do some sightseeing in the dark, but I didn't see too much, just wandering around the markets. Our main stop was the nationally famous Capitol Satay, serving Satay Celup, a specific style of satay where sticks of every variety: seafood, chicken, sausages, mushrooms, bok choy, morning glory, duck embryos...about 100 varieties in all are dipped into a pot of boiling, peanuty satay sauce until cooked. When we walked by the first time in the evening, the line went for about a block and half, representing over two hours of waiting. It was slightly better when we returned hours later; the wait was only 45 minutes. It was worth it! The table had a gas powered pot, in which a the delightful sauce was added. Every few minutes a waiter would arrive to dump more peanuts, tamarind, and other ingredients I could not identify. The owner, seeing I was a foreigner and the size of our group, treated us to huge prawns, scotch for the guys and some coffee liquor for the ladies. By the time we left, we were sweaty, so full would could have rolled, covered in blots of brown sauce and quite jolly. It was one of the most fun dining experiences of my life.

This however was not the end of our ingestion. After an hour digestion time, we went to the jetty, a mall of nighttime entertainment, featuring a nightclub, bar, quiet cafe, pool/snooker hall, and a karaoke emporium. Sadly, the karaoke was closed for the night. We stopped for some chips and beer, finally filling our stomachs past our esophagus to the throat.

The next day was only slightly less gustically insane. The boys all separated for a quick breakfast of ba kut teh the, a rich, robust soup called pork bone tea in English. This Chinese specialty soup really took off in Indonesia and Malaysia. Apparently it is quite complex to make using rare ingredients Jacky assured that I would have trouble compiling back at home. The one we had that morning was acceptable; Jacky took me to an award winning ba kut the the place near his house a couple days before that may have been the best soup I've had in my life, robust, steamy with a bitter, dark broth that seemed simple, but with further tasting, revealed to be ridiculously complex.

Not more than an hour later, we stopped for lunch of Nynoya style Chinese, a mix of Malay and Southern Chinese cooking traditions. It was quite tasty.

The afternoon was spent wandering around the old colonial building of Malacca. Many years ago in 1300-1700, Malacca was the capital of a quite prosperous empire of the same name. In the days of old ships, traders had to wait for the monsoons to change when going between China and India; Malacca was where they waited and conducted some trade. The empire crumbled after the Portuguese, craving the wealth of the busy port invaded, overthrowing the sultan and starting their own company. This occupation was ended by the invading Dutch, who ruled for a while. Then the Brits took over, using their influence in Penang to take over all the straights of Malacca between Malaysia and Sumatra, as well as most of the Malay peninsula. They improved infrastructure and developed much of the country; this being one of the main reasons why Malaysia and Singapore are the most developed of the Asian nations. The architecture of the city was interesting, lacking most of the pomp of many colonial cities, but maintained a pleasant vibe, like much of the country I saw.

After some snacks, we headed back towards KL, stopping for dinner at a crab restaurant that is quite famous and rightfully so. It may have been the greatest crab I ever had, served in two styles, Chinese and Thai. The former was boiled in some salty brine, that did not detract from the delicate flavor of the crab. The latter was simply the best crab I've tasted in my life. Ginger, chili, garlic, lime; I found myself unconsciously saying "mmmm" after every taste. I was so pleasantly stuffed. The sheer quantity of food we all put back was incredible; I didn't think it was possible to eat so much in such a short amount of time. If you like to eat and an Asian invites you to be a food tourist, take the chance! Your mouth will be so happy.

A song about Air Asia

2011-06-26T09:11:00.001-05:00

Traveling it gets so hard

But one thing me into a bard

Not bus, not trains, but red airplanes

Oh, I will just explain

The fares are low

The skirts are high

There is no better way to fly

Than Air Asia.

I love Air Asia

I don't want to sound too sexist,

But these flight attendants leave me breathless

Chinese, Siamese, always beauties

Yes, I'll have another coffee please

Cause the fares are low

The skirts are high

There is no better way to fly

Than Air Asia.

I love Air Asia

Something about all those almond eyes

Reduces me into some happy cries.

I don't know if it's the sudden elevations,

But my heart's got some palpitations.

Will you marry me?

I'm not rich,

but you can live with me for free...

In America

In Americ-ca

Cause your fares are low

The skirts are high

There is no better way to fly

Than Air Asia.

I love Air Asia.

Kuala Lumpur

2011-06-26T09:00:00.001-05:00

Kuala Lumpur (or KL as most seem to call it) was not on my original plans for my trip, but after sharing a room and befriending Jacky on my week-long tour to Tibet, he invited me to visit. I initially declined; it was bit out of my way and I didn't want to stretch my budget too thin; I'd already added Laos to my original plan, but he gave me "the face". In Asian cultures, it is rare for men to show emotion, so when he dropped the pleaing eyes as he said "But Thailand is so close!", I couldn't say no, plus, he's a great guy and Malaysia has free visas on arrival. I could think of worse things than seeing a new country as the guest of a local. It was a great decision!

Jacky took me to some great places such as the lovely government buildings outside of the city; Batu Caves, a gorgeous Hindu temple set into a mountain; some great local hangouts, all but unknown to tourists, including Lookout Point at the top of a hill, giving great views of the city.

As is customary, he let me pay for nothing, despite my pleas. It almost became a game of sorts. I'd sneak off to use the toilet, planning to discretely abscond the bill on the way back, only to find Jacky, using this opportunity to sneakily pay it himself. I got him once though, keeping the correct amount of the bill in pocket, then handing it over before he could open his wallet. Considering he was gracious enough to take me around and give me a place to stay, the least I could do was buy a dinner.

Jacky, of course, worked during the day, so he'd drop me at the bus station on the way to work and I'd explore the city.

KL is quite nice, featuring some of the best modern building I've seen. The star is of course the Petronas Twin Towers, arguably one of the most iconic skyscrapers in the world. Standing at 452 meters, it is the fifth tallest building in the world, though when built, it dethroned the Sears Tower for the top spot. It's a stunning sight, especially at night. Nearby is the Menaras Tower, sitting on top of hill, it stands above even the twin towers. With two such dizzingly high structures, so close together, twice as high as anything else in the city, they feel like Sauron and Sauruman ar looking down across the city. I went to the observation deck of the Menaras Tower (the bridge between the two Petronas towers are open, but it isn't so high) for an amazing view of the city. Besides that, I didn't see too many sights, I just walked around. I was still a bit shell-shocked by all the people and cars after living in a secluded bay with no motor vehicles for three months, so I spent a lot of my time sipping coffee and using the free wifi in the shelter of Mcdonalds.

Overall, KL is a pleasant modern city. Even the old town is quite new. The people are friendly, everyone speaks English, and nobody hassled me once, which is rarity in Asia. I doubt it would hold a traveler's attention for more than a couple days, but it is a worth a visit. Of course, the highlight for was visiting an amazing friend and seeing first hand the life-style of a middle-class Malaysian.

Cameron Highlands

2011-06-26T08:29:00.001-05:00

Despite its modernity, Malaysia's tourism is nowhere near as developed as Thailand, directly to the North. With its oils and rubber industry, it doesn't really depend upon it. Plus, it lacks the bang and wealth of the jaw-dropping attractions of its neighbors. That said, there are certain places that pack the tourists in; the most popular is the Cameron Highlands, a few hours North of Kuala Lumpur.

The area was stolen from the natives and set up as a hill station during the British occupation of the late-nineteenth and early-twentieth centuries. It is basically a series of hills and tiny mountains, with a stable temperature of about 20-25C. Nearby is forest and jungle, with many hiking opportunities and waterfalls. It is also a center for agriculture, producing most of the country's tea, fruits and vegetables.

I'd met enough people who felt apathetic about Malaysia, but loved their visit to the Highlands, so I booked a two day trip. Kuala Lumpur is nice, but hardly exciting enough to hold my attention for the whole week I was spending in the country.

I didn't have a Lonely Planet for Malaysia, so I went in blind, merely buying a bus ticket and booking a room. When I arrived, it was raining, so I didn't do much exploring of the area. I'm not a big fan of package tours, but with no map, no information, all the brochure shops closed, I just booked a full day tour for the next morning.

My day started with a visit to an "authentic" aboriginal village, which it truly was. Much like the

Indian reservations of the USA, they all lived in simple government houses, leaving a few bamboo huts for the sake of the tourists and a few residents. The village was mostly empty. "If you want to see some real aboriginal life," said our witty guide, "Just go the KFC in town. They are wearing their now traditional dress and they dye their hair light. They look just like you now!" I'm so glad the world is becoming one big America. It's charming. We were all given the opportunity to shoot a real bamboo glow gun. Watch out, apparently I'm a natural at shooting poison darts (and yes, they were unnecessarily dipped in poison); I hit the target at dead center. Though I found the whole village

tour interesting, there was something unsettling about being herded through some people's homes like it was a zoo.

Next, we headed to the jungle for a hike to see the world's largest species of flower, the rafflesia. It's about as big as a truck tire and smells like rotten meat. It's not particularly pretty, but it was incredible to see such a large red flower. This was the main reason I booked the tour.

Our next stop was the Boe Tea Plantation and factory. I visited a factory in Darjeeling and took a tour (though I suspect it was run by an enterprising Indian hanging out at the door), but nothing was running and it was much more interesting to learn the tea production process while actually watching it in operation. Like all tea plantations, it was gorgeous. Tea farms are probably the prettiest in the world.

The tour stopped at an insect zoo and a strawberry farm as well, the but only thing I gained from these were as stupid puppet I won with a claw machine. I boycotted the insect zoo because the woman who sold me the tour promised that it included all admission fees. She lied. I'm sorry the zoo had to pay for my strange sense of principals, but hey, I hate lying.

Overall, the Cameron Highlands were a pleasant place that seems to draw some cool travelers. The hill station lacked the bang of other British heat-retreats, but if you are on Pennisular Malaysia, a stop to this lovely area is well worth it.

Malaysia

2011-06-26T08:18:00.001-05:00

Malaysia often flies by the radar of most travelers, choosing the savvy Thailand to the North or the vast jungle archipelago of Indonesia to the South. If Malaysia gets noticed, it is typically by those traveling between the two.

Malaysia is a bit of an anomaly in Asia. Whereas most countries are developing, Malaysia seems properly developed. Europe has been pumping money into the nation because of the important stopover port of Malacca for hundreds of years. Therefore, it lacks the "authentic" seeming charm that most come to expect from Asian countries. If you look past this, accept it as a developed country, it is quite nice. At first, I admit, I found it a bit boring; I didn't come to Asia for such a "Western" place (I really don't mean to imply that Malaysia is Western). When I returned for my second trip to visit Jacky in KL, I was pleasantly surprised.

It is clean, the roads make sense, the people follow the rules, for a place whose slogan is "Truly Asia", it seemed anything but Asian. But, if you crack through, it's about as uber-Asian as a country can get.

It is a melange of cultures. Chinese, Indians, Malays, and the native tribes all mingle with each other in harmony, for the most part, but with surprisingly little fusion. With a stop at any food court, one can buy authentic dishes from many food traditions.

The official language is Malay, but with so many cultures tossed together, each with their own language, walking around can sound quite confusing; as a bi-product of the years of British occupation, the nation's second language is English, which everyone speaks. I found myself hearing two Malays at a store speaking to each other in English. It's not out of the ordinary to hear people alternate English and Chinese within a single sentence.

This multiculturalism also leads to a general friendliness and acceptance of all ethinicities and nationalities. Unlike every other place in Asia, I met no hassles, no stares. I was just another foreigner in a country comprised of foreigners; it reminded me of the United States in that way.

The only racial problems seem to come politically. The nation is ran by an Islamic government, and all positions of power belong to the Muslim Malays. They also get special concessions, including cheaper houses, which is unfair to the other ethnic groups of the nation, who only in the country for a couple of generations are still Malaysians. The Chinese, typically shrewd at business control most of the money; the Hindus clean up the messes and sell Roti Cani. Despite this, the racial tension seems to be low.

Overall, Malaysia seemed to be a pleasant country in which to live, though a bit boring as a tourist destination. It was green, clean, forested; the government is quite obviously conservation minded. I liked it quite a bit, though I did come to visit a friend, which often yields different perceptions of places. Give Malaysia a chance before accusing it of having no culture or no unique national identity. Much like the US, you just have to look a bit deeper. It has a unique charm; it's just a bit subdued.

Lesson Six: Just Dance

2011-06-26T08:13:00.001-05:00

Just Dance

I've enjoyed dancing for most of my adult life, though it has never been a passion of mine. Just an activity saved for concerts and weddings, always in the company of alcohol. Just moving around to some good music, having fun, it releases a lot of energy. In general though, I reserve my dancing for music that can actually move me, primarily hip/hop, R&B, funk, and ironic choices like ABBA (actually, I do enjoy dancing to ABBA, I just feign pretending to like it in some sort of convoluted ironic irony). The pulsating, regular electronic beats just leave me bored.

One of the most beloved past-times on the bay was dancing at one of the many parties around the island, the most popular for my area was Guy's Bar, a party that began around 11PM on a Friday night and finally stops around 3PM the next day. When I arrived, I was told of the wonders of waking up early, around six o clock, and dancing through the sunrise. The thought of waking up with the sole purpose of dancing at sunrise sounded silly, especially when the chances of six beers was a little slim. My first Friday, I just stayed up all night instead, this made much more sense than going to sleep, during the biggest social event of the week then dancing in the morning when the party was likely to be petering out.

Oh how wrong I was. Right before the sun came up, mobs appeared from nowhere: caves, treehouses, hidden bungalows a kilometer into the woods, all dressed in crazy costumes, tearing up the floor with a a dancing energy that seemed impossible at such ungodly hours. They were so free, so confident, yet I was so tired, I could barely move.

I left that first week, wondering how some people could live in such a state, not caring what people are thinking, dancing in the morning, no drugs, no alcohol, looking so silly, yet beautiful at the same time. I learned quickly that staying up all night was not the correct method anyway; doing the same as the long-termers: waking up on Saturday mornings, before my breakfast and having a good dance to start the day, was fantastic. It left me so energized for the whole day. I began to quite love dancing, spending most of the day Saturday, just hanging out at Beam and walking over to Guy's Bar whenever the music got good. When my restaurant became the place to party for a while, going off most nights with the funky R&B I played, I was required to dance; this was my preferred style though, so it didn't take much to get me moving.

After a while, I stopped caring what others thought; I stopped caring if the music was terrible or not, I just danced, because it felt good, because it was fun, because it left me surging with energy. My terrible little two step with shaking hips and that weird off-rhythm thing I do with my right hand, which JJ dubbed as "shaking the dice", didn't seem stupid anymore: it was just how I danced. Cause when you think about it, all dancing looks pretty stupid, but that shouldn't stop people from doing it. So, the most important thing I learned on the island was to just dance, no matter what. And yes, this is a metaphor for life, not really about dancing.

Great Chinese Firewall

2011-06-23T08:06:00.001-05:00

Well, I am in China now, stuck behind the wonder of the Great Firewall, blocking me from any access to Facebook. If you would like to contact me, I still have my email at popomaticbubble@yahoo.com Drop me a line, since I don't really have emails for anybody. Also, I will be returning to the United States on August 9th after a quick visit to see Michelle in Norway and a couple days in London, England for good measure. See you then. I will start posting a flurry of blogs I've writen on my computer, but couldn't post since I broke it. The screen is working now, kind of. I have about a 8x8in space to do things, but sometimes it stops working all together. Cheers, Aaron

Letter to the India Board of Tourism

2011-05-09T06:01:00.000-05:00

To whom it may concern:

I didn't know exactly to whom to write this, but I hope it finds itself in the right hands. My name is Aaron White and I recently visited your large nation for seven weeks from the beginning of December until the end of January, right in the heart of winter.

Fresh off an amazing two months in Nepal, I arrived in India quite excited about my time, planning to visit Sikkim before traveling across the North to Amritsar and back. Many people had told me stories not only of the hardships of traveling India, but also the rewards; I understood some of this from my time in Nepal and I felt ready to tackle the culture of India.

My first stop was Darjeeling and Sikkim. I noticed the great kindheartedness of the Indian people. Ethnically, the people were quite similar to the Nepalis, comprised of a mix of Hindu and Tibetan cultures. Everyone I met was amazing; locals would befriend me in a moment. They were so welcoming. I then headed down to Kolkata which I also loved. The Bengalis lived with such zest and passion, it was hard to not feel it as well. I formed a strong positive impression of India and I failed to see why so many people couldn't handle it. Yes, even in the first nine days, I had moments where I lost my cool. It is easy with lack of sleep; I'm sure you understand.

Place after place, I met more wonderful people and saw a little bit of the more negative sides of the culture. In Varanasi, I was assaulted by two men who claimed, falsely that I had photographed the burning of bodies. I defused the situation, but it left me shaken. It was so confusing to see such utter dishonesty and love all at the same time. It was not until I entered the “Golden Triangle” that I really saw why so many people hate the country.

Agra was horrible, there was no break from the hassling. Delhi was worse; I've never hated a place in my life more than Delhi.

This letter is getting quite rambling, I understand. If you are still with me, I would like to get to the main purpose of this letter. I would like to file a formal complaint to the Indian Tourism Board. Despite all the wonderful experiences I had, I was not completely satisfied, especially with the service of your country's workforce. Your employees do not have proper understanding of Western culture and how to deal with us on a business end. I am not so narcissistic to believe that you should cater to our culture and not the other way around, when it is we, who are the visitors, but I feel that with a slight change of approach, you could in the long run make more money for your business. Why am I writing this? Well, I see some real potential in your country and hope that you can improve on your business. I am not going to ask for a refund, but I may not return again unless some things change. So, I would like to leave you with some points to consider:

-No, Thank You, I do not need a rickshaw, I'm fine walking.

-Please refrain from calling me friend for the sole purpose of gaining my trust, this is a title reserved for people who at least know my name.

-Swiftly demolish the Pahar Gange area of Delhi immediately.

-No, I don't need a rickshaw! If I need one, I'll wave you down.

-If make a bowel movement into a bowl and try to sell it for 100 rupees, then cut the price 50%, then continually lower until I am selling it at a 75% discount, only 25 rupees, is this still considered a good price?

-When a customer says yes, quit selling your product. Further selling shows a lack of confidence.
-
I'm not ignoring you because I don't see or hear you, I'm ignoring you because I DON'T WANT A RICKSHAW!!!

Sincerely:
Aaron White

A disaster area

2011-05-04T09:55:00.003-05:00

It started with a dark cloud in the horizon, slowing coming towards the bay from the sea. The open-air house I shared with Pink and JJ had a wonderful view, sitting high up on the jungled hill. We'd lived there for four wonderful days, but seeing the clouds made us worry. A house with no walls is great on sunny days, but we knew not how it would hold up in a storm. We aroused from the lethargy of our great music and conversation to put down the plastic flaps, which are surprisingly good at keeping things dry. Our two open walls were covered fine, save one section of the front that was broken; leaving a small opening in the top right corner.

The rain hit, but it wasn't too bad. Our house stayed dry and it let up to a light sprinkle by the time I had to walk to work. It was raining the next morning as well. Normally, I head down to Beam shortly after my cup of coffee, but with the steady rain, I chose to finish my book and have a couple extra cups. The second day's rain kept me inside, chilling with my friends, which was really not too different than any other day. Work was dead; few chose to brave the rain. That night, I could feel something building though. The peaceful rain became more ominous; the sky darker than normal. I'd heard rumors of a storm, but on a tropical island, there are always rumors of a storm with any drop of rain. It vacillated between steady rain and downpour, and during one lighter stretch, I asked Gae if I could leave early to not get too wet. He complied, but the rain picked up immediately. I stripped into my underwear and walked home, soaking.

I awoke in the middle of the night; the wind was howling, but it wasn't the wind that stirred me from my slumber; the plastic flaps were slamming against the wall of the hour furiously. I sprung up and tied them down the best I could. The rain was falling at rates I'd never seen. Fat drops like from exploding water balloons were falling so fast, I wondered if it was possible to swim through the air. I tried my best to sleep, but found it impossible. The rain didn't let up the next morning. I procrastinated breakfast as long as I could, hoping the rain would stop. Eventually, we lost power, so no electric kettle, and even with the windows shut and flaps down, the wind kept blowing the out flame of the gas burner. After my fourth cup of cold, instant coffee, I was too jittery to survive without food and braved the short walk to Beam.

I'd never seen the restaurant so filled. Every resident of the nearby bungalows were entrenched, some wrapped in blankets, all wore sweaters. I'd never seen most of the people wearing more than beachwear. A man I'd never met had set up a few bongo drums, which he played with wild vigor. Many were dancing around the restaurant to the beats, smiling, making the most of the insanely rainy day. I took my normal seat and prepared for another day inside. It seemed less fun than normal though; even though I did the same thing on sunny days, I liked having the option of leaving. None of us went to work that day; word from one brave soul said it was closed anyway.

The next day offered no relief. The downpour had now been going on for 36 hours. I couldn't comprehend that the air could still drop precipitation. When I walked to Beam, even more people crammed in. Some of the hermits who lived on the hill found their homes flooded, unable to handle so many days of constant rain. The morale had sunk only a little; many were just annoyed, especially those on two weeks vacations, finding their beach holiday spent inside. JJ had brought his guitar from the house, so we spent much of the day singing songs, doing our best to stay happy. We had one customer that night at Spice.

The next few days all blurred together. The downpour slowly let up after the fourth day, but the rain continued for a solid week. On day four, the food started running low; not that we were going hungry, we just didn't have many choices...potatoes were the first to go, followed by fresh coconuts and most disastrously, Oreos, but the coconuts were not a loss: cold weather yields little desire for its magic hydration. Nobody was going anywhere. I only left to attend work. Even the short walk to Spice was dangerous, trees were falling everywhere. My coworker Stu had missed being creamed by a coconut tree on the way to work by inches.

We all became quite close those days. One day, we started a massage parlor. Michelle, Cara, Rob, and I were all taking turns giving each other rub downs. It was quite a nice experience on both sides of this deal. We weren't the only ones. With a bay full of massage therapists, the upstairs area of Beam always had somebody face-down on a mat for most of the storm.

One night, trapped by the rain and the late nights socializing, I was invited by my friend Michelle to spend the night on her giant bed in the big dorm; all others were taken by the refugees. We awoke holding hands and finding it quite nice, we decided to start some romance. Given my new lack of fear of being close to other people again, it was quite lovely to find some physical closeness in such depressing circumstances. Everyone seemed to be cuddling anyway, a natural reaction to the close quarters and cold weather. Michelle and I continued to date until we both left the island and we plan to meet in Laos in the near future.

It was impossible for laundry. In a bay void of luxuries like dryers, we were all forced to were our dirty clothes. Most of things became moldy, including my hiking boots which I needed to chuck. The day before the rain started, I was already down to my last clothes. We all played the game of finding our least damp sarongs and shirts, after a while, we just got used to the smell of dampness and feeling of being wet.

I abandoned the house for good after a point; the small hole in the plastic flaps were enough to saturate the whole house; it happened slowly, but after the third day of downpour, Beam was a much better option for sleeping. The beds were all wet; there was precious little floor room that was not waterlogged. The dorm was slightly better, though many people had ceased even walking the few steps to the toilet, choosing to urinate in a bucket that lived on the balcony.

When the rain hits the bay, even slightly, the internet and phone reception disappears. We had no contact with the outside world. For all we knew, there could be nuclear war; we also didn't know how bad the storm truly was or how long it was going to last. Our best hope was it wasn't a crisis that would worry our families at home. The boats were not running for days; the road had washed out. We were all trapped. Many missed flights. Every once in a while, we'd hear rumors that the military was evacuating the neighboring islands Koh Samui and Koh Tao.

Finally, exactly one week after it started, the rain stopped. First the downpour tapered to just a steady drizzle. Some people tried to escape, only to return, finding that nobody was leaving the islands, except by the emergency helicopter and aircraft carriers that had evacuated the nearby areas due to massive floods. If they could have caught boats to the mainland, they'd find themselves trapped in Suratthani anyway. The mainland was devastated, roads flooded, all transportation halted. Thailand had been declared a disaster area.

We were lucky to be in such a secluded bay, because the damage was quite minimal compared to everywhere else. There was no flooding except for some odd houses. My first walk in the post-rain through the familiar palm grove was surreal. A large percentage of the trees had fallen, I lost count after forty. Some huts had been destroyed by the falling trees, but most were fine. We were lucky.

Saturday was the first day of sun and there was no better day to usher the warmth. The whole bay convened on Guy's Bar for the weekly morning party. We all had so much energy to blow, nobody stayed sitting. The dance floor was a mass of wiggling bodies, loving the first good sweat in a week. We were all alive in our disaster area.

Lesson Five

2011-05-04T06:12:00.002-05:00

There might be something to this whole “energy” thing

It seems as if every person living in Haad Thien fits into one of four categories: yoga teacher, massage therapist, energy worker, or a student of one of these three disciplines. Of course, given that Koh Phangan is one of the top destinations in Thailand for yoga and eastern medicine studies, aimed at foreigners, this is not too surprising. I've been practicing yoga off and on for years and have noticed the positive effects on numerous aspects of my life. With regular practice, I found I had more energy, ate less, and in general felt happier, added to the expected increase in flexibility, strength, and svelteness. Despite this, I never really bought much of the philosophy surrounding it, merely practicing the assanas as a physical exercise; this is a common practice in the West, where as many from the East buy into the philosophy, but look at the west's obsession with assanas as quite silly. I never really found chakaras to be total b/s, though merely ways of visualizing the flow of blood through the body and the different centers blood flow seems to effect.

Meditation for me as an activity typically bored me. If I found myself stressed or finding difficulty sleeping, I'd use breathing exercises and meditation techniques to relax myself. For the most part, I considered myself as one who didn't really like meditation. After taking a few yoga classes in India and actually doing some meditation, I realized that I meditate all the time! The type of relaxed state of mind and focus I feel with my eyes closed, focusing on my third eye is same feeling I get from hiking alone in the woods or cooking a complicated dinner. Meditation is not an activity, it's a just a state. Of course, this was no new lesson for me, just merely a change in vocabulary.

So, once I accepted that I've been in fact meditating for a long time, I actually opened my mind to the practice of sitting in half lotus or savasina for fifteen minutes after my yoga practice to see what happened. Sometime, I'd try to focus on the energy of the jungle, attempt to block out everything but the insects and birds or I'd focus on the energy of ocean, only hearing the sound of the waves. This was typically before work and I found that putting myself in that relaxed state paradoxically gave me a burst of energy for the night, as if the forces of nature were entering into me. Again, I attributed this to an increase in blood flow, since both meditative poses keep the body more or less lined up. Surely, it had nothing to do with the fact that the world is comprised of particles, and at a microscopic level, air, trees, people are all made of the same things and in this mindset, there is a transfer of atoms between it all. Definitely not.

But then, suddenly, when I opened myself up to these ideas that energy can be shared, pushed around between people, that negativity can swirl and envelop others in the same ways as positivity, I noticed that it was there. When visiting Guy's Bar, first thing in the morning every Saturday, dancing among the crowds, under the beating rays of the sun, everybody happy, sharing a single feeling, happiness. I knew that there was something there. By this point, the drug heads from the night had left, leaving only the long-termers, the yogis, the hippies, all getting high on togetherness, smiles. I know it sounds cheesy, like a bunch of flower-power BS, but we share energy and we can harness it. Taoists, Hindus, Buddhist, they don't see this as hokey new-age thinking; this is just the world.

Living on Haad Thien, a person needs to be careful differentiating the real world from delusion. One drawback or positive, depending on your open-mindedness, of the place is that many new-age hippie types are actually insane. And in a loving, open place such as this, insanity begins to seem quite normal. People just let themselves out with no worry of judgment. A friend of mine on the island was a veteran of the Iraq War, disabling underwater IED's for many years. Simply put, this damaged him immensly, and he went deep into the rave scene and all that come with it; this may or may not have caused delusions, it's not my business. He was an extremely gifted massage therapist and energy worker who was getting rave reviews from everyone. I've always believed in the therapeutic powers of massage, but energy work always seemed a bit hokey; a closed-eyed person with hands hovering two inches above somebody's body for half an hour hardly seems worth the money.

Well, the day before he planned to leave, I decided to hire him for a massage. At first it started as a pretty normal, better than average massage. It then changed tone, less to muscle work, to more light touch and stretches. Apparently, I wasn't surrendering though; I didn't realize that I had to surrender to anything; he seemed not to be doing much. So, I just stopped thinking about what he was doing and let him do his work. Next thing I knew, I...well, I can't really explain it, but I entered into the deepest meditative state I've ever experienced in my life. Images, dreams, memories from the past, maybe things from the future all flashed before me rapid succession; all of it so fast, I couldn't even grasp it. I knew I wasn't asleep; I could still hear him occasionally convulse from a surge of energy he felt. I know not how much time had passed, it seemed forever and instantaneous at the same time, but I came out of space, lying in savasana, feeling quite dazed. I've gotten into relaxed, meditative feelings during massages before, but I've never completely left my body before, especially when I was barely even being touched.

I told him what happened and he wasn't surprised, apparently this is common when he does energy work. I asked him exactly what he was doing; he explained that he was realigning my chakaras and making the energy in my body flow freely; certain points in the body are connected to memories and emotions by removing energy blockages, streams of visions will come. Whatever went on, it was crazy and changed the way I thought about energy work!

Many of my fears involving a budding romance with my good friend Michelle evaporated that night and went into it with no fears. Since the massage, I have felt as if there was some major blockage in myself that was lifted. It's quite hard to explain.

I'm still not a complete believing in raiki and many other forms of energy work, but as I get older, I begin to see that is some sort of energies that we maybe could once grasp, but somehow over time, we've lost our ability to see it...or believe it. Whatever it is, be it just blood flow or a real, mystical seeming power, many Eastern traditions of thought provide pretty easy to grasp models of what's going on. I know I'll definitely look at these models with a more open mind in the future. Besides, I'd rather listen and believe some robed people right here on Earth than some white-robed thing that lives in the sky.

Lesson Four

2011-04-29T02:37:00.005-05:00

Open your heart

My last two serious relationships have left me simply...damaged. I followed my heart, moved to Australia and got dumped; left in a strange country alone and heartbroken (ok, it wasn't like that at all, Jess's family graciously let me stay with them after the break-up, I just chose to venture off alone, cause I couldn't figure a better way to deal with my emotional instability). Then a year and a half later, I found the situation reversed and I had to knowingly break the heart of another person I did not love, but cared about about immensely, a friend of eight years, which was oddly enough, even more painful. So, suffice to say, I avoided all forms of intimacy with other women for a long time; I just couldn't take any more potentiality of pain, which I'd begun to associate with romance. It wasn't just romantic love, but love in general. I was afraid of feeling.

Over the last few months, my desires for romance had started creeping back. When travelling, it's easy to ignore and simultaneously indulge on romantic urges, people pass in and out with little chance of real connection. I'd met a few women that had struck my fancy along the way, but the situation was not right or I was just too afraid to make a move with somebody I knew I'd probably never see again. Within my first week on Koh Phangan, I was all but propositioned by three different women, but I've never been one for random sex myself (though I do love a good snog now and then!). I prefer real connections.

Well, with nearly all of my needs being met on the island, I opened myself to the idea of romance once again. The second I chose to do this, I found myself falling for an older Dutch woman who herself was recovering from some past romantic smut. Our intense one-week romance was passionate and lovely.

Wading in the crystal clear water, flat, still like glass. The saturated sand under my feet is so soft with every step. She's floating on her back, supported by my right hand, eyes closed, shining under the sun. I lean down and place a salty kiss on her cheek. Soft skin, green eyes, the warmth of another person. This was the root of all my fears? Love?

I take a large spoonful of the tan paste, a ground mix of oil, onions, garlic, tomatoes, ginger and masala, and wait for it to sizzle, releasing the smell that will always transport me one place, North India. This was not a pure Indian curry though; once the paste melted to a thick bubbling liquid, I pour the thick coconut mix and mix them together into a yellow soup. Next comes the fish sauce. One mistake many make when cooking Thai food is fearing the fish sauce...never fear the fish sauce. I add equal amounts of light soy sauce, being careful not to put too much of each: both are so salty, an excess would overpower the delicate flavor of the crab meat, which I add five minutes later after slow, thickening boil. I crack and egg and the yoke sinks into the curry, I use the side of my spoon to break it open and mix the orange into the rest, letting it all heat to boil three times, stirring in between. Then I remove the heat and let it rest for a few minutes, trying my best not to stare in anticipation. The egg thickens the curry and makes the taste just a bit more rich, but not overbearing. Finally, I take the lime, chop into quarter wedges and squeeze three right in. The fourth, I squeeze more carefully, stopping just when it feels right. I take the spoon and sip the curry, but put one more dab of fish sauce then dip for another taste. Perfect flavor balance is rare, but this dish has it. I always know I've hit that point when my legs shake a little upon hitting my tongue. I jump up and down, exclaim, "woo!" My Burmese coworkers always laugh when I reach this point...they know it's finished. I quickly bring it to the table so I don't find myself grabbing another spoonful and another. I'd forgot how important cooking was to me in the months on the road...Love

A perfect chunk of ripe mango should melt in the mouth. They often all look the same, a light orange color, but you never know if its a good mango until you place in the mouth and press it against the roof and feel it give under the slightest of pressure, not stringy, not powdery, not crunchy, but creamy. By the time the feeling of the mango hits my tongue, the anticipated taste always follows...Love

I walk through the grove of coconut trees and feel the wind blow gently across my face, wet with sweat, an air conditioner that uses no resources. The plethora of birds sing their own individual songs, but they never clash, they build upon each other, not fighting, not together, but not entirely separate. Mixed with the cicadas, crickets, and the hiss of the sea, this is the symphony of the jungle island. This is only one thing...Love

Cara rolls another joint, slowly, the night is still young. We've been laughing for hours, our chests hurt in pleasure. Zach says another statement, both naive and insightful at the same time as Michelle wipes the tears from her eyes just enough to see the notebook as she preserves another memory in the short tome of quotes she'd been collecting for the last month. It's now three AM, but nobody seems to care as we try to have clear vision through the haze. The frogs are laughing with us...Love

It wasn't just being in love with a woman as much as I was in love with life. Every day filled with moments when I felt like I would explode. This is why nobody leaves the bay; we're all in love. For me, it just took a woman to make me not afraid to feel it. And I continue to feel love for every day, now even two months after she boarded the ferry. Thank you.

Transportation in Thailand

2011-04-28T09:10:00.001-05:00

Thailand is easily one of the top tourist destinations in the world and with good reason. It's gorgeous, charming, the people are friendly, it's diverse, has the greatest cuisine in the world, and the tourism industry is streamlined into a science. Now, I love Thailand; if I didn't, I wouldn't have stayed here so long, but it is way too easy. That said, just because it's easy, does not mean it's simple or makes much sense. This is shown in no better way than the way tourists are herded around.

When a tourist buys a ticket through a private company at booking agent, it is typically a combination of various modes of transport, taxis, buses, some walking, and if it involves an island, but exclusively, a boat is thrown into the mix. These are lumped together into a single package, with promise of arriving at a destination. Once the process starts though, many begin worrying, as it seems a little strange. As an example, I will breakdown my trip home to Haad Thien from Penang.

It starts with a sticker. Sometimes it's handwritten with a magic marker, listing the place, sometimes it's color coded. My sticker said Koh P, for Koh Phangan. A van picked me up from my hostel in Georgetown, then drove around, picking up one other white tourist and a mob of loud, yet friendly Indonesian grandmothers. After crossing the border, I was dropped off at a booking office in Hat Yai, main city in Southern Thailand. Given enough time to order a coffee, but not drink it, a pickup truck pulled up and I was herded into the back. The pickup drove in a big circle, I swear I passed the booking office again two more times and I was finally dropped off at a train ticket office, even though my trip did not involve a train. A bus pulled up, the driver yelled out, “Surathani!” which was my ferry's port. I stood to board, but a man motioned for me to sit back down and the bus left. I was then picked up again by a taxi and taken back to the original booking office. Eventually, a van full of happy Thais, either returning from shopping with all their bags or leaving work arrived and I was told to hop on. The van seated nine, three in front, including the driver, and three in each of the two rows in back. In reality though, we crammed about thirty.

This is the part of the trip I like to call the joyride. The van drove all over Hat Yai, the cast of charcters for the van changing frequently, but the number of passengers staying static; our first stop, the train ticket office I'd just come from. After an hour of circling the town, hitting markets and various other businesses, the van basically a taxi, it finally headed up north toward Suratthani.

After playing the taxi game again in Surrathani, I was dropped off at another booking office, which I recognized from the way to Malaysia. It always played Jackass the Movie and served disgusting, yet expensive food. It was a random little place in the middle of a bunch of warehouses, selling bulk amounts of toys and other useless trinkets recently shipped from China. Even though I was in a room full of people with stickers for Koh Phangan, I was singled out, ushered into a taxi and driven a block away, where they dropped me off alone. I stood there for about five minutes with my backpack, feeling stupid. Locals strolled by like there was nothing odd going on. Another Thai man showed up, telling me to follow him; I really had no choice. He walked me through an alleyway and suddenly I was filled with the fear that I'd offended the Thai mafia at some point on the island and they just wanted to wait until I had new visa before offing me; it'll take longer for the US gov't to notice I was gone. Then we popped out onto a busy street where I was instructed to wait.

So I stood again on a random sidewalk for about ten minutes, trying to fight the fear that I'd been forgotten. A taxi arrived, beckoned me and I entered without questioning it. We drove around a bit more, passing other random tourists, standing on the side of the road with their backpacks, looking scared, but not picking them up. Finally, I was dropped off at the port and was told to wait again. I was glad to finally had made it to my boat.

But then, a bus arrived! The driver came out, saw my sticker, looked at his clipboard and told me to get on. The bus then took me away from my port. I looked around the bus, noticing it was filled with the very people I'd been separated from at the booking office. They looked as confused as me.

The bus hit the same highway I'd taken from Hat Yai and I was worrying if at some point they'd gotten confused; maybe the handwriting on the sticker looked like Kuala Lumpur or something, but then we took a left and I deduced we were heading to Don Sak, another port town. I was correct in my assessment. Finally, twelve hours after leaving, I was on my ferry. Penang is only an eight hour drive from the port.

The rest of the way was straightforward. I only had to take a taxi back to Haad Rin, then another longtail boat back to my bay. I thought maybe my experience was an anomaly, but upon talking to others, my trip was business as usual for Thailand, even in other parts of the country. I'm sure there is a reasoning for the madness, most likely competing companies that are utilizing the same vehicles or something, but really, I think that it's a joke, a little reminder that even though the tourist trail is so worn in Thailand, we are still in fact, in Asia.

Pulao Penang

2011-04-28T06:38:00.003-05:00

For the countless number of people who love Thailand so much they get stuck for long periods of time, like myself, there comes the inevitable, undesirable chore: the visa run. Just the combination of those two words induces sympathetic eyes from all the foreign residents. Basically, Thailand offers free visas for most people upon entering the country, thirty days when flying in, fifteen when coming overland. At various places, you can go to a consulate and get a free sixty day visa, with options of extending for thirty more in many major cities throughout Thailand. So, eventually, everyone who stays long enough has to leave the country for a couple days. When living on a secluded island paradise, nobody wants to leave the bubble for any amount of time; even the three mile trip to the atm at Haad Rin is worse than a paper cut.

On Koh Phangan island, the most convenient place for a visa run is Penang island, also known as Betel Nut Island, in Malaysia, just south of the border. Thankfully, it's a popular tourist destination in its own right; I just didn't want to bother leaving. With a different mindset, I would have really enjoyed my time there, but I was so islandized, I had trouble liking it. Now, I understand that Pulao Penang is an island, but it is the home of one of the larger cities in Malaysia and I was resenting motor vehicles and everything really. When I arrived at my hotel, I left to tour the city, barefooted, clad in my sarong, and quickly realized after all the stares that I had become one of those weird hippie guys. I put on some pants and shoes then tried again with more success.

Malaysia is a food heaven; amazing Chinese, Indian, Thai, traditional Malay can be found all in the same food stall. Within Malaysia, Penang is called Food Heaven (and yes they capitalize the F and H when they say it). So it's a Food Heaven, within a food heaven. This is no exaggeration. Georgetown, Malaysia, mark it on a map with an icon of chopsticks, because this is the epicenter of food in Asia. Most tourist information centers have building to see; in Penang, they have brochures of all the specialty dishes and where to find the best stalls. In the one whole day I spent there, I ate six meals. Now, I didn't like all of it; it was fish centered, and at that point, I was still merely accepting of fish, but after being in the food business for so long, I know if something tastes amazing, even if I don't like it. Highlights: Assam Laksa, a fish soup that is to die for; Ice Kachang (aka ABC), which is a snow cone with beans and corn, topped with ice cream; and hokkien mee another soup which was amazing. I met a local at a hokkien mee cart, who informed me that I had stumbled upon the single best bowl of soup in the country; in Asia, masses of locals never lie: they always show you where to eat.

The rest of the town is quite lovely, with a lot of British colonial architecture that was quite nice. Malaysia was so modern, I felt it lacked the type of charm for which I was searching in Asia. Still a nice town. I met a two assholes at the hostel that inspired the closest thing to hate I'd felt for other people in long long time. I thought that was an emotion that I couldn't feel anymore. On a side note, my belle Michelle had arrived there a few days later and became good friends with one of them, though she admitted that she was the only person there that seemed to get along with him.

I wasn't really ready for civilization when I went to Penang, but it was a nice enough place. I think a person could spend weeks there just eating if they wished. The food makes it an essential stop for anyone in Southern Thailand or Malaysia. Malaysian visas are free and it's only three hours from the border.

Haad Thien Lesson Three

2011-04-28T06:23:00.002-05:00

Being alive itself is intoxicating

Life is actually a drug in itself. Many people are constantly drinking alcohol or using drugs to induce euphoric states in themselves, not realizing that drugs just trigger our body to use neurotransmitters that are already in our body. The euphoria comes from yourself and a person can trigger those feelings by just recognizing how amazing the pure act of living can be. Now, don't get me wrong, I don't keep myself in a constant state of sobriety, but I do know that drugs are just a little bonus. In general, I feel quite good all the time. To see this in effect, just take one moment every day, drop everything and feel. Just smell the air; the world is full of wonderful smells everywhere. Just let the wind blow against your skin or savor the feeling of your morning shower. Just taste, truly taste your food, even simple fried eggs with salt and pepper can be blissful. Just look at the color of a simple tree leaf. All it takes is a bit of awareness and not taking life for granted. If you do this, you can actually live your life being high. It's simple.

Once I eliminated the stress of trying to leave the island, I became incredibly happy. Not like the normal, slightly better than content I normally feel, but truly happy. Admittedly, it is quite easy to feel super happy in chilled-out island paradise full of yoga-crazy hippies, but I knew it was more than the place, something inside of me was changing.

In general, Haad Thien is one of those rare places in the world that amplifies emotions, be it happiness or sadness. This might because it sits atop a bed of quartz. I'm not a big believer in crystals, but there was something weird going on there. Much like in the Byron Bay area of Australia, it's the type of place that stirs up emotions and teaches people lessons. These places always seem to draw hippies as well. I was never able to figure out if it was the people that occupy these places or the place itself, but there was something interesting going on there.

The first weeks of properly living on the island were all great; writing everyday, doing yoga, socializing with friends, swimming, walking through the jungle, dancing twice a week at Guy's Bar ad Eden. Just the fruit museli yogurt I ate every morning threw me into a state of bliss, and that was the first moment of everyday.

The happiness was cut short suddenly when I had to leave for a visa run to Malaysia, but it didn't take me long to get back into the groove. I got into the swing of my job at Spice, which is the highest end restaurant in the area, serving mostly seafood. My first few days saw few customers, maybe about three tables a night. Suddenly, after a rocking party, Spice took off. It was the place. Every night was packed and I found my job description getting a bit...eclectic. My manager went crazy and the owner Gae took over, leaving me as the main employee. Suddenly I found myself helping with managing duties, bartending, waiting, cooking and DJ'ing the spontaneous parties that were happening most nights. I had taken the recipes of the restaurant, tweaked them a bit and suddenly, eveMy social status rose in the bay. Every day was getting better than the one before.

Overall, my life was perfect, except for one thing.

Lesson Two: Thoughts are but one way your mind communicates

2011-04-20T04:48:00.002-05:00

My bag sat packed at the edge of my bed on my eighth day on Koh Phangan. I came downstairs for breakfast and Kate was there, just returning from her yoga class.

“Still here?”

“Yep, but I'll probably leave today.”

“Oh sad. Are you really leaving today?”

“I don't know.”

“You won't leave.”

I didn't leave that day, instead, I spent the day talking to my friend Adam about philosophy. In fact, I was finding myself discussing philosophy with someday nearly everyday here. This was a topic I seldom visited since my teenage years, sitting on the swings in the park until 5 in morning with Becky, April, or Danelle. I never really gained much from it; my beliefs have always just come to me, independent of outside influence. Stealing other's beliefs seemed like cheating. At Haad Thien, I found myself really being influenced and influencing others. It began to be apparent that I was wrong when I assumed I had no big life lessons to learn on this trip. I couldn't figure out exactly what I needed to learn, but I felt that something was keeping me here because I had something to learn; I just didn't know what it was. True, I was burned out from traveling. This was evident. If not for the group I met in India, I doubt I would have enjoyed myself much in the last month. Every temple was becoming just a temple. Every mountain a mountain. Every beach just a beach. This is a bad mindset for traveling. I didn't need philosophy to figure this out. But there was something more and the fact I found myself for four straight days strapping on the backpack but not leaving showed that I didn't want to leave. I just couldn't shake the guilt of staying static at such high monetary costs of seclusion.

The next day with not moving, my friends sensed the disease many seem to have at Haad Thien. Kate gave me a dice and encouraged me to write six choices of options, roll the die and see what happens. This seemed like a good idea; I choose the options, so whatever comes up is my choice anyway. The dice told me to stay until my visa ends, two weeks later. I was not sad about the outcome.

Later that day, I felt the urge to write a short story, so I walked to Haad Yuan, the nearby bay for lunch and quiet. The man at the next table was smoking a pipe and offered me a hit, which I graciously indulged. With one puff, I had the most complete flash of creative inspiration of my entire life. Suddenly a whole novel flashed before my eyes. The characters, the themes, the lessons, the story, everything. Time truncated. There were so many words floating around me, I couldn't even grasp them. I furiously wrote, trying to get everything I could on paper before I lost it. Next thing I knew, three hours and six pages of notes were sitting in front of me.

I walked back to Beam and found Kate hanging out. She wasn't shocked to see me still around. Sadly, I was not in a social mood and dove back into my notebook, writing the last chapter of the first act in one sitting.

Shanti, a fellow writer, strode in and saw me immersed. “You look like a man in the middle of inspiration.”
“Yep. Whole novel, just came right in front of me. I've never had this happen before.”

“What is it about?”

I explained the concept. It was a horror novel set on the island. The bay is filled with hippies and crazies, reigning free in a non-judgemental place. In the nine days I had spent there, I've had my share of odd conversations. I realized that if I looked at some of the things people said with the filter of horror story, it is quite creepy. The novel was semi-autobiographical; basically exploring my fears of embracing new philosophies, since my current ones were leaving me at a dead end.

Later that afternoon, Rob, the manager of Spice, a local restaurant entered. On a random impulse, which I indulged, I asked him if he needed any help.

“In fact, I do need an extra person. Can you stop by tonight?”

I began telling him of all my experience in the business, but he stopped me mid-sentence.

“I've got a really good vibe coming off of you, this just seems right. Don't worry about a resume, just come in.”

And like that, I laid the foundations to stay longer. I had a job, I had a novel to write, and I just laid down a two and a half month commitment. My backpack sat at the edge of my bed; there was no more pretense, no more fighting. I was staying.

The novel writing petered out after a month (though I do intend to finish it). Once I stayed, I realized that I had been telling myself I needed to stay for days. If I really wanted to leave, I would have left. I ignored myself though, still trying to force myself to move on. So, next thing I know, my brain threw me novel and reason to stay at me. Once I listened to myself, the stress disappeared; I was happy.

We are constantly communicating to ourselves, through actions, through choices, through intuition, through emotions. If we only listen to our thinking, we'll miss a very large percent of our wants and needs. If you are hungry you want to eat. If you eat and stay hungry, you've missed a nutrient you body needs. Similarily, if you can't leave someplace, you've missed an experience you need. Now, there are limits to this, sometimes a person is fed the wrong feelings as well. That's when you use the brain as a filter. Every time I've trusted my instincts, it has resulted in positive changes and events in my life. They may have hurt me in the short term, but over time, these choices have become the defining moments of my life. I will strive to listen to myself for the rest of my life.

Haad Thien Lesson One

2011-04-17T22:02:00.003-05:00

Live your life according to what you do, not what you don't do

My plans had enough time for me to visit Koh Phangan for about three days before heading to Krabi to see the magnificent limestone karsts and cliffs of the Andaman Coast of Thailand.

I arrived to Koh Phangan during a rainstorm. Koh Tao was rainy for the three days I visited. As I boarded the ferry, the skies cleared, revealing one the most beautiful days I've ever seen. I was sad to leave, but I'd already booked the ticket and I was invited by Brian, Cathy, and Jose to party that night. The rain seemed to be following me.

I had some hassles with the boat drivers who seemed immune to any form of bargaining. They were charging 300baht since the waves were too high. I caved, agreeing to pay the money; there was no way to get to Haad Thien save a two hour hike up a mountain. The waves were insane and the ride was frightening. We stopped at Haad Yuan first, the bay before my destination, but the waves were so strong, we had trouble getting off the beach. They took me back to Haad Rin, refusing to move on. On the way, crashing waves soaked all of my things, including my camera and mp3 player (which did turn out to ok.). About an hour later, they agreed to take me back to Haad Yuan, but not all the way to Haad Thien. This was fine since it was only a ten minute walk.

They suggested I stay at Beam, the backpacker hub for the area. It was a lovely dorm, open air, large, clean, with a great balcony for yoga overlooking the sea. I was in love instantly. The bay was quiet, no roads, hippies and yogis everywhere. Within minutes, I'd met a group of fun Fins who occupied me for much of the afternoon.

The party was great and I was happy to spend time with friends. I was warned when I arrive that people typically don't leave, most staying for at least a month, despite any plans. I didn't think this would happen to me, but I ended up staying a couple days later to experience the weekly social event of bay, Guy's Bar on Friday. I was too tired to leave Saturday, so I planned to leave Sunday, with Brian, Cathy and Jose.

My bags were packed, I was ready to go, but then I met a lovely woman, Kate, on Sunday afternoon while I was waiting for my laundry. We started talking and next thing I knew it was dark. Suddenly, I realized that Krabi was not a practical stop; why go someplace for only a day. I decided to stay until Tuesday, then head to Malaysia. It was hard to abandon a plan to see something great on the other end of the world, but I was enjoying myself too much. Why search for other paradises when I'd already found one? It was the perfect balance of sociality and rusticness.

Koh Tao

2011-04-17T20:11:00.003-05:00

Everyone told me to go to Koh Tao, Daan, Tara, and many others. "It's amazing." "Best island I've ever seen." So many great reviews, I had to see it. Was this going to be the island paradise I needed after months of intense travelling?

Apparently not. The island was beautiful! Incredible. Really, it was a great place, but I didn't like it. It is most famous for being the place to dive. I'm into to diving, so I found myself on the outside.

I was expecting an undeveloped, quaint little island, which it most was. The main drag was an eyesore, hugging the beach so closely, during high tide, there was no sand on which to stand. My first night was free, I was staying with a woman I met in transit who was taking a dive course, with a free bungallow. I moved on the next day since I didn't want to freeload on a complete stranger. To escape the development, I walked to the other side of the island. I love quiet, but I also love socializing, and the other side was deserted! Completely. Nobody at all. So I went to town again, to find everywhere either booked or too expensive. Finally, I found a dorm above a noisy bar that was bumping until late in the day.

I left after two days. I got a good snorkel, some nice hiking, but I couldn't connect to the place. On the boat there, I met three really cool people who were heading to a secluded bay on Koh Pha-ngan; seeing my hippie nature, they suggested I come and see it; a whole bay, filled with hippies, yogis, ravers. Liberalism and love. Sounded like my thing. So off I went to Haad Thien. I didn't realize this choice would change me forever and trap me for three months.

Three nights in Bangkok

2011-04-10T02:29:00.002-05:00

Bangkok surprised me in its modernity. It just seemed like another city; and I'd yet to see a modern style city for months. Everything seemed so clean, litter was not to be found; the buildings were neat and spread out along the river.

Julien and I found a room at My New House Guesthouse, just a block from the tourist ghetto of Kho San Road. The whole place was an overload of senses. Western music pumped from every place, tourists were everywhere, drunk. Hawkers sold everything from trendy t-shirts to wooden frogs that when a stick is rubbed across the back it sounds like a frog. People were getting massages every few feet. Women were wearing next to nothing; there was so much skin, my head felt like it would explode. I could understand why Indian men seem to lose their cool at the sight of western women. India was so oppressive compared to this. The biggest change was the 7-11's all over the city, selling everything a tourist could need from toiletries, to cigarettes, to beer, snacks or an iced coffee. And they were everywhere. In India, I could search for an hour to just to find a bar of soap. I couldn't help but love the convenience, the pure catered quality of it all.

Daan arrived the next morning and we all spent the days lounging around, eating wonderful, cheap Thai food and drinking Chang Beer and iced coffees over games of billiards. It was the type of town where 5AM came easily. I did not go to bed even a single time early.

I spend one day sightseeing. Kho San is so close to the old city that a good day is all one needs to walk through the main stuff. I skipped the Royal Palace because of the cost, but visited the fantastic Wat Pho, home of the world's largest reclining Buddha. The whole grounds were incredible; it may have been the most fantastic temple I've ever seen. I walked around Chinatown to try to find some good food, but I managed to get trapped in the Indian district, a place I needed not spend any time. Eventually I found some fried tofu dish that I didn't care for much. I stopped by a few more temples, including the hilltop Temple on the Mount, where I could see Bangkok stretching forever in all directions; all looking the same except for scattered wat.

I hung out with Nat one night, making plans to meet in Malaysia in a couple weeks. It was great to see Nat as a man in his home city.

Daan encouraged me to hit up Koh Tao next, so I followed his advice and booked a bus and boat combo from my guesthouse. It took mere minutes to have everything planned. No cues, no language hassles, and an empty seat. Thailand is so easy.

Farewell India

2011-03-18T23:41:00.001-05:00

It was more economically viable for me to take a train across the length of India to fly from Kolkata to Thailand, than to fly directly from Delhi, which was fine by me; I much prefer Kolkata.

I bid farewell to the group, planning to meet Daan in Bangkok and boarded my 35 hour train after a short tour of the Haridwar Ghats. There was a point in my life when seven hours of any form of travel was excruciating, but after Australia and this trip, anything less than twelve hours registers no dread. I actually hoped the train would take longer than the 32 hour scheduled; it was to arrive at 2AM, four hour delay would put me in Kolkata at sunrise. As common with the unreliable Indian train system, I got my wish.

Most of the hotels on Shudder street were booked out with my arrival, but a room opened up at the 10 o'clock checkout. I had no real plans to see anything. I only needed to spend less that 500 rupees and eat some Kolkata egg rolls. This was not too hard: most egg rolls will cost around 20 rupees. I managed to eat three, one double egg, double chicken, one with paneer and chicken, and one on classic egg roll. Strange that with the delectable quantities of Bengali food around me, right at its delicious source, I chose to eat the most common of street food for my last meals in India.

In my hotel I met a man Julien who had the same flight, so we shared a taxi to the airport and boarded my first flight since my arrival in Beijing.

Though Nepal and India were both markably different, they were similar enough that I needed a complete change. I'd been in an Hindu society for nearly four months and I did not even know what to expect once I landed in Thailand. I was sad to be leaving, but also relieved. India was tough, though there hasn't been an easy country. Even the simple lifestyle of trekking in Nepal involved intense physical work, but India really tested a person emotionally. Indians are quick to perceive the weaknesses and strengths of people and they use this intuition to challenge. I learned to hate a persons actions, even if I liked the person. I'd had a great time with those who'd ripped me off. The easiest way to keep many Indians from bothering you is to make a joke. We'd developed a method of defusing beggars by begging from them first; you quickly learn to identify them.

I'd learned to embrace enough of the culture as I could. I ate with my right hand; it is amazing how much more sense Indian food made when eating it properly. The tastiest ratios of sauce to rice was the point where it became just right for picking up. I also used my left hand for...I stopped buying toilet paper. I tried paan, smoked beedies, tried every sweet I could. India is a hard country to crack, but there were ways to have simple connections, mostly chai and beedies.

I was befuddled by the eccentricities of the people. How holy temples show explicit images of many uncommon sex practices, yet husbands and wives may never see each other naked. People will shower with their clothes on, yet not think twice of defecating right on the sidewalk with others around. Being able to have instant love for a person, complete devotion to help, yet at the same time, able to lie with a straight face about anything. It was a land where begging isn't desperation, it's a profession that people train to do. Dirt floor homes will be immaculate while the streets are trashed. Discrimination is so open it is not worth thought.

It is easy to understand why people either love or hate India; it is a polarizing place: it's a polar place. I can't decide where I fall. I liked India quite a bit, but I wouldn't say I loved it. There were moments when I wanted to just leave, but I wouldn't say I hated it. It did change me somehow, and maybe not in a good way. At first I was so shocked by human suffering, but now, it doesn't really touch me anymore. I used to openly talk to anyone who seemed friendly, but in India I learned to close myself in. It is such an oppressive place in so many ways, but it makes you stronger. I've heard many say they hated India and would never want to go back, but nobody has ever wished they'd never gone.

A Tool of Love

2011-03-13T00:15:00.001-06:00

Yoga, meditation, and spiritual enlightenment are the main activities in Rishikesh, though there is the pothead and backpacker subculture who could not care less in their haze, merely enjoying being stoned in a pretty place. I didn't commit myself to an ashram but I spent a few days at one offering free classes.

I was privy through a glass door of a dancing meditation group. Swarms, eyes closed, float around the room, flailing arms to shanti music. They looked silly, but most seemed to feel something. On the outside, we all laughed, but I was intrigued enough to want to try it the next day. Sadly, they didn't offer it in the following afternoons.

We all did want to give group meditation a chance, especially Daan, “I want to learn how!” he said on numerous occasions.

Nam and I, the only two who engage in any form of intentional meditation, didn't know how to explain that you just do it. I never confine meditation to sitting in a half lotus with eyes closed, humming “om”. I meditate through cooking or hiking; meditation is a state, not an activity. Either way, we joined in a group, sat cross legged and surrendered to the energy, some what. Mark sat and photographed those with closed eyes. Daan and Maartje drifted in and out with various levels of seriousness. Nam was lost in it, singing to the peaceful songs she somehow knew. As you can guess from my journalism, I couldn't maintain the state for the whole time. A woman was crying, raising her hands the the heavens as the music consumed her. Some sat in each others' arms stroking hair and arms. Most sat cross-legged, eyes closed in concentration. It was easy to find the humor from the room, so many people singing, clapping, playing instruments with an excessive level of seriousness. Despite this though, when I did settle down, close my eyes and surrendered to it, I did feel something and I did reach a meditative state. The room had so much energy, the silly songs growing higher and higher to a climax. I found it easy to get lost in it. After a point, it all stopped; it was time for the guru to speak.

I noticed him enter during one of my more lucid states. He quietly entered, a white figure in all ways—robes, hair, beard, presence, all but his Indian brown skin—and sat in the front and merely closed his eyes without a word. Some started to stand at his entrance, but with a simple wave of his hand, he instructed them to remain seated and ignore him.

Finally in the silent void left by the abrupt cessation of the music, he opened his eyes slowly and began to speak in Hindi, a young woman translated in only a slightly less peaceful voice.

He explained how the goal of life is to purge the heart of all negative thoughts, all anger, all sadness, and fill it with love. Upon reaching this point, we can then love even those who hate us. Our love will become like the rays of sun, radiating indiscriminately onto all.

When this happens, we will all become tools of love, great big tools with only positivity. Once we all accept that the love has made us all tools, we can help spread the love so everyone can have the chance to become a tool. And this all starts by embracing the theories of the biggest tool of all, the guru.

He spoke with a half-smiled smugness, hanging on his every word, loving his every word. He loved the captive power he had over the audience. He loved his importance. He was so filled with self-love, he truly was a giant tool.

His sermon sounded good and well meaning, but it stated that negative emotions are terrible things that need to be pushed out, not embraced and controlled. If a person loses their ability to accept and love the negativity in their own heart, how can they love and accept it in another person. His whole theory ignores the importance and need for the dark side of the human spirit. How can love be positive without it having a polar nature with hate? The love would have no meaning. Then we're all smiling zombies. He was right about one thing though, if we all have only pure love in our hearts, we would become a race of tool.

The Sober Psychedelic Experience at the Maharishi Ashram

2011-03-11T00:09:00.001-06:00

In 1968, The Beatles, their partners, and Faye Dunaway, made a famous trip to study transcendental meditation with the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi. George Harrison had been dabbling in eastern Thought and religious practices for years and he encouraged the other three open-minded Beatles to join him. They all stayed for a few months, save Ringo who, sick of bringing in his own food and not interested much in mediation, left after a couple weeks. During their stay, they wrote most of the White Album and expanded their consciousnesses. Eventually the rest left after an alleged molestation of a female tenant by the Maharishi and learning of the Maharishi's profit driven business practices.

With a few years, the Maharishi moved his Ashram to the United States where he gained further notoriety, starting a controversial religious community someplace in rural Iowa. His Rishikesh ashram is now in disreapair, but I wasn't sure of the state when I made a plan to visit.

I was considering a visit before my arrival in Rishikesh, but my plan didn't reach fruition until I bumped into my friend Himalaya. Funded by my last trek, Himalay embarked on nearly the same tour as mine, combining travel with networking for his company. I bumped into him a few times on my trip, but we'd not really traveled together. In Varanasi, he was randomly chilling out at my Guest house restaurant a few minutes before my train to Agra; he'd been in town for the same amount of time as me. We later saw each other again at the Bhang Shop in Jaisalmer and made plans to meet in Amritasar at the Golden Temple. I traveled too fast to see him there, but he arrived in Rishikesh, sharing an autorickshaw with my friends

He had already walked to the Beatles Ashram, as it was popularly called, the day earlier, but the groundskeeper, who had no authority to do so was charging fifty rupees per head to enter. Apparently a backway existed, through an inconspicuous trail through the jungle.

The six of us got direction from a 40-year old British hippie who had snuck in before. “You have to go!” he said as we left in spacey British accent fueled by excessive drug use, “The Beatles were there man!”

We walked in the unexpected heat of the first sunny day in weeks. All of us stripping down from the morning chill, out coats, jackets, thermals, dangling from every chunk strap free in our stuffed day packs. Himalay asked every sardu, lounging stoned in their crude dwellings in the jungle, how to get to “Beatle Ashram”. After nearly a month total of hearing him speak only Nepali and English, I noticed the slight differences in the cadence and words of Hindi. The sardus all seemed to have different answers as to the best route, but it was clear that it lied to the right, through the dense forest. Finally, we settled on a trail that led us to the spooky grounds.

The buildings were overgrown with vines, trees, and other flora. The toilets were smashed. Beer bottles from parties and graffiti were everywhere. It was amazing how quickly a human endeavor Could be degraded by the elements in less than 40 short years. Despite the disrepair, the grounds still had a power, the fading of lost human presence that amplified the unwelcoming air of the place.

There were littered with compounds of dark basement cells, most likely meditation rooms. The sunnier upper floors were dedicated to the also tight, institutional lodgings. We passed through a trashed yoga hall and fought our way through the bush into the main buildings, two multi-floored dormitories with strange, white, egg-shaped structures on the room. We sat in the sun under the eggs and soaked in the feeling . Each egg had a ladder on the outside o, leading to an open hole on the top. The top third of the eggs were a small echo compartment, ideal for “Om shanti” chanting. Daan, Mark, Himaly and I crawled in and sang Beatles songs in the surreal acoustics. The chambers were cool and pleasant in the midday sun, The Beatles tunes helping us connect with the lost energy of the powerful creative presence that composed one of the greatest albums of all time. We descended back to the roof and lounged with Beatles classics. The energy of the place stirred in us an odd mood, best captured by a short video by Nam. She panned around, showing Maartje sunbathing, Daan and Mark composing photos with the egg, Himalay starring out over the trees at the holy Ganga, smoking a beedie, and me, shaking a strange orb on a spring, atop a column, as if putting my whole energy inside, all to the distant sound of “Here Comes the Sun.” Without realizing it, we were celebrating the first day of spring. An outsider seeing the video would question our sobriety, but the energy of the place put us all in a strange, semi-psychadelic mood. While reenacting our favorite Beatles posters for photographs, the groundskeeper found us and asked us politely to leave the restricted area. We all came down and quietly left the way we came, avoiding the inevitable fee.

The Yoga Capital of the World

2011-03-11T00:05:00.002-06:00

The yoga capital of the world was slotted to be my longest stay in India. Laziness, lack of space, lack of energy, and other excuses had kept me from my typical yoga practice on the road. Also, having never taken a yoga course in my life, only learning from books, I figured a good week of cheap yoga classes would be a nice stop.

Holy Rishikesh is divided into four main centers, the downtown area, much like any Indian city, but set on the beautiful and at this point, clear Ganges river; Swarg Ashram, a collection of ashrams, restaurants and orange robed sardus smoking chillums on the bench lined streets; Laxman Julla, a tourist ghetto with guesthouses and restaurants, net cafes and a few more ashrams; and finally, where I chose to base, High Bank, a quiet group of lodgings located in the forest on the hill above town. The latter is less pretentious and new age than the rest of town, catering more to the backpackers who came to Rishikesh to see a beautiful river town instead of expanding their consciousness of reorganizing their soul. Like everywhere in town, they offered yoga.

Daan, Maartje, Nam and Mark arrived two days after I; all but Nam had never done yoga before. We planned to enter an Ashram for a few days for the experience but we found a nearby place offering free yoga and meditation, so we stayed the High Bank. My first two classes were one-on-one with a young yogi who led a very basic yoga course, mostly informal ashtanga, that though a good workout, did not teach me any new assana or techniques. The class I took with group was led by a creepy, long-haired, bearded baba with eyes that had the intensity of Charles Manson's; he scared us into pushing ourselves. He did teach me some new techniques, but he didn't make me comfortable, so we moved on. We settled on a free one-hour class led by a cute Brazilian hippie, bursting with positive spunk, accepting whatever we could do, but encouraging us to push ourselves. This had just the right atmosphere and I learned quite a bit. Sampling the courses showed me that yoga has different styles, assanas and variations on each. If the routine is balanced and stretches or aligns the body in the proper ways, it's effective. With this information, I felt much better about my personal routine and added more assanas so I could extend it.

The others, Nam excluded were quite mixed about yoga. Mark just thought it was silly, Daan and Martje, though enjoying it were quite shocked by the difficulty of it; both treated the experience with more curiosity than excitement and neither seemed too interested in continuing, which is a shame. Out of the many exorcises I've done, few encourage weight loss, maintain weight, boost flexibility, build strength and muscle that last and leaves me with a feeling of well-being, quite like yoga. In fact, someday I will get my 200 hours so I am able to work as an instructor. This is a good job for me; I can take it anywhere, it's something I enjoy, I can work with others, and stay fit. Plus, now I can claim to have studied yoga in India.

Amritsar

2011-03-07T19:44:00.002-06:00

Located near the Pakistani border, in the heart of India's breadbasket, Amritsar has the distinction of being one of India's holiest cities. It is the home of the incredible Golden Temple, the most revered Sikh shrine in India. The Sikhs are a religious group, separated from Hinduism in the 15th century, it was started by a guru Nanakaman who's image dominates the walls of many places in Amritsar. He rejected the caste system, saying all people are equal, a theme shown by the free accommodation and food at Sikh temples. The Sikhs abstain from smoking, alcohol, and drugs (idealistically anyway) and can be recognized by their uncut beards, long hair bunched in a lump above their forehead and the iconic turban wrapping style. They've faced persecution over the years; the Golden Temple has been destroyed a few times. In 1984, a group of Sikhs, wanting a separate state, hoed in the Golden Temple. Not wanting to look weak to the primarily Hindu state, Prime Minister Indira Ghandi invaded the temple and crushed the uprising. The Sikhs were understandably bitter about their shrine being defaced and tensions rose higher as Indira was shot dead in her driveway by her trusted Sikh bodyguards. The situation has calmed but it remains a painful reminder of religious differences are a major source of conflict in the multicultural India.

Amritsar itself is a busy confusing town. Sikhs are the most predominant people, especially near the Golden Temple. I visited by myself (the others had yet to arrive) and walked the perimeter. The silence of the temple grounds are very relaxing in opposition to the town. Before entering, I had to wash my hands and feet then cover my head with a scarf. Thankfully the beauty of the temple outweighed the feeling of standing with wet feet on cold marble in the middle of winter. The temple itself is a sculpted gold box floating in a square tank of water. On two sides stand giant clock towers, the other two are flanked with an enormous gold dome and a collection of free dorms for pilgrims. The temple itself is fantastic, but standing the middle of the grand grounds is the most amazing. I didn't enter the temple itself saving that for my next day with the others. I did however stop for lunch in the massive multi-floor dining complex, which feeds tens of thousands of people daily, for free. This is a true show of how the Sikhs value equality so highly. A person walks in the door, is given a multicompartmental plate and a spoon, then is ushered upstairs. Lines of narrow carpets span the floors, where people sit down and wait to be served. Beturbaned men stood at the end of the aisles, offering prayers before serving out of giant buckets flavorful dal, the best I've had in India, thick vegetable curry, coconut rice porridge, a ladoo, and chapatis, offered into my two hands held together in a almost begging postrure, filled my plates. The food was fantastic, a surprising feat given the dizzying quantity produced. A middle-aged single mother professed her fast love for me in broken English as I ate and played with her child. When finished, I got up and dropped my dishes in the mass volunteer cleaning area, nearby masses sat on the floor, chopping onions and shelling garlic. It was beautiful to see such well-oiled, large-scale charity, not for the poor, not for the Sikhs, but everyone. I left a donation in the box and went to randomly wander the incomprehensible streets of Amritsar.

The Hindus have their own version of the golden Temple, though less grand. I was glad I saw this one first. Along the outside of their tanks were life-size panoramas of the lives of various deities, primarily Shiva. The Hindu temple that really struck me in Amritsar was the Mata Temple, a theological obstacle course passing idols, going through crawl spaces, trenches of water and fake caves. It was a fun presentation of Hindu ideas through a journey.

By far, the real highlight was the Pakistani border closing ceremony at Attari about 30km west of Amritsar. I don't know the origins of this oddity, but it's quite the spectacle. Guests are ushered to a group of bleachers like in a school gymnasium. Before the ceremony, Indians stand near the gate and dance energetically to Bollywood hits. At some point, the curiously dressed soldiers, in brick red uniforms adorned with large gold buttons and topped with hats that look like a large fan, growing out of their heads, like cocks' mohawk, clear the grounds for the ceremony. It starts with a call to chant by an MC-like character. He yells, “Hindustan!” and the crowd replies, “Zindabad!” This goes on for a few minutes until the mic is held in front of a soldier who yells “Ohhhhhhhhh!” until out of breath then he stands, lifts one foot high into the air like Monty Python's ministry of silly walks, straightens abruptly, turns and speed walks arms and legs in exaggerated motion all the way to the gate. On the Pakistani side, the same things is happening in almost a mirrored competition of pomp. It feels like two pep rallies in a single giant room, each side trying to be louder and more nationalistic than the other, flags waving in the crowds with great fervor. This process repeats for five consecutive soldiers until all are standing in a line at the gate. Finally, the soldiers from each side shakes hands politely, quickly and the flags are lowered with the sunset and the gate is closed. The party stops with this.

I returned home that second night and the group had just arrived, their more convenient route had 15 hours of delays. I, however, not wishing to linger, already had my ticket to Rishikesh. The rest, minus John would join me two days later. Before my train, I went to a great night market and had my best meal in India, mutton curry and tandoori chicken, specialties of Punjab. It was meat heavy since Rishikesh is a holy, vegetarian town.

My walk to the station went passed the bus stands and travel agencies, all trying to get me on their bus.

“I already have a train ticket,” I repeated again and again to any who approached me. Some were even lying. “No trains are leaving tonight.”

“I have a ticket.”

“Trains don't leave tonight.”

They did. The ease with which Indians can lie always astonishes me.

Bikaner

2011-03-03T21:54:00.004-06:00

We all wanted to go to Amritsar, but due to some lack of confidence in the availability of transportation from Bikaner on the way, the group chose to transit through Delhi. As you can guess; I broke away from the group and took a night train to Bikaner.

It wasn't a particularly special city, but it broke up the trip a bit. A local told me to skip the fort; it is much like Jodpur's only not as nice. The man who stored my bag and organized my direct ticket to Amritsar touted me to an art gallery featuring a special local school of micro-painting. This surprisingly was a great stop. The teacher of the school held the record for the world's smallest painting, an intricate post card sized nature scene that had so much detail, a magnifying glass was essential. He painted a small bird paining on my thumb nail. It's nice to carry art with you.

The gallery was near a pleasant yet unremarkable palace. A large draw of the town is the Karni Mata Temple in Deshnok nearby. Simply known as the rat temple, it is believed to have the souls of all dead storytellers, brought back from the dead as rats to punish Yama, god of death for not restoring the life of a storyteller's son. Worshiped here, the rats are given offerings of milk and sweets. It wasn't like walking through a sea of rats like I expected. They would just be clustered around, picking off the pilgrim's offerings, some individual rats looking like tiny tailed footballs from their fortunate diet. I wasn't squeamish though, standing barefoot in the presence of thousands of rodents. I quite like rats myself. The plague just happened to give these intelligent, social creatures a bad name.

Camel Trekkin' with Mr. Desert

2011-03-03T21:54:00.003-06:00

Nearly every visitor to Jaisalmer goes on a camel trek. Spending the night on a sand dune under the stars ranks as a top experience for most visitors to Rajahstan. It wasn't a part of my original plans, but the grop was game and I'd heard great reviews from fellow travelers.

We left at nine and took a jeep to a village 50km away and waited for the camels to arrive. Then over the hill trotted in six western people on camels, smiles across their faces. The excitement was building.

Without a single rest, a camel was allotted to each of us and we left. Somehow I was stuck with the smallest, ugliest camel with a bald patch on his head. His name was Raju, but I dubbed him Hugh Jackman. I ditched this name since the camel had nothing in common with the handsome Australian actor. John named his Lawrence as in Lawrence of Arabia. Somehow this led me to Alec Guinness and I changed Raju's name to Obi Wan. Obi Wan proved angry, stubborn, and far from noble. Obi Wan would not do for a name either I settled on Danny Devito and called him Louis Depalma occasionally, which was a perfect name. The owner forced me to call him Raju.

I was expecting the romantic experience of riding a camel on top of dunes, but we all walked in a straight line, going slower than my normal walking speed, led on a leash. When I was granted the reins, I was filled with glee, until I realized Raju didn't like me and just ignored my directions. Now, I've riden horses. I've raised dogs. I've managed a staff of ghetto-dwelling gang-bangers. I know how to stay strong in the face of insubordination, but I was no camel man. Before each break, Raju would split from the group, wander off and ignore my steering, eventually stopping, refusing to move. Raju also had the tendency to walk painfully slow, unless I constantly sang to him in Hindi.

The song was more of a call and response between me and the guide who never left my side. He'd begin, “Toro Haha Toro!” Then I'd repeat. “Torro Haha hum!” Repeat.

I deduced that toro meant fast and hum meant go. Haha remains a mystery to me. We went back and forth, combining these three words in various combinations, sometimes with new more complicated words which I uniformly managed to mispronounce to the giggling glee of the guides. The singing worked, with every phrase, Raju would pick up the pace, his rough demeanor fading with each chant. Whenever I bored of this game, Raju would return to his usual pokey pace. Suffice to say, I ended up chanting a lot.

We camped on a secluded sand dune, one of the many scattered around the mostly scrub desert. Mr. Desert arrived in the less romantic jeep to cook our dinner and tell his well rehearsed story of his rise to prominent tour organizer and minor celebrity over the fire.

In short, he was a simple villager and truck driver until he won the Mr. Desert competition, a beauty contest in 1988 featuring men in traditional Rajahstani clothes and facial hair. A friend, seeing the profitablity of his great look, encouraged him to transfer his career to tourism. Unlike most Indians, he felt that bombarding tourists at train stations was too pushy, preferring to let the customers come to him. His buisness was a disaster until one day, a passing photographer, fascinated by his face, took a series of photos, eventually selling some to a cigarette company. Overnight, he became the Rajahstani Marlbro man, and he had never smoked a cigarette in his life. Native Indians would stop in constantly to see the famous face of Jaisalmer Brand Tobacco. Slowly his business grew, solely by word of mouth until he became the most highly respected camel man in town. In the meantime, he won the Mr. Desert competition three more times. To help allow more even competition, the organizers dubbed him Mr. Desert for life, banned him from future competitions and put a one-year limit on future winners to prevent dynasties. He starred in various television commercials and had a bit part in a Bollywood film. He seems to love his status

It was interesting, but I expected a more magical story from such an iconic face. He offered us all a beer before taking his jeep home. We stayed up for hours later, sitting in our warm blankets, spotting shooting stars. As all had told, sleeping open air on a sand dune is a special experience.

The next day was like the first. We stopped at the Sam Sand Dunes, a popular destination in the area, then headed back. I chose to walk the rest of the way by foot. Raju and I were not friends and riding a camel is not particularly comfortable; I much prefer a horse.

It was an interesting experience. I don't reckon I like camels much. The food was mediocre, but filling, the staff, outside of Mr. Desert himself, was not going the extra millimeter. For the whole trip, I felt I was put on a tourist assembly line, given a carefully constructed, ununique venture on a well-trodden trail. John was sick the whole time and his negativity was definitely contagious. I am glad I took part, but it was by no means a highlight of India.

Jaisalmer

2011-02-16T06:22:00.006-06:00

A tout on the train gave me a card for his guest house, promising 100 rupee rooms and free pickup. Arriving at 5:00AM, this seemed a good idea. Three separate Indians seeing my exchange warned me of making deals with anyone in Jaisalmer, especially those on a train. The tout had roped six more people into a group, so I figured I had safety in numbers. A rickshaw driver at the station told me to trust nobody. Jaisalmer was sounding like a crazy town. My tout arrived, shook the rickshaw driver's hand. The driver then turned to me and said, "Ok, you can trust this guy." I had no better options, half asleep in a strange town in the dark.

The hotel was lovely, the owner friendly. I napped before I joined the touts for a highway stakeout of my friends' bus. The plan was to catch my friends off the bus and bring them to my hotel. Seeing the other side of the street marketing game was a great experience. We all sat in a sedan on the edge of town, drinking chai, smoking beedies in our sunglasses, dancing and singing to Indian pop hits.

Finally, we saw the bus pass us, we pulled up behind, crowding out the line of rickshaws playing the same game. A few astute men on the side of the road saw me, then jumped onto the moving bus with astounding agility.

"Shit!" the driver said. “Those guys spot you, now he's going to tell all of the bus stories as why to not trust that white man.” he said pointing to me.

“Good strategy, though, getting a gorah tout. As you know, gorah trusts gorah.”

The bus stopped and I yelled to my friends, my own cries of “Hello! Excuse me! Hey guys!” drowned out by the mob screaming the same things. Finally, I got their attention and we all headed to the hotel.

The owner greeted us all with chai and coffee, using this as an opportunity to sell his camel trek package.

“This trek is a non-tourist trek, nobody near. We go by Pakistani border. It'll be great!”

“How much?”

“1200 per day, per person.”

“Whoa!” the seven of us exclaimed in perfect unison.

“You go to town, they have trek 500, 700 per day, but no good. Mine is non-tourist trek.”

John, the elder of the group, carefully explained our condition. “We will go to town, shop around, and pick the best of the what we find.”

“Mine is worth the high price, very special trip. You get free turban, good food. Non-tourist trek.”

“It won't be the price dictation our choice. If the trip we want is the most expensive, we'll take it. We just want to see our options.”

“Ok, I'll make you deal: two German leave tomorrow morning, you all go together, save gas. 900 per person.”

“It's not the price! We just want to see our options first. We'll go to town and tell you later.”

We all went down to the office to sign the register. The manager continued to sell his trek, showing maps, handwritten praises from past customers and photos. John was ready to burst.

“so will you come on my trek? If you want to leave tomorrow, I can give good price. But I need to know now, to get permit. 850 per person. Per night.”

“Hey! We will go to town. Shop around and pick the best one. If yours is the best, we'll go with you.” John spoke very slowly, trying to control his raising voice.

“You come back with price, I match.”

John could no leave fast enough.

“Man, Indians just don't understand the oversell. You'd think that after dealing with Westerners for so long, they'd figure out that pushing too hard shows a lack of confidence. They always need that instant sale.” I said when we'd left.

We tried a few of the more established tours in town, Trotters, Adventure Travels, and Sahara Travels, run by the charismatic Mr. Desert. We discussed our four options, our front runners were the super organized Adventure Travels and Mr. Desert. We vetoed the hotel's package after learning that the area near the Pakistani border was a no-man's land military zone, where tourists were not allowed. Plus the difference in the starting price to the last price was so great, we had no idea of the value of his service. The more established places set a price, no negotiations. You either take or leave it. I liked this; it reminded me of home. Both my head and heart went for Mr. Desert, though I may have been swayed by his curly mustache and long beard with a strip missing in the middle. Our democratic vote went to him. I feel as if I argued my side well.

We had the task of telling the hotel owner our decision. Horror stories of backpackers immediately evicted when not buying a tour flooded our heads. I had faith in our owner. He made more from camel trips, but he still had his hotel business to run and we were paying customers. John, however, had no faith, already checking around at other guest houses for prices.

The owner was not pleased. As we left to find a beer, he chased us, inquiring as to why we didn't buy his tour.

“What, so my tour isn't good enough for you?”

Nam and I impolitely walked away a minute into his tirade. We sat on the stoop a block away and watched the main flail arms like a child for fifteen minutes. I wondered how the others could stand there and continue to listen to him. Basically, he whined the whole time, attacking and insulting individual members of the group one by one, then all but asked us to leave the next day. Too bad, the guest house was nice and we had another night left. Considering that there were seven of us, his bad behavior cost him a good sum from bother lodging and food sales. Plus, now in the this public forum, I'll say that all should avoid the Jaisalview Hotel near Ghandi Chowk at all costs.

We brought our beers back to the hotel in fear they'd break into our rooms and steal things. The next morning, we headed to a new guest house near the fort.

Jaisalmer has two main draws, the camel trips into the desert and its large fort, a city within a city that houses a quarter of the town's population. Like most old Indian towns, the best part is getting lost. We wandered around for a few hours, exploring hidden corners, walking the area around the perimeter. Thankfully, it's a small walled area, so it's impossible to get hopelessly lost deep in the labyrinth before it ends. We found a wonderful coffee shop, high on the west wall and watched the magical sunset with saffron lassis in hand.

"What

Jodhpur

2011-02-15T05:00:00.005-06:00

The group decided to satay one more day in Udaipur, while I felt it was best to move on and spend a quick day in Jodhpur, the blue city. We would all meet again in Jalsaimer in two days. My bus arrived at five in the morning and I went to the train station to store my bags fro the day and wait for daylight.

It was a foggy cold morning and I walked to a rooftop restaurant to view the magnificent fort and to pass the time until it opened.

Jodhpur was a pleasant city, most houses blue as advertised. The main draw is the Mehrangarh Fort, the towering stone citadel, growing right out of rock crags of the town's main hill. It's an imposing fortress, straight out of middle earth, sure to intimidate raiding armies. In its hundreds of years of use, it was never captured.

My walk up the hill passed the lovely Saswant Thada, a nice tomb. The fort's inside was beautiful, featuring great architecture. The windows with their finely carved lattice coverings were incredible. Included in the admission was one of the greatest audio tours, I'd ever had. It delved into the history, the culture, lifestyle, the changing role of the Rajahputs after the disillusion of the monarchy after Republicanism. The information alone was worth the visit.

The city features a particularly special local style of lassi, the Makhanini lassi, a thick yogurt shake, flavored with sugar, saffron, and cardamon. My first was so good, I ordered a second immediately. My full belly kept me from getting a third.

I planned to visit the other palace, miles out of town, but the stomach problems from the previous day's thali prevented mobility.

A long-haired Indian guy, seeming more native American, stopped on his motorbike and asked me, "American, huh?"

"How'd you'd guess?"

He pointed to my nalgene bottle. "Only Americans carry those around."

We talked a while on the street before angry honkers drove us to change locale. WE jumped on his bike and headed to a small bar and had chai and beedies. He was a music teacher in Goa, who chose to travel during the peak season, which seemed odd to me, but made sense for a relaxed guy like him. His English was perfect: he'd dated an Australian woman for a year.

"Let's go to my sister's house, we can chill out, have chai, listen to some good Indian music.”

"I don't know man, I've had some bad experiences going places with Indians."

"That's fine, you can get nervous if you want, but you will be fine."

We chatted for another hour, his eyes were honest and caring, with the crazy look only reserved for nomadic artists. This man had no malicious intentions; he was just a social soul.

Thy family's flat was modest with two rooms and a nice rooftop. I met his cousins and his aunt, all lovely and sat around listening to relaxing, Indian inspired world beat music. We swapped stories into dinner time, where I cautiously nibbled on some gobi aloo and chapati. He shared an interesting compilation of articles on transcendental meditation and the Beatles flirtation with Eastern culture. Before he rode to the train station, he burned me a few CD's of the music.

I left glowing. Besides that fort, there was little to see, but Rajahstan was taking my heart. Finally an Indian approached me on the street who was not after my money, only worldly company.

Absence of Blogging: An Explanation

2011-02-03T23:59:00.002-06:00

Well, this is going to break the continuity of the blog posting thus far. Right now, I am in a secluded bay on Koh Phangan island in Southern Thailand. I've been here for a week and a half and based upon a chance exercise, I will be staying here for two more weeks. This is not an economically viable route to take; everyday I spend here is one day less I can spend someplace else, but this is precisely the point. Once in Thailand, after nearly five months of full on sightseeing and constant moving, I hit an emotional wall and crashed. Not an explosive depressive hole type crash, but more of an existential crisis. I realized that I was traveling to collect pictures, to write about many places, but not to just experience a special type of living. My concentration was so focused on where I was going, that I didn't take the time to experience where I was. One foot was in the present, one in the future, but both never planted in the same place. So now, I throwing it all behind me; I have to learn to think about what I am doing and seeing, not what I might be missing. Hopefully, this staying put exercise will have some greater applications in my overall life. If one does not learn from traveling, why leave home? And up to this point, I learned nothing about myself, had no great life lessons.

So, why am I explaining what sounds like a perfect opportunity to catch up on my blog. Well, being in a secluded bay, internet is damned expensive and I can't afford to spend a dollar every ten minutes just to type something that really isn't going anywhere, barring a freak fire accident involving my many notebooks. I appologize to my reader for not taking you with me for the last couple weeks and the next couple of weeks as well. By the middle of February, I'll be back and you can hear the rest of my adventures in India and the fleshy, whiny, wordy details of my existential crisis; promised to be a fun filled philosophical journey. :-)

Cheers,
Aaron

Udaipur

2011-01-22T03:53:00.002-06:00

Udaipur in Southern Rajahstan was a welcome change from the chaos of Delhi. Most famous for being the setting of the Bond film, Octopussy, the lakeside town is a romantic getaway, with one of the most beautiful hotels in the world, the Lake Palace Hotel, a floating castle in the middle of the lake. It was once the head of a great kingdom, the Lake Palace being one of at least four palaces in the city. Like most lake towns, it had a relaxing vibe, mixed with the incredible sight, it was a pleasant place that I was glad I chose for New Years Eve, especially since I met a group of friends with whom I'd travel for the next two weeks.

I met Mark, the dyed-blonde Australian on the street near the ghat. It was on New Year's Eve and he was carrying a box of beer. I'd yet to purchase the night's provisions; I couldn't find a bottle shop.

"Where'd you get that?"

"Right up the street, here, I'll take you mate."

"Where in Oz you from?" I love meeting Australians. Even nearly a year and a half after my departure, a distinct part of my soul still belongs down under.

"Adelaide."

The nearest city of any size to Broken Hill, I'd been to Adelaide numerous times. It was even the first place I saw the country. We had an instant topic of conversation and we ended up spending the day together, touring the main palace, right in town and agreed to meet at his guest house that night for drinks.

We joined a large group and started our New Year's Eve party right next to the water. It was a clear, beautiful night, shared with fantastic company including Mark, Nam, Daa, Maartje, John, and Matthias who I was all meeting in Jaisalmer two days later.

A neighboring hotel was having a cultural show which provided a great tabla, flute and drum soundtrack for much of the night. At midnight, every hotel blasted fireworks over the lake for nearly ten minutes, illuminating both the sky and the reflective water. It was a lovely end to a great year. Well liquored, we headed to a nearby bar and danced wildly until they closed.

The next day, we all headed to a far-off restaurant deep into town. We were quite lost for an hour, but the fantastic thali made up for it. Featuring and endless array of Rajahstani dishes with refills for only 70 rupees, it was a dining highlight of India that left us rolling out the door. Every single one of us got sick the next day.

Food Diary: Sweets

2011-01-22T03:40:00.005-06:00

Ah, one of the special joys of India is wonder the streets and trying all the different desert snacks at the copious sweet shop. Getting lost was always pleasurable with a barfi in hand. The general name for a sweet in India is Mithai. I tried many sweets, but most seemed to be made from highly condensed milk. A barfi is a bar sweet, mostly milk, sugar and flour, with many variations. Often they have a thin layer of real silver on top, which was a neat touch. My favorite was vegetable barfi, a fudgelike carrot and other veggie sweet.

The other sweets are often various flavored balls. Ladoo are very common, typically a simple mix of flour, milk and sugar again. The most popularly exported sweet is gulab jamun, the fried milk balls that are everywhere, floating in either sugar water or honey water.

One of my favorites was jalebi, a deepfried, syrupy, batter in swirls, looking like a crispy funnel cake. Every bite oozes the gooey, honey/sugar filling. Many traveler didn't seem to like it though. The best way is to just point and eat.

Three stories of Delhi: Part Three

2011-01-21T04:52:00.001-06:00

I awoke the next morning and asked my manager where the bus stand for Jaipur was located.

"You have to take tourist bus, no public bus."

"This seemed rather unlikely, but at least I wouldn't have to go far to find a ticket. The first office was sold out of morning tickets to Jaipur, only having a night bus for 600 rupees, exorbitant. I left and walked for a kilometer down the road, past the main tourist area and saw a sign with cheap prices for tickets. Like the first place, he could only offer a night bus. This was the second time that Jaipur seemed too much of a hassle. Mixed with my extreme negative feelings for the place, I figured a swift change in plan was needed.

"Do you have a night bus to Udaipur?"

"We have a bus tonight at 5. 800 rupees."

"800 rupees! That's insane!"

"That is the price."

"Is it for a sleeper berth?"

"Yes."

I sat for a moment, weighing my options and decided that 800 rupees was well worth it to leave the town. "Fine, I'll take it."

"Would you like a sightseeing tour for the day?"

"Nah, that's ok."

"Only 100 rupees."

"Where does it go?"

"Sightseeing around Delhi."

"Yes, but where?"

"Lotus temple and other places?"

"What other places?"

"Red fort, parliament, presidents house. Indira Ghandi museum."

My attempts to the see the city on my own power had proved fruitless, maybe a tour would help me leave with better feelings. Plus, I really wanted to see the Lotus Temple, which was a bit far away. "Fine."

"Ok, come now."

His cronie ushered me to the back of his motorbike and we sped off, weaving in and out of traffic, finally waving down the bus a few miles away.

I was one of two foreigners on the bus, but many of the natives were friendly and happy have a gorah to chat with. Our first stop was the beautiful Laksmi temple, followed by the well presented, but uninformative Indira Ghandi Museum. After a stop at the governement buildings, it was already one pum and we had many places and lunch still ahead. I pulled the guide aside, "What time are we getting back to Pahar Ganj?"

"Around 6 oclock."

"The guy who sold me the tour also sold me a bus ticket. I have to be back by 4:30."

"Well, that's stupid."

"So, at what point can I catch a subway back in time."

"After lunch, we go to Qutb Minar. You can get back from there."

The next stop was a handcrafts shop, followed by lunch. The restaurant was overpriced, but a nearby street vendor was selling a delicious looking treat. He took fried potato balls, mushed them up, then poured curry and a couple of hot sauces on top.

"Nameste! I'll have what they're having." I said pointing to the couple of Indian who'd just gotten food.

The man too the potato balls, covered them in curry, then coated the whole mess with ketchup.

"40 rupees!" He said, handing me the disgusting looking slop.

"Hey man, glad you have such fair prices here." I'd paid twice as much as those in front of me. After two bites of what may have been the worst shit I've eaten in my entire time in India, I threw the mess on the ground with all the other garbage, urine, and fecal matter, then walked away seething.

The next stop, Qutb Minar, I had no time to see. I didn't even see the Lotus Temple, the whole reason I booked the tour. I caught a bus to Connaught Place and power walked the mile to the tourist office, working out all the angry thing I planned to spew at the shifty businessman.

"How was the tour?" He asked with a smile when I entered.

It's hard to tear into a man when he greets you with a smile. "It was good until I found out that it ended an hour after my bus leaves and I had to pay for my transportation back to this part of town and walk two kilometers to get here in time."

"Oh, ok." Not seeming phased by his ridiculous business practices. "I'll have a rickshaw to take you to your bus in a moment. I waited for thirty minutes, making small talk, trying to keep my cool, until the rickshaw came. I was busting with so much buried anger, I feared for its recipient. The driver took me to Old Delhi, where we were stuck in traffic for 20 minutes. He took a right, passed a line of nearly twenty people, squatting in a line defecating right on the sidewalk, only meters from a public toilet. He stopped at an office, beckoned me to come. The office then told me to go someplace else, in the opposite direction to catch my bus. I was already late. Thankfully, there was another bus. When I arrived, I was stuck with the 100 rupee rickshaw bill for being carted all over town for apparently no reason. Despite my demanding that he get the money from the agent, the other bus company ordered me to pay him.

I entered the bus to realize that I had a seat, not a sleeper as promised.

"Fuck this city!" I began yelling to nobody in particular. "They think cause I'm whit that I'm rich and try to rip me off!"

"It's not just you." An Indian man from Mumbai said. "this city, they do it to Indian too. This is the most dishonest town. Everyone cheating. I'm so sad that Delhi is in India, because people leaving hating this country, just from one bad town. They sold me a sleeper too."

"Me too!" another overhearing us said.

One by one, the people filed onto the bus, looking along the line of sleepers, only to find, disappointed that they had seats. Finally, an African man cracked, picked up the phone and called the police.

"You need to come now. There is cheating and bad thing on this bus. Ashok Travel. This is no good. They stealing money and cheating. You come and seize this bus right now!"

Right after the call, the bus immediately took off.

"Now they move, come stop this bus! Much bad things with this company."

He stayed on the line, while some Indians read the signs to tell our position.

I turned to the Mumbai man. "Oh god, if they seized this bus, then I'm stuck in this shithole another day!"

"We have to do something," he replied, "or this will continue for others." Suddenly, he was up and recruited others until there was a mass of Indians in the aisles. They grabbed the ticket collector and started yelling at him in Hindi as some others tried to pull the driver out of his seat. Finally, the bus pulled over and the two employees were dragged off the bus and put at the mercy of the mob. Within minutes, the police arrived and broke up the uprising. They all filed a mass complaint against the company and half left, demanding refunds. I remained in my seat the whole time, praying that I'd be able to leave. Thankfully, the bus did leave, five hours late.

I slept my best sleep in days on that bus seat because I knew I'd wake up in not-Delhi. It didn't matter where I ended up. Thirty minutes from out destination, screaming brakes grabbed all of our attention just to see our bus hit a jeep, passing around a curve head on. It was no contest: the jeep bounced right off of us. I chose not to watch as they pulled the bloody, nearly dead women from the wreckage; instead, I sat at the shores of a nearby lake and shared a beedie with the man from Mumbai. Bad things can happen anywhere, but they're much easier to deal with when you get a little bit of peace.

Food Diary: Classic Street Food

2011-01-21T04:47:00.001-06:00

India is not a street food paradise like China, but it still has a lot. Samosas are the most famous street snack, a flaky deep fried pastry filled with potatoes and other vegetables. Most carts will have a dish called panipuri, I never tried it, but it looked like crispy ball, tiny puris and served with sauce or curry. Men will walk with big trays on their head, featuring an assortment of nuts, legumes and puffed rice or popcorn. These are mixed together with masala, onions, and a squirt of lime. Another quick, yet unfilling treat. Honestly, I hit up mostly restaurants in India, but the street food is a great way to have some quick, cheap sustenance.

Three Stories of Delhi: Part 2

2011-01-21T04:04:00.002-06:00

The next day was rainy and cold. I went through my bag to find, my $150 raincoat, the lifetime guaranteed REI jacket I swore would be the last I'd purchase in my life, was gone. The rain mellowed after twenty minutes and I headed to New Delhi. The fog was so thick, the white building of Connaught Place were all but invisible. New Delhi is a city that is a wonderful design architecturally, but totally impractical for the foot, cycle , ox car traffic of the city. I realized I was going nowhere fast and combined with the rain, I headed home.

I had a half day to kill, so I rounded up my gifts and planned to send some packages back to the US. The hotel manager directed me the post office, but I couldn't find it. Three other random people gave me direction to this elusive post office, but none seemed to agree on its location. Looking fore something in Pahar Ganj is the worst thing one can do; all the normal hassle of just walking is magnified by twenty.

"Are you lost?"

"Rickshaw?"

"See my shop?"

"Something to smoke?"

"Where are you going?

"Hello friend! Excuse me."

I was beginning to hate the gratuitous use of the word friend by complete strangers.

Finally, a fourth person finally told me the right way. The post was hidden on the second floor, behind a fruit stand. I walked up stairs and greeted the postman. He was filing through some letters, looked up at me for a moment, then went back to work. He continued to ignore me for five minutes until he finished his stack of papers. I greeted him again, but he didn't look up. A couple minutes later, an Indian man walked up, body checked me out of the way and given prompt service. I left to rejoin the jungle below.

"Where are you going"

"Hashish?"

"Rickshaw?"

"10 rupees!"

Ever second, another person would get in my face. If I looked in any direction but straight ahead, "What are you looking for?" I veered to a side street, hoping it would be more peaceful, "Where are you going? Are you lost?" I went back to the main drag and booked it back to the hotel, so I could just read until I slept, then i could catch the next bus out of town.

"Hello friend!"

"What's my name?" I replied.

"Excuse me?"

"What is my name?" I asked, staring him in the eyes.

"I don't know."

"Then you aren't my friend!" I said and started walking away.

"Tell me your name then, so we can become friends."

I laughed, then kept walking; the man followed.

"Why don't you want to talk to me?"

"Because everyone in Pahar Ganj is bothering me all the time, trying to get my money."

"I hate this place too, but we aren't all bad."

"Oh, I'm sure of it, but I don't know who to trust in this town anymore, so I'm trusting nobody. It's safer."

"I only want five minutes of your time, just come to my shop."

"I don't buy souvenirs, they just weight down my pack and sits in boxes at home."

"Oh, not this kind of shop. I just want to tell you about a place you can go, different from Delhi. Only five minutes."

The guy seemed cool and I had nothing better to do, so I complied. He was from Kashmir and his family owned a houseboat on Dal Lake in Srinaar, a peaceful town in the foothills of the Himalaya. The price was cheap, it even included homecooked meals. Best of all, it wasn't Delhi. The man's brother arrived and invited me to their apartment, across the street for tea. Both brothers had the same strange left eye that always pointed out, as if looking at something to the side.

"Man, you're gonna love this place! My parents are great and the love guests. You stay with us, you become family. You ever had Kashmiri tea?"

"Nope."

"You're gonna love it man! There's this Australian guy up there now, he's gonna be so happy to have company. I'm actually leaving tonight, we can go together, spend New Year's Eve up there. Peaceful place, my father will make us hash cakes. It will so nice."

"Nah man, that actually sounds cool, small relaxed New Years." I paused one second. "You know, I think I'll head up there for New Years. I'm in."

"Oh great. Man, did you see the photos at the office? So beautiful. You stay with us, you become family..." He repeated his pitch lines non-stop for the next five minutes until I couldn't take it anymore.

"Dude, I said I'd go, you have to keep selling it to me."

"Oh cool man, sorry, man, that Aussie guy is gonna be so happy to have some company. New Year will be great." He then started the pitch all over again. "So, can you pack by nine tonight?"

"Oh tonight!"

"Yeah, it's easy to go tonight. I'm heading up there to visit my wife. We get bus together, 1000 rupees, overnight, we sleep then we are in Kashmir. Easy cheap. Good for budget."

"I already paid for tonight at my hotel."

"That's ok, that's ok. Here, I give you discount the first night. You're coming for a whole week?"

"I'm not sure yet dude. This is actually a really fast change in plans. I might need a little bit to reorganize my route. Figure a plan."

"You can go anywhere from Kashmir. Buses go all over India from my town, no problem. Here, I'll just call the bus company and book some seats." He then picked up his phone and speed dialed a number. In English, he asked about seats, which at the time didn't seem strange, then hung up. "Ok, they have seats. So, tonight?"

"No, I need to think first. There are certain things I want to see in India and I have to work it all out first. How about this, I meet you up there for New Year's Eve."

"But it's cheaper to go direct, tonight, with me."

"The cost isn't the most important thing for me. If I'm heading all the way up to Kashmir, I'd want to go someplace in between, on the way."

"It's better to go direct, cheaper. Then we can go the houseboat. My father is so cool, he can make us good Kashmiri hash cakes. Home cooked meals. You stay with us, you become family..." The then continued his whole pitch again for a few more minutes before I stopped him.

"Dude! Stop it! I said I'd go, so stop selling me your guesthouse. In the west, if somebody talks too much about their product, it means they have no confidence in it."

"Oh, sorry man. So, I'll just book the tickets now."

"How about you give me an hour to pack, look at my calendar and make a decision. I'll come back, I promise."

"Why you need an hour, just do it!"

"Stop pushing me!"

"I'm not pushing you."

"Yes you are! 'Now, now, I need to know now.' " imitating him. "I think slowly and I can't do it with you sitting there telling me I have to leave tonight. The more you push me, the more I don't want to do it anymore."

"Ok man, sorry. There's a bus tomorrow too, but tonight is much better. Here, I'll make one more pot of tea and you can think right here."

"You just don't get it! Stop it! Seriously! I'm going to my hotel, I'm going to walk around, eat some food, then I'll tell you what I'm going to do."

"Why do you have to go to your hotel?"

"Because that's how I do things. I'll come back."

"Ok, I'll see you in an hour."

I rushed out of there and headed to the first internet cafe I could find. First, I checked up on the company, but could find no info. The Lonely Planet strongly suggested booking boathouses in Kashmir, no in Delhi and to always check the news in the volatile region. It seemed safe, but all public transportation was on strike. The forecast showed snow for the next five days. Also, to go directly there would force me to either skip Rishikesh or zigzag around the North.

I returned after an hour as promised, knowing he wouldn't like my decision. We sat in the office and I told him that I'd come in about a week.

"But it's better to go now!"

"No, there's a strike on all transit in Kashmir."

"No there isn't!"

"Yes there is! And it gonna snow until Saturday."

"What? There's no snow! Here, I'll call the Aussie guy."

"It is not snowing now, but it will tomorrow night."

"No, only in the hills!"

"No, in Srinagar."

"Not true."

"Hey," I said, "check the weather."

"Did you go online? Why did you do that?"

"Because it's Kashmir and I wanted to see if it was safe."

"Of course it's safe. I'll call the Australian, you talk to him."

"Hey, I'll still come, just in a week."

"Better to go now!"

"Why? I don't want to go now, I want to go in a week. Why can't I plan my own traveling?"

"But the roads will close soon. Snow comes very soon."

"Then why would I want to go there now? Why risk getting stuck in a cold place like Kashmir?"

"You won't get trapped."

"Ah, then I can still go there in a week." I'd won.

"Well, put a deposit down then."

"Why, what is the point of putting a deposit down now. I have your number, I'll call you when I get there. Plus, what if I pay and the roads close?"

"You can get a refund."

"How?"

"Come back here."

"Ah, then I'd have to return to Delhi, and I will never do that again."

"Just put a deposit down."

"What's the point? Damn it! How many times do I have to explain this to you, stop pushing me!"

We sat there in silence. His sale had gone from a yes to a probably, and now, it was dead. He knew it. Finally, he made a last feeble effort. He opened his drawer, threw a chunk of hash on the table. "What some hash?"

I stood up and left. I spent the rest of the night in my room, reading until I slept, planning to catch the next bus out of town.

I laughed four days later as I saw the coverage on the news of the massive blizzard that hit Srinagar.

Paneer

2011-01-21T03:55:00.002-06:00

Paneer is the official cheese of India. It's not a femented cheese, more like a hard cottage cheese. It's not as rich as all the cheeses we in the west have come to love so much, but it's still tasty. Most vegetarian restaurants will have a few dishes that are quite common, Palak Paneer, which is spinach and a light-flavored white sauce, Mutter Paneer, which is paneer and green peas, and my all time favorite paneer dish, the decadent Paneer Makhani or Paneer Butter Masala, depending on where you go.

Here's a recipe for Paneer Makhani I'd suggest adding a few tablespoons of cream to this recipe.

Three Stories of Delhi: Part One

2011-01-17T23:16:00.005-06:00

I was planning on going to Jaipur first, but there was a massive transportation strike, blocking all routes from Agra to Jaipur. So, I tried going to Mathura, a very holy, Hindu city between Agra and Delhi. After attempting of board a bus, I was tossed off, "No Western!" the driver yelled. So, instead I headed to Delhi, my third choice. What a mistake.

The bus broke down about halfway there, so I got a refund and waved down another that was already packed full of people. While driving into Delhi, I was excited, fuled by the my great experiences in one of India's other megalopoles, Kolkata. The bus stopped at a different place than I expected and it was not close a subway stations, so I hopped on the first city bus I find, hoping it led into the city instead of away.

Using maps and landmarks, I deduced that I was on the Ring Road, heading South into New Delhi. According to my map, Indiraprathstra station would be the next stop; I was right. My kuhkuri posed too much of a security risk for me to board the metro, so I caught a rickshaw with a functioning meter (I've been in India waaaay to long to trust the honor system.) and headed to Pahar Ganj, Delhi's tourist ghetto. I was right about my location, but wrong about the direction. At first I thought the driver was taking me the wrong way, but when I arrived, I knew it was I who was disoriented.

My hotel was 300 rupees, a bit high, but acceptable. I took off on my ritual exploratory walk and was assaulted by every person on the street.

"See my shop!"

"Rickshaw!"

"Hello friend. Excuse me, Hello!"

"Something to smoke?"

"Where are you going?"

I stopped to photograph a funny sign when a man started talking to me.

"Hey, why is that nobody will have tea with me?"

"Because everybody knows that Indians never invite foreigners for tea unless they want something."

We started a nice conversation and eventually, I did feel comfortable to cautiously join him for tea. He was a musician from Mumbai and was coming up for a gig. His tea shop of choice was five minutes walk, but the chai was cheap (actually, he paid) and good. He left for the toilet and another man, Raviv (we'll just call him that), apparently his friend, came and started to chat me up about religion. Our conversation was great and after I declined an invite for dinner at his friend's place, I made plans to join him for some sightseeing the next day. He was also from Mumbai and he told me it's been a while since he saw the red fort.

At nine the next morning, he arrived and we continued to talk over more chai. Finally, tea with an Indian was a friendly gesture, not business.

"Before we go, let's stop for breakfast at my friend's office."

I followed him, not recognizing the signs. Our breakfast of Puri Baji was shared over a conversation of religion and its effect on Indian culture. With a mere hour knowing the man, I felt quite comfortable. I'd made a friend.

"Let me tell you about my business."

Apparently, the man was a jeweler, selling cheap handcrafts from India and Thailand to the US and other countries for a profit. When the company maxes out on their duty exemptions, they find tourists to mail the goods overseas.

The procedure was simple. The tourist packs the box, declares the goods and their value, then sends them to their home country to be stored at the post office. When they arrive home, they give the products to the overseas representative and receives a cut of the money saved in taxes. Overall, it was a high profit, low risk scam that would be temping to many people.

I sat for an hour, thinking of all the ways that this company could scam me, but I could think of none. I thought of all the ways that I could get in trouble by the government, but could think of none. I though all the moral objections I could find of screwing the government out of a few thousand dollars of tax money, but could think of none either, but something didn't sit right. I couldn't pull the trigger.

"Would you like to see the jewelery?"

"I guess."

We headed downstairs where I was shown about five bracelets, while another less-friendly man, explained the process to me again. I'd make $4000 profit on my first round of jewelery smuggling and if it went well, I'd have more opportunities to make even more on the next trips. When they learned I was traveling for four more months, longer than the post office would hold packages, he offered to fly me home, then back to Asia. A one-time deal was tempting, but to become a jewelery smuggler as a job was too far.

"And this would be a secret business. I want us to sleep well and you to sleep well."

I looked at the jewels and looked at the two men for five minutes in silence. Easy money. I could continue my travels with no worries of my already tightening budget. The only thing they would have of me was a photocopy of my passport, which many hotels and internet cafes have already, and my trust, but I still couldn't shake that heavy feeling in my gut. Why was this involving so much thought? I wasn't bothered in the slightest by their illegal business; it was actually quite clever. Then it hit me: they'd betrayed my trust, the one thing they wanted me to give them. The man came to me under the guise of friendship, then lied to me of his intentions, and if somebody lies once, they'll lie again.

I cleared my throat then began, "I don't see anything wrong with what you are doing. It's a clever scam and from your records, I see that many have done business with you, having no problems. Thank you for trusting me enough to give me this offer, but I can't do it. I'm an honest man and I can keep secrets when I need to, but I'm too honest to want to carry something like this with me. Though I do not feel any moral wrong with this business, this is not the person I am. I live my life in a certain way, and this isn't it. I'm sorry."

"But you showed us your passport. I thought you were interested." the second man said.

"I was, but I had to think. I decide things slowly. You talk of wanting me to sleep well, but if I do this, I won't. I don't like carrying secrets. I'm sorry."

"You don't have to be sorry. We can find others who would easily do this. We don't need you."

"Good. But thank you for the offer.

I sat in tense silence, not leaving, weighing my choice.

"Are you disappointed in me?" Ravi asked.

"Yeah, a little. You came to me claiming to be a friend, to have no motives. We talked and I felt as if you were my friend. Then it becomes, like always in India, about business."

"But it's best to do business with friends." Said the second man.

"No, business gets in the way of friendship. They don't mix. Now, I've already spent half of my day here and I'd like to see the Red Fort like I originally planned."

"You're not going to tell poeple about this in the marketplace are you?"

"I may be an honest man, but I'm not a stupid man. Goodbye."

I left quickly and headed back towards my hotel. Suddenly, it hit me that I had sat in and heard a lot of information from an organized crime racket. I checked for tails; suddenly everyone was following me. Orange striped shirt. Green hoodie. I ducked down an alley, stopped for chai and waited for a familiar face. When finished, I continued down the street to my hotel. Was that the same orange-striped shirt? I walked towards my hotel, then went past it and waited in the doorway of another hotel. Nobody came, so I went into my hotel and locked the room.

Half and hour later, I walked the two miles to Old Delhi to see the Red Fort, but it was closed. Instead, I headed over to Delhi's grand mosque, the Jama Mastid. They charged 200 rupees for a camera fee, so I buried it deep in my backpack and decided to take no photos. Just through the gate, I was shaken down by a large, bullying muslim Indian.

"Where's your camera? Give me 200 rupees!"

I emptied my pockets to show him I had none on me, then he grabbed my bag and scattered the contents onto the ground until he found my camera.

"Now, give me 200 rupees!"

"I don't want to take photos, I just want to see with my eyes."

"Give me 200 rupees!"

"No, I'm just gonna leave instead."

Some house of God!

Food Diary: Chana

2011-01-17T23:09:00.003-06:00

Chana is a generic term for chickpeas and pulses, another of the staple foods of India. It is often used in curries. Puri Bahji is a common breakfast of puri bread and an aloo and chana soup. In Bihar and other places in India, chana is ground into a flour called sattu and used in desserts and littis, spiced balls that are grilled over charcoal. Of course, the most famous use of chana is in Chana Masala, among the most popular dishes in India.

Chana Masala Recipe

Christmas at the Taj Mahal

2011-01-11T07:45:00.008-06:00

I celebrated Christmas in a way two days before the date, sharing Korean food with lovely women, Selam from Ethiopia and Jaida from Denmark. Jaida had managed to find a tiny Christmas tree, which we decorated with proportionately tiny ornaments. It was a delicious meal with good company, but it wasn't family.

My one consolation, which was admittedly a big one, was that I would be visiting the snow white Taj Mahal on Christmas morning; my ironic Muslim Christmas gift.

Selam continued with me to Agra. She was quite the asset. Her walk was the strong, assertive gait that only an African woman could have. When she told anybody "No!" it was short and convincing. This helped a lot in bargaining situations, "How much is the ride to Taj Ganj?"

"50!"

"No!" Selam would jab, then walk away in her walk, showing no signs of stopping.

We found a decent hotel for a good price; the autorickshaw-away is much more authoritative than the walk-away. Each of us went to our single rooms and washed the train out of our skin. I climbed to the roof and grabbed my first glimpse of the Taj, giant, much bigger than expected, white, shrouded by mist, or smog (it was hard to tell). It was closed that day, so we headed to Agra Fort.

The red fort was lovely, especially contrasted with the white marble palace inside. If not for the looming Taj Mahal, easily seen in the distance, this would be one of the most spectacular buildings in the world. The Moguls built large, simplistically beautiful buildings, featuring domes, pillars, towering archways, minuretes, sculptures and marble inlay work. All these culminating in the world's greatest tomb.

Selam asked me a price and pitted six rickshaw drivers against each other until, finally, the old man, our target, agreed to fifty rupees to take us to another tomb in the North of town and a park with perfect views of the Taj from the North. The catch, we agreed to visit five shops, which would earn the man 20 for each and 10% of everything we purchased. Most of the stores were selling the handcrafts of the area, Persian rugs, marble sculptures, mediocre marble inlay work, and jewelery. The one jeweler almost cracked Selam's statuesque resolve. Heck, I almost bought the jewelery.

We both headed to bed early to awake for sunrise visit to the Taj. Waking was easy even in the dark, just as a child, ready to tear into presents. I knocked on Selam's door and she was ready to go. The gate was closed, not opening until 6:45 and the ticket counter was a kilometer away. I'd hate to imagine the line that would make that practical. Walking in the dark, a horde of rickshaw drivers, awake early, attacked like wolves, chasing us down the road, some running ahead to ask us after we turned the first strikers down. The line at the counter was already full of people. We were still, thankfully, among the first to enter that morning.

It was an ethereally foggy morning and the Taj was barely visible, even from the gate. In many ways, the Taj Mahal is a shame to see; no other building will ever surpass it. Every gushing traveler who's ever said those words are telling the truth. To see it up close pulls unconditional wows in a symphony of languages. It's huge, white, breathtaking, simple and ridiculously complex, all at the same time. The gardens frame the approach, getting more captivating with every step. The door arches stretch to the sky. It's like walking into a fictional that can only exist in books. Koranic verses line the towering doors, all done in carefully cut, marble work, black upon white. Inside, the eerily peaceful mausoleum lay two coffins, the small white sarcophagus of Mumtaz Mahal, the culmination of the whole building. Next to her is the out-of-place add on of Shah Jahan, designer and funder of the greatest monument to love, his own tomb never built. They sit in a cage of carved marble and meticulous marble inlay flowers, with not a seem between rocks. Sunrise threw an orange beam though the perfectly placed East windows, illuminating the flowers, which glowed against the dull white. The proportions of everything was just right, perfect.

Selam had a train to catch, so I headed to Fatepur Sikri, an hour from Agra. 'Tis home to an old abandoned city, featuring great Mogul architecture, on a smaller scale than the other buildings in the area. When I arrived by bgus, a young man pointed down a street and said, "Go there! Monument." So I walked, noticing the man was following me, but he was doing it in front of me, trying to make it not look obvious. Finally, he turned around and said, "Oh, going to monument? It's this way.", pointing back the way we came. He then started leading me there, and as expected, he started giving me a tour for which I never asked.

I tried my best to lead him where I wanted to go, ignoring the direction he was pointing and not caring as he told me the number of stairs in each set. I was roped into a sculptor's sales pitch for a while, then I decided to tell the man to bugger off.

"I got this man. You don't need to show me around anymore."

"Ok, so tip?" holding out his hand.

I stared at his young face, seething, acting as if I was so oblivious not to notice it was he who deliberately led me off course before he "helped me." I was about to tear into him, berate him for his disrespect for the foreigners that keep his town alive, his loathsome tendency to lie, and most of all, insulting my intelligence. Then, I remembered, it was Christmas, and though I'm not a Christian, I must have felt a bit of the spirit that day. My frown turned to a smile and I tipped him 100 rupees. He had successfully tricked me after all.

My time became more enjoyable after he left. The main draw and the one part that costs money for the tourists are the three palaces of Emperor Akbar, that he built for his wives, one Hindu, one Muslim, and one Christian. The largest was for his Hindi wife, Judh Bai. It's an interesting place to explore and imagine the past grandeur of the once great city. Most is in ruins; the city was barely used, abandoned because of lack of water. The red buildings are magical in the afternoon sun, and haunting to see such a magnificent city abandoned, crumbling.

I went back to the bus stop and found the trickster, waiting for the next sucker. I joked around with him about his scam, harassing the begging children and having a great time. Even though he tried to cheat me, he was still Indian and Indian people have great senses of humor. Merry Christmas!

Food Diary: Kofta

2011-01-11T07:37:00.003-06:00

Kofta is a generic term for a dumpling, typically used in Middle Eastern and Indian cuisine. In India, I found that most kofta is made from potatoes and paneer. In nearly every vegetarian restaurant in the country, Malai Kofta is on the menu. This is a potato ball served in a cream sauce made by heating milk then letting it cool and skimming the hardened skin off the top. Paneer is typically added, making this a tasty curry. Other variations use the addition of coconut milk or nuts or nut paste. This is one of the great Indian dishes.

Recipe This seems ok from a quick read. I'd suggest adding Malai to the sauce to make it thick and creamy. Yum.

Varanasi

2011-01-11T02:07:00.004-06:00

A Malaysian photographer, who'd quit his high up management job to travel and shoot told me one night over a bhang lassi that if someone could only visit one place in India and come anywhere close to understanding the country, it would be Varanasi.

I had to agree with him. Situated on the Ganges, Varanasi is India's holiest city. Bathing in the waters, polluted with sewage, ash, chemicals, garbage, and severed limbs ironically cleanses the soul of all its sins. Shiva is strong here and being cremated on the banks, then dumped in the river releases the soul from the cycle of rebirth. Dying here does the same, so the sick come here to die. Kings from all over India built lavish hospice palaces where they ended their lives. Pilgrims travel from everywhere for a plunge, a once in a lifetime journey. The banks and ghats are lined with rainbow processions of women, clad in pink, orange, red, green, and blue saris with bags balanced on their heads, singing in joy for having finally reached the holy place. Funeral processions go on endlessly; the people chanting along the way. There is nothing to do but press against the walls of the narrow streets as groups ranging in size from two to fifty carry their passed loved ones to the ganga for burning. Joy and sorrow mix together in a crazy sensory feast. And oddly enough, it's such a holy feeling place, it feels relaxing.

It is also one of the most popular tourist towns in India and with it, the touts and scams. Walking the ghats conjures an endless flood of people offering boat rides, one of the best ways to experience the city. I had quite a traumatic experience one day. Photographing the cremations is understandably taboo. The cremation happens just in front of a complex of beautiful temples. I stopped to snap one photo, careful to not get any burning bodies in my shot. 100 meters up the river, two men pushed me and exploded in angry yelling.

"You can't photograph the burning!"

"I didn't!" trying to sound strong, "I was taking a photo of the temple behind."

"Don't lie, we saw you take a photo of the burning."

"No really, I didn't!" I pulled out my camera and showed them the photo. "See, only temples."

One of the men pointed to the far bottom right corner at a black smudge not bigger than a dot. "See, smoke, right there!"

"No man, it's just temples."

"How dare you disrespect our culture!" The other yelled.

I knew I was right, but I tried to appease them. "Fine, I'll delete it." And I did. "There, happy!"

"Don't delete it motherfucker!"

"You're in big fucking trouble you shit!" The other chimed in.

"Why? I didn't photograph the burning, and you know it."

"Come with us. I'm taking you to the police. You're gonna pay!"

"No, I'm not."

The other one got in my face. "How dare you treat our culture like that. How dare you disrespect the families."

One of them grabbed my arm and started pulling me. "Come to the ghat and apologize."

"I'm not going anywhere!" wrenching my arm free. "You just want to rob me. I'm not an idiot!"

"We're taking you the police."

"No, I'm taking you to the police, the police I find." I started walking the other way, hoping police did in fact exist in that direction.

"Come with us!"

"No, you come with me!"

Finally they backed down. "Fine then, go. But don't let us see you around here again, or we'll fuck you up."

I knew the two people were not in fact any family of the deceased, but merely scammers cashing in on an opportunity to get me alone to rob me. Either way, I heeded the warning and avoided that chunk of the river, sticking instead to the narrow streets of the old city. Varanasi is a literal labyrinth, with dead ends and all. One doesn't choose a destination and walk to it, one wanders around and hopes to stubble on it. Getting lost was kinda fun, especially when there was a good sweet shop. At first, I had a list of sights I wished to see, but within a couple of hours, I ditched my plans; Varanasi is a town you feel, not see. Still, it's a beautiful place. Few India experiences are more iconic than sitting on a row boat, beneath a grand palace or great temple, seeing happy Hindus taking that once in a lifetime splash. No place is more India than this.

History of the Buddha: Part 2

2011-01-11T01:29:00.003-06:00

Last time on the History of the Buddha:

"Gosh, my mother said having a baby was painful and hard, this must have the been the most peaceful birth ever."

"We'll call him Siddhartha."

"A king! I feel it too! He'll be a great king of kings, like this Jesus guy I'm always hearing about."

"He will be a king, and like all great kings, the best way to prepare him for a successful rule over his people is to shelter him completely from them."

"Father, ya know, life here in the palace is pretty bitchin' and all that, but what is it like outside?"

"Ok son, I'll tell you what is out there. Outside the palace are old people and sick people and poor people and the worst, the worst are the dead people. These are the types of things that cause existential crises. It's just better to never think of these things."

"The man is no more. He has ceased to be. He's expired and gone to meet his maker. He's a stiff, bereft of life, he rests in peace. His metabolic processes are now history. He's off the twig. He's kicked the bucket, he's shuffled off his mortal coil, run down the curtain and joined the bleeding choir invisibile! This is an ex-person!"

"Oh dear!" He said aloud. "Is this what my father meant when said I'd have an existential crisis?"

And now, the story continues...

"Father, I need to leave the palace...for good."

"Oh son, why did you go outside? I can see from your face that you're going through an existential crisis, just as I had worried."

"Yes father, and the only cure is suffering and poverty. I can't live with such rich comfort, knowing that others are so poor."

"Son, that's not the answer. You should be happy that you are one of the fortunate ones. You have money, palaces, a beautiful wife, a child. So many people don't have what you have, and you're willing to give it up like them?"

"I am no more worthy of this life than anyone else."

"I can't stop you from leaving, you're a grown man of 29 years, but I wish you'd reconsider. I'd miss you."

"I have to do this father. It's the only way I can get rid of the suffering I feel."

So Siddhartha went to his tailor, replaced his fancy lycra clothes for a burlap sack and left all of his possessions, family and life in the palace. Not more than a minute after leaving, he met a familiar face.

"Oh Shiva help me! It's you again."

"Yes poor man, it is me, Siddhartha."

"What are you wearing?"

"It is called burlap; it's quite itchy, but I've never felt more comfortable in my life."

"Where is your lacra?"

"I left my lyra at home."

"Why on Earth did you do that?"

"I have decided to become poor, like you!"

"Why the hell would you like to be poor."

"Because it's not fair that I was rich, while you are poor."

"Are you daft? How does becoming poor change anything? Are you such an asshole that you think you need repentance for being rich? This is not going to give you the release you're searching for. What you'll need is repentance for casting aside the things so many want."

"It doesn't matter what you say, this is what I have to do."

"At least you standing up for the stupid things you believe."

"I have a question for you. May I join you and learn the secrets of being poor?"

"There are no secrets to being poor. If you're poor, you either survive or die. Simple."

"But I don't know how to survive. I need a tutor."

"I don't like you."

"Why don't you like me?"

"Because you're a naive, rich, annoying man-child...just to name three."

"Well, I'm no longer rich and you have the power to rid me of my naivete." Siddhartha paused a moment. "Am I really that annoying?"

The man thought for a while, with Siddhartha staring dough-eyed. "Fine, I'll let you tag around."

"What is your name?"

"Raviv."

"It's a great pleasure to meet you Raviv. So, how do we get food?"

"Get used to being hungry."

"So, what do we do for the day?"

"Live."

"Do you wanna play a game?"

"You ask a lot of questions?"

"I need a lot of answers."

"Your vocabulary shows you are far from the answers you seek."

And so, Siddhartha went into the tutelage of Raviv, where he learned many lessons of a lifestyle that was so different from the one of his past. He learned to forage int he garbage for good food, how to sleep comfortably outside with merely his burlap sack, how to train a monkey to dance for money, and how to elicit pity money from tourists. Never once did he join Raviv in stealing, a despicable act in his eyes. Even though he found this new life to be a new adventure, it wasn't hard. It especially wasn't giving him the release he so desired. That hole was still in his heart.

One day during an exceptionally poor day of begging, Raviv grew quite frustrated.

"Damn ascetics! They're begging us out of our business today."

"Ascetics?"

"Those bastards in the robes. They fancy themselves holy men, but they're just the same as you or me, they only add a pretentious goal to their poverty."

"Really?"

"Pretty dumb."

"No, maybe that's what I need, a solid goal for my poverty."

"Oh god, I knew this would happen, the second I start liking you, you realize how unfulfilling this life is. Do me a favor, if you leave me, go back to your old life, being an ascetic is not the answer."

"How do I find these men?"

"Just follow your nose, you'll find them."

"Right when he said that, an oppressive odor welcomed them as three long-haired, dirty men in robes rounded the corner, carrying a metal can with a thin layer of coins."

"How can I become an ascetic?" Siddhartha asked the men.

"You merely have to follow us and abandon all your possessions and ties to the people you love."

So, he removed his burlap sack, thanked Raviv for all he taught him and became an ascetic.

Siddhartha found a particular knack for being a man in robe. Meditation soothed his soul, having nothing freed his heart of much of his suffering. Soon his beard and hair grew long, his robe grew dirty and years passed before he knew it. His introspection tempered his quick tongue. With his kind eyes and simple wisdom he developed, all who passed him gave alms. He touched all he met.

After a particularly good day, the leader of the group approached Siddhartha. "Siddhartha, I am growing old, too old for the life of a pilgrim. Out of everyone here, you seem to have learned the most. Your wisdom defies your age. Though you are the youngest and have been with me the shortest amount of time, I feel you should become the leader when I pass."

Siddhartha soaked in his words, closed his eyes for five minutes before speaking. His patience kept him from quick decisions, quick responses. Finally, he opened his eyes, turned to his mentor and began to speak. "Baba, I am flattered by your decision. I feel I have learned much from you, more than one should learn in a lifetime. To hear that you feel I am worthy to be a teacher shows I have but little more to learn from you, and when you pass, your wisdom will only exist in your followers, in me. However, as of late, I feel that there is more to learn, another step. How can I learn more in the context of this group if I continue along the same path? The life of an ascetic has taught me much, but we are still bound to the same needs as everyone else. Plus, to live, we much beg, taking alms and food from those who need it. Do we deserve to benefit from the toils of others, just because we wear robes and travel the country?"

"Siddhartha, will there ever be an end to your quest for detachment? Your decision is wise and your are right. Perhaps your wisdom surpasses even me."

Siddhartha smiled, stood up and walked into the woods to find the next step of his growth. He abandonded beggin from others, only eating what he found in the forest. Slowly, he lowered his intake of food until he was eating merely a single nut and a single leaf. Why hsould he deprive the other animals of precious food, just because he was human? He grew thinner and thinner, only having enough energy to meditate. Then one day, he went to bathe and collapsed,too weak to return to land.

Luckily, a fisherman found him, saved his life. He spent a month, nurturing the emaciated Siddhartha back to health with milk and rice pudding. When he finally regained lucidity, Siddhartha realized that the fisherman was none other than Raviv.

"Raviv!"

"Siddhartha, I knew it was you. What were you doing, starving yourself like that?"

"I rejected all things, even food."

"Well that's just stupid!"

Siddhartha did not linger upon regaining his health. Never in his life did he see a man happier than Raviv as a fisherman. He realized that this life he had only narrowly survived had brought him no closer to his release, it hindered it. He envied the modest lifestyle of his friend and found a beautiful pipal tree under which to meditate on his new knowledge. After 49 days, he found the peace for which he was searching. He awoke enlightened. He awoke the Buddha.