Sumatra

After a few months in the tropics, the cold nights and lack of humidity in mountainous Berastagi initially appeared to be a blessing, until it was time to take a shower - a giant cold bucket of water manually scooped onto your back with a smaller bucket. Making this painful experience worthwhile was a trip to Danau (Lake) Kawar and an overnight stay with a family in the lakeside village. Despite a nonexistence of English speakers, body language helped communicate the cost of my stay, resulting in a place to sleep on the floor for $1.50, one of the best meals I had in Indonesia for 70 cents, and a bonus of free games of badminton with the children of the village.

Lake Kawar lies in the shadow of Sinabung volcano, reached by a trail that climbs from agricultural farmland into dense jungle, where I managed to get stung twice by a giant wasp, and eventually emerging on the top of an active volcano. At the summit, sulfur escapes from every available crevice, mixing with the fog which blanketed the surrounding area..

On the way down, mother nature unleashed a furious rain and thunder storm which poured down relentlessly, turning the path into a muddy river. While splashing through the mud, I kept looking over my shoulder expecting to see a giant T-Rex chasing me through the jungle. After a minivan ride back to Berastagi, soaked to the bone, I was confronted with a dilemma when I discovered that my guesthouse offered hot showers, (which I had not experienced for the previous 3 months), for the sum of 10,000 rupiah ($1). I am fully confident that what followed was the best spent dollar of my life.

Yet another minivan adventure brought me to Danau toba, a massive crater lake which was created by a series of volcanic explosions, the most recent being 74,000 years ago, in a blast that killed all but 10,000 humans on earth and affected the earths temperature for 1,000 years. The lake region is home to the Batak people, the vast majority of whom have been converted to Christianity, resulting in some interesting architecture and a church located about every 100 meters.

While touring the area by motorbike, a visit was paid to the Batak museum which featured the worst cultural performance I have ever witnessed. For 30 painful minutes, a group of "Batak" people shuffled around to a "traditional" drumbeat without an ounce of enthusiasm escaping from their faces. The performance ended in bizarre fashion with a strange puppet summoning members of the audience to donate extra money.

Not surprisingly, as soon as the performance ended, the entire cast rushed into one of the nearby traditional houses where they quickly emerged wearing their street clothes and checking their cell phones.

Accommodation at lake Toba is located on Samosir island,which is the size of Singapore, making it the biggest island inside of a lake in the world. After several days of relaxing by the lake, I felt the need to combat the atrophy in my legs and make a trek across the island. The midpoint of the 2 day trek was another lake - which is a lake (Sidihoni), inside of an island (Samosir), inside of a lake(Toba), inside of an island (Sumatra).

Upon leaving Lake Toba, it was a tortuous 17 hour bus journey south to Bukitinnggi, a ride that featured chain smoking ,monsoon rains and endless potholes. The lasting memory of this journey was the midnight stop at a roadside restaurant, in which my identity as the only non-sumatran in sight became a spectacle for all to see. My order of Nasi goreng (fried rice) was late to arrive, much to the delight of the gap toothed man sitting across from me. After making small talk with our respectively weak English and Bahasa Indonesia, we were able to communicate that I was from California and hungry. When my food finally arrived, my new friend erupted in laughter, shouting "Na-si go-rayng" and pointing at my dish. Back on the bus, he made sure to remind me with hourly updates; "huh huh - nasi goreng, ha." Maybe because it was such an unoriginal choice? Maybe he really enjoyed the combination of the words nasi and goreng? Maybe he was just good old fashioned crazy? I may never know for sure.

After surviving this journey, I was greeted by a worthy reward. One of the highlights of all of Southeast Asia was watching the nightly migration of flying foxes (large bats) through Sianok canyon at sunset, to the soundtrack of the call to prayer, emanating from various local mosques. As the day faded, the prayers seemed to call the bats (who are so large they visibly struggle to keep themselves airborne), out of their caves towards the sun, setting over a landscape blanketed with volcanoes.

Into the Wild

From the most developed, comfortable, and easiest country to travel in Southeast Asia (Malaysia), to...Sumatra. Where potholes outnumber tourists and the only certainties are power outages and rampant littering. In the end, the challenging moments were a small price to pay.
In one of the most dramatic changes of scenery that 1 hour can bring, I flew from kuala lumpur to Banda Aceh, the city on the northwest tip of Sumatra, and the place most devastated by the 2004 tsunami. In Banda Aceh alone over 60,000 people died. Nearly 5 years later they're still putting the pieces back together, and apparently they wont be finished anytime soon.

From Banda Aceh, I escaped to Pulau Weh, an island 2 hours off the coast which was somehow spared by the tsunami. I entered Pulau Weh with the intention of simultaneously overcoming several fears through the act of learning how to scubadive, in one of the best and cheapest places on earth to attempt such a quest. Even after having successfully completed this mission, the thought of breathing underwater is still deeply disturbing.

Over the course of three days, I was led in private instruction by Divemaster Udi, a native of pulau weh and someone who was laid back enough for me to feel comfortable entrusting my underwater life to. Within an hour of the first lesson I was in the ocean in full gear and on the verge of having a panic attack at the thought of being submerged under water with 30 pounds of equipment on my back. Confidence was quickly built, and by the end of the first day I was cruising around at 12 meters depth and exploring the underwater universe and all its glory. The course continued, culminating in the most challenging and nerve racking test - filling my mask with water at 18 meters depth and then successfully clearing the water, which took a few attempts but finally resulted in success and an open water diving certificate. While exploring the underwater world, I encountered a wide variety of sea life including the entire cast of Finding Nemo, the most memorable being a reef turtle that cruised around in my presence for a few minutes.
Other highlights included:

Blue spotted stingray

Eagle Ray

and...
(scorpion fish, star puffer, red firefish,Titan_Triggerfish, reef octopus, giant_moray_eel, honeycomb moray eel)

Besides unprecendented access to life in the ocean, the greatest lasting benefit of this endeavor appears to be the lesson of always remembering to breathe, wisdom that would prove invaluable on long distance Sumatran bus rides.

After 24 hours of backbreaking transit via the provincial capital of Medan, I arrived in Bukit Lawang, the main point of entry into Leuser National Park - one of two remaining places on earth to see orang utans (literally 'Jungle people' in Indonesian) in the wild. Following a local guide, who was in constant contact with other guides via text messaging in an effort to locate our furry cousins, we eventually found a mother with 2 children playing in the canopy, seemingly uninterested in their human observers. Because of this indifference, we were able to observe them for about 20 minutes, during which time, their resemblance to humans in appearance and behavior became increasingly clear.
By night, many local guides congregated in the restaurant of my guest house where they sang cover songs of la bamba, los gardenias para ti, and a catchy rendition of jingle bells: "jungle trek, jungle trek, in bukit lawang. See the monkey see the bird see orangatang, hey!" On the final night in Bukit Lawang, there was a wedding taking place, which had been making its presence known all day with high volume dance music emanating throughout the town. I managed to catch the party as it was winding down around midnight, in a strange display that would give me a distorted lasting memory of this place. On a makeshift stage, a trio of local girls who appeared to be auditioning for the role of a cracked out wonder woman (i.e. granny panties worn on the outside of fishnet stalkings), engaged in overtly sexual dancing and hip gyrations as elderly muslim women sat in the audience seemingly oblivious to the heathenous behavior taking place on stage. Definitely one of the most bizarre memories of Sumatra.

The ride back to Medan was Sumatran transport at its finest. A minivan decked out in bright colors and a booming sound system, innocently left the bus station with a few empty seats to spare. It became painfully clear that this freedom wasn't going to last as we cruised dangerously slow through the town looking for passengers to add to the human omelet to be. By mid journey, there were 19 people in the 9 seat van, and I found myself wedged into the midsection of an elderly Muslim woman who looked equally frustrated about the lack of personal space.

After a brief stop in Medan, another minivan was boarded for the mountain town of Berastagi, the beginning of volcanoland.

Malaysia

I arrived in Malaysia knowing little about the place and to be honest, I viewed my crossing of the land as little more than a means of getting to Indonesia. As a result, every positive moment and nugget of knowledge gained were unexpected bonuses.

My first destination after crossing the Thailand-Malaysia border was Georgetown, a historic city that may best summarize the diversity of this country. Compromising most of the old town are the neighborhoods of Chinatown and little India, a preview of the rest of the country. Along with the native Malay, these groups seem to intermingle freely and many seem to downplay their original heritage in favor of a Malaysian identity. Malaysia has had its share of race riots, but seeing Indian people buying dim sum from a street vendor next door to Chinese people eating Chicken tandori gives at least a temporary impression of racial harmony. Probably because of its status as a cultural melting pot, Georgetown is known as the food capital of Malaysia, and I had the good fortune of touring the city's culinary highlights under the supervision of some locals, stuffing myself with dishes like char keaow tow, laksa, hokkien mee, cendol, and abc (maybe the strangest - shaved ice with sweet syrup, beans, peanuts, assorted fresh fruit, and ice cream).

By the same good fortune, I was led to a small bar in the backstreets of Chinatown, which sold the cheapest beer in the city (alcohol is taxed to death in Muslim Malaysia - resulting in the cheapest beer costing $1.50 per can, and much nostalgia of 18 cent draft beer in Vietnam.)

A pair of minivan rides through endless palm tree plantations delivered me to Taman Negara, or National Park, the oldest rainforest in the world at 130 million years of age. A variety of trails snake through this leech infested playground of flora and fauna ranging wildly in difficulty. One of the easiest trails leads to a canopy walk, which winds its way around the treetops at heights of up to 40 meters, which isn't very comfortable to know when you're walking on planks of wood and rusty ladders that seem haphazardly tied together with rope.The main attraction here was the opportunity to spend the night in a hide, an extremely basic hut in the middle of the jungle where you can sleep and observe wildlife by night. Getting there required climbing up and down various creek beds in the hottest and most humid air my skin has ever come into contact with. To survive this round trip journey, I traveled with 2.5 liters of water, not nearly enough, but just enough to prevent me from becoming a delirious maniac (explanation to follow). The hide was a modest room with 8 bunk beds and a long bench facing a giant window overlooking a jungle meadow, kind of like an electricity-less plasma screen for neanderthals. Although the park is known for having tigers, elephants, tapirs, and giant snakes, the largest creatures I saw where geckos and rats. Most likely, this was due to the loud ranting of a dehydrated Dutchman who was sharing the sleeping quarters. This guy arrived at the hide in a state of despair, after hiking alone all day and recently running out of water. Still, the 6 hour journey was worthwhile for the sounds alone. As twilight faded into pitch black, a chorus of ticking and purring sounds emanated from the jungle, at a volume that could rival rush hour traffic in any major city. In the middle of the night, the sky erupted in thunder storms and rain pounded on the roof of the hide with all of the occupants fearing that it would likely collapse.

In the process of leaving Taman Negara, one of my most memorable Malaysian experiences took place. Having had very little previous exposure to the Muslim world, images of Muslim women in my mind are severely limited, setting the stage for an entertaining and stereotype smashing moment. On the bus, there was a traditionally dressed Muslim woman collecting fares from the passengers. Her initial appearance and demeanor suggested she must be as rigid and old fashion a woman as you could possibly encounter. Shortly after our journey began, she proved otherwise, as her cell phone erupted, filling the bus with "dont your wish your girlfriend was a freak like me," being her ringtone of choice.

A train ride through more palm tree plantations led to Melaka, another historic town filled with colonial buildings from the days of Portuguese and Dutch occupation. Similar to Georgetown, one activity overrode every other - eating as much food as possible. Eating an average of 5 meals per day allows many opportunities to discover hidden treasures, and in Melaka's Chinatown, I found what I can confidently claim to be the best value meal I've ever consumed, and I mean best value MEAL, not best VALUE MEAL. The dish: Baba Rendang minced fish and prawn noodles - which features all of the mentioned ingredients in a bowl of spicy coconut curry sauce - quite possibly the best combination of flavors ever assembled in one bowl, and the price: $1.15.

On the last day in Melaka I managed to consume 2 servings with room for desert (mango cachang) to spare.The next and final stop was the national capital of KL (Kuala Lumpur). To illustrate my ignorance regarding Malaysia prior to entering, there were only 2 symbols I could associate with the country, one being Will Farrell's portrayal of the prime minister in Zoolander, and 2 being the Petronas towers. The twin towers, as they're referred to locally, are a source of pride for most Malaysians, mostly due to their brief run as the tallest buildings in the world from 1998 to 2004. What i didn't know, is that Petronas is a multinational oil corporation, a lesson learned the hard way in my attempt to visit the catwalk connecting the towers on the 41st floor. Before ascending the high speed elevators which travel an average speed of 1 floor per second, visitors are corralled into a mini cinema and subjected to a 3-D movie (glasses included), of propaganda in its purest form. Imagine traveling dangerously close to the surface of the ocean towards a shimmering oil rig before plunging into the sea and down into the bowels of the earth in 3D! Most of the remaining minutes are spent educating visitors about Petronas' shining record of public service, what an asset they are to the community, how Petronas is more concerned with curing blind street children than profits, and of course how the towers are the most impressive feat of engineering the earth has ever seen. To be fair, the view was not bad and a free 3D movie is hard to come by, even if it brainwashes you to love the smell of gasoline.

Southern Thailand

Southern Thailand may simultaneously be the world capital for jaw dropping beaches and equally unbelievable public inebriation. The scenery is filled with dramatic limestone cliffs, covered in jungle growth, bursting through turquoise water and white sand beaches.
In addition to being an epicenter of sunbathing, snorkeling, scubadiving, and parasailing, it's also the land of "the bucket." The bucket is a phenomenon whose name is self explanatory. It's a bucket, which would normally be used by a small child in building the outer towers of a mammoth sand castle, instead filled with some combination of ice, whisky, vodka, coke and red bull. Consuming an entire bucket can lead to seriously impaired judgment, including engaging in dangerous activities in hopes of being rewarded with another bucket- a vicious cycle. Bucket mania reaches its zenith on Phi Phi island, which is advertised as one of the most beautiful islands on earth, and the area of Thailand hardest hit by the tsunami.
The island is filled with beach side bars, which all have plenty of buckets on hand and feature various forms of entertainment involving the use of fire. Most of these spectacles are limited to professional fire juggling locals, but the most entertaining show involved some eager tourists and a giant flaming rope. Two nonchalant Thai teenagers, with cigarettes dangling from their lips, rotated a 25 foot long rope which was heavily soaked in fuel and set ablaze, while an array of tourists lined up to try their luck in the devils jump rope, with a free shot of tequila awaiting the survivors on the other side. About half of the contestants made it through unscathed, while the other half came in contact with the flaming rope and stubbornly attempted the feat over and over again with similar results.

Taking the risk to the next level was tourist Muay Thai, which was strangely located in the 'Reggae bar.' A giant ring was set up in the middle of the bar, surrounded by a bucket sipping audience. Tourists are lured into the ring with the promise of a free bucket if they survive the fight. Between rounds, bar employees parade around the premises with a sign which comforts potential entrants, "Includes protection such as head gear." Most who decide to throw their hat in the ring appeared to have already consumed 1 bucket too many, often times falling over their own feet rather than from the pummeling by their opponent. When the tourists had tired themselves out, 2 locals entered the ring and engaged in one of the most vicious fight I've ever witnessed, ending with the loser being carried out of the ring on a stretcher. Muay Thai is no joke.

May 1 officially marks the start of the low season for tourism in Thailand, and on this day I entered my final Thai beach destination of Ko Lanta. My arrival came in the pitch black of night which meant a difficult search for accommodation on an island that was mostly deserted. As despair was setting in, a loud 'hello' came streaming out of a dimly lit driveway. A lanky figure of about 6'2" came striding out into the light, proclaiming, "I have room for you, 200 baht ($5.60)." Content with the price and the enthusiasm of the sales pitch, I followed him towards the beach for a tour. In the next few days this man would become a legend in my memory of Thailand. Hutchieboat, whose name alone is worthy of legendary status, proudly showed off his beach bungalow complete with mosquito net, fan, mini fridge, hammock and manual flush toilet - which is flushed by manually dumping buckets of water inside. What more could a man ask for in life? After agreeing on a price of 150 baht per night, Hutchieboat retreated to his own bungalow, but wasted little time in displaying his southern hospitality. 2 minutes after handing over the keys, he returned with fresh towels for the bathroom. 5 minutes later he was back again with an extra chair and cushion for the balcony. Another 5 minutes elapsed and he was back again, this time bearing a superior fan which he insisted on exchanging for the one in my bungalow. The next morning he showed no signs of slowing down, knocking on the door at 9am, insisting that I borrow his motorbike to go buy drinks to stock the mini fridge from the local 7-11. Over the next few days Hutchieboat would tell many stories about his life intertwined with the history of the island. These mostly revolved around his work on a nearby rubber tree farm, and the island's 95% Muslim population, to which he belonged. In addition to the hospitality, I became attached to my humble home, which attracted various visitors during my stay. Depending on the hour of the day, the bungalow was inhabited by a colony of ants, a fist sized spider, a frog, who lived behind the toilet for 3 days, and a stray dog who settled into the corner of the balcony.A few days later, I was back in modern reality in Malaysia, which proved to be a mind opening experience, as I entered with no knowledge of the place or what I might experience there.

The land of a thousand smiles

My arrival in Bangkok coincided with two theoretically opposed events. Most important to the international news media was the violent clash between the military and a group known as the red shirts, who were demanding the resignation of Thailand's prime minister. This led to blazing infernos, street closures, and an intimidating, heavily armed police presence, which included tanks rolling down the streets. Blocks away, but seemingly on another planet were the festivities of the annual Songkran festival, which commemorates the Buddhist new year. Traditionally, the festival featured the light splashing of floral waters to ring in the new year, but in the current Buddhist year of 2552, this has morphed into an all out, countrywide water war. Tourists and locals alike walk the streets heavily armed with high powered hydro weapons capable of killing small mammals. With the city under siege, it was not uncommon to see groups of supersoaker toting civilians standing side by side with m-16 toting military officers, everyone hoping that the latter wasn't as trigger happy as the former.

The streets were awash with entrepreneurs, cleverly marketing a combination of weaponry and beverages. The most creative would bottle the recently melted ice, which had been cooling the drinks, and sell it to evil minded party goers, myself included, who loved to watch the exacerbated facial expressions of people getting a high powered shot of ice cold water in the spine. Groups of kids congregated curbside around 50 gallon drums of water, which were perpetually refilled with nearby hoses. The majority of the vehicles who entered the area were on-duty moto and tuk tuk drivers attempting to pick up passengers and escort them out of the war zone. These unfortunate souls were the most heavily victimized, receiving violently thrown buckets of water in the face at each passing of a roadside mob of children. Meanwhile, roving bands of teenagers circled the streets in pickup trucks, the beds of which were equipped with their own 50 gallon drums of water, and a team of drive by artists who returned the onslaught of those on the sidewalk.

Adding to the madness was the tradition of smearing baby powder or similar substances on the faces of each passerby as a sign of respect and new years luck. With a population soaked to the bone, this quickly morphs into a citywide paper mache project, as everyone acquires a layer of crusty body armor, which is then washed away by high pressure water blasts and replaced again and again. By midday, the epicenter of the water fighting looks like it was infested with zombies or struck by an atomic bomb, with dusty victims strangely skipping around in the aftermath.

Providing refuge from the madness was an impressive lineup of cultural venues to remind people that the festival was a celebration of Thai culture, not just the opportunity to shoot your neighbor in the face. There was lively Thai theater, and a vivid puppet show reminiscent of being john malcovic, but the highlight was a b-boy performance to the soundtrack of traditional drumming.

Over the days, I found myself continuously under armed against kids the size of my thigh, whose guns were of equal size. The most memorable experience came on the final night, while wandering the many soi (alleyway) of the old town of Bangkok. After being viciously bombarded with water that would have solidified had it been any colder, I was invited to join the party of the perpetrators, a family of Nepalese shop owners. They had set up a sound system worthy of a night club in front of their corner store, blasting Nepalese and Indian dance music while dousing each passerby with a liberal amount of specially formulated ice water. I quickly realized that their store was conveniently located next door to an ice factory which resulted in the continuous addition of newborn-baby-sized blocks of ice into their bucket. There was never a moment when the bucket consisted of more water than ice.

When it was all said and done, Songkran (click link for video coverage), was one of the most memorable festivals I've ever experienced. What better way to build community than to shoot your neighbor in the eye with ice cold water during the hottest month of the year? Peoples expectations of personal space and liability issues would likely prevent this event from taking place in the U.S., which is a shame.

After an overnight train from Bangkok, which was invaded by an army of baby cockroaches, I touched down in Chiang Mai, which is known as the cultural capital of Thailand - due to an insane amount of elaborate Buddhist temples. For one week, I explored the city by motorbike, and driving on the left hand side of the road proved to be a continuous challenge. The celebration of Buddhist new years was still in full effect, and while wandering through Wat Don Suap, I was invited to partake in a continuation of the water splashing ceremony, this time much more traditional than in Bangkok. Following the lead of the young children ahead of me, I was given a tub of floral water and instructed to proceed on my knees. Shuffling along in a line, we made our pilgrimage, passing a line of seated elders, each of whom would take a handful from our bucket and gently pat us on the shoulders. Those who spoke English curiously asked me where I was from and wished me luck in the new year. Those who didn't speak English, whispered to their neighbors, probably inquiring about where I was from. At the end of the line, I felt like I had gone on a hajj, and realized that my youth is fading, as my knees were decimated from a mere 15 minutes of shuffling against the carpet of the temple.

At Wat Umong, I found my way into an area labeled as the monastery zoo, which featured a herd of some kind of deer-cow hybrid looking creature which the monks cared for. Upon entering their living space, I found the monks preparing to feed them with some kind of eggplant- cucumber looking hybrid of vegetable. While cautiously keeping an eye on one of the beasts who the lead monk described as 'crazy,' I joined in tossing the food to the animals and watched them corral them into their mouths with their snake like tongues. The crazy member of the group kept his focus on the strange farang (foreigner) at all times, often flaring his nostrils and stomping his feet - much to the delight of the monks.
From the cultural capital of the nation, a one hour flight south to Phuket quickly delivered me to an entirely different kind of atmosphere...

Goodbye Vietnam

Throughout Vietnam, there is one man who is revered and respected on a level which surpasses even that of Ronald McDonald. Nowhere else is this more apparent than the National capital of Hanoi, the final resting place of Ho Chi Minh, or Uncle Ho, as he is lovingly referred to by the populous. Uncle Ho's smiling face appears everywhere in Vietnam, on every single bank note of every denomination, on countless propaganda posters, and above the entrance to nearly every school. Not surprisingly, his mausoleum is a mecca for supporters, traveling from far and wide to pay their respects. Following in the communist footsteps of Mao and Lenin, Uncle Ho's 'actual body' is supposedly preserved in a clear glass case, and annually shipped to Russia- the world leader in 'keeping dead people looking alive' technology. Viewing the body is a surreal experience, more for the formal procedures undergone before entering the mausoleum, than actually getting a glimpse of Uncle Ho. A strict dress code is in full effect, part of a long list of strange, liberty infringing rules like no hats, no putting your hands in your pockets, and no improper behavior like smiling or talking. Along the red carpeted path to the body, heavily armed guards stand at every turn, some remaining statuesque, others patrolling the crowd and barking instructions for proper conduct to rule breakers - "hands at your sides!" Rumors abound as to whether or not this is really the body of Uncle Ho or a wax replica. I have my doubts.

Hanoi's famous old quarter is where all of the tourists are concentrated, coming to explore streets named after the goods that were once sold there. For example, fried fish street, metal pipe street, and tombstone alley, which these days are more likely inhabited by bootleg shoes, purses, and stuffed animals. These 2 square miles may be the least walkable urban area on earth and its narrow passages are demonstrative of a nationwide phenomenon - a complete and utter lack of personal space. Buildings are so small and packed to the brim that living rooms, workshops, kitchens and basically anything which can be moved outside, spills out onto the sidewalk during business hours. On the one hand, it's entertaining to walk down the street and essentially get to see through the walls and catch a glimpse of all the day to day activities that would be kept behind closed doors elsewhere. On the other hand, having your leg hairs singed by sparks being spewed onto the street by soldering irons and ducking garbage bags tossed from second story windows can begin to take its toll on your sanity.

Shortly after arriving in Hanoi, my dad and i departed to Vietnam's top tourist attraction, Halong bay, which before the WFC, was receiving 7 million annual visitors. The famed bay is filled with dramatic limestone cliffs jumping out of the bay, and insane amounts of tourist filled vessels navigating around them. At its best, the scenery is breathtaking and fully worthy of all the hype and all the visitors, but the downside is an almost absolute lack of environmental awareness, manifested in an alarming amount of liter. The most disturbing moment came on a kayaking excursion, which was quite enjoyable until i paddled directly past a used baby diaper bobbing aimlessly in the water. In the end, the cruise of the bay was an enjoyable experience, but I hope that enough swift action is taken to prevent it from evaporating into a wasteland of used Huggies.

On the same day we returned to Hanoi from Halong bay, we boarded another sleeper train, heading 10 hours north to the Vietnam-China border. Upon arrival in the town of Sapa, we were bombarded by local village women selling handicrafts, a theme that would be recurring. All of these women speak incredibly good English which they attribute solely to tourist exposure, pretty impressive considering many of them have never been to school for a day in their lives. Shortly after arriving, we embarked upon the top tourist attraction in Sapa, a village stay, in which you trek to a local village and sleep with an adoptive family for the night.

Our guide was a 17 year old girl named Moo, who comes from a village of Black Hmong - named for their black clothing, which Moo has given up for jeans and a t-shirt. On the first day of our tour we headed over several terraced mountains and ended up in a small village where we met our family for the night. During the trek, I wondered if staying in a village would be an outhouse and no electricity kind of experience, but it quickly became apparent that our host family has done quite well for themselves in the village stay business. Their massive two story house featured concrete floors, satellite tv, dvd player, western toilet, pool table, cold beer, and hot water shower - complete with images of naked girls printed on the bathroom tiles. Not exactly roughin it. The highlight of our stay was a delicious home cooked dinner, which was shared at the table of our hosts. The father insisted on alternating spoonfuls of rice with shots of rice wine with me for the duration of the meal, while the rest of the family was transfixed on the tv, watching Chinese soap operas poorly dubbed in Vietnamese.

The low point of the trek came en route to our second village stay. Along the way, we were followed by a pair of seemingly friendly women, but once we reached the midpoint of our journey, their intentions became clear as day. A slew of sales pitches commenced, with a different response for every polite 'no thank you.' These pleas escalated dramatically in desperation from 'this bag is very pretty' to "you buy something and i stop following you,' and culminating in one of the women revealing a bag of weed from her hand woven purse hoping that she must have something i would be interested in buying. After this unfortunate interchange, (i didn't buy anything), we crossed through a massive construction site which was eating away at the mountain, making way for a huge hydroelectric dam. Not only is this an environmental disaster in the making, its also incredibly stupid to destroy one of the top tourist destinations in the country. Finally, in a cruel twist of fate, our neighbors at our second night's homestay turned out to be a huge group of Dutch tourists who spent their evening butchering Beatles classics on their host families blaring karaoke system. Hey Jude will never be the same.

My last destination in Vietnam was the laid back town of Ninh Binh, which is surrounded by rice paddies and limestone mountains. My visit fortuitously coincided with the annual Truong yen festival, which commemorates a pair of 9-10th century Emperors. The festivities were wide ranging, some being more traditional than others. I first wandered past a relatively tame cock fight, which was easier to digest after countless sleepless nights thanks to rogue roosters. To relax after this hard hitting action, i sat down to observe a life size game of Chinese chess, which can already take hours to complete, compounded by the time taken for each player to walk across the board and move his desired piece. This game is played everywhere in China and Vietnam, usually with a group of 10-15 old men huddled around the board advising the opponents on their next moves, as was the case in this life size battle. The most entertaining event of the festival was a traditional wrestling competition, in which participants sported sumo like cloths over their shorts and engaged in a ritualistic dance before doing battle. Through body language, everyone in my vicinity in the audience tried to coax me into the ring to challenge the champion. Tempting as the offer was, im pretty sure getting my collar bone broken by a Vietnamese dude with the physique of a pit bull isn't covered in my insurance policy. So, with my health still intact, I made my exodus from Vietnam to the Land of a Thousand Smiles.

Central Vietnam

After an overnight bus ride from hell, my dad and i were deposited on the quiet streets of Hoi An at 5am. The city was the largest harbor in Southeast Asia in the 1st Century, and its contemporary claim to fame is its surviving old town, a UNESCO heritage site which features some of the most walkable streets in Vietnam. There's an occasionally enforced ban on motor vehicles (the sign specifically forbids any "non primitive vehicles"), and the streets are lined with well preserved buildings that have been converted into a tourist shopping haven, selling tailor made suits, buddha statues, modern art, and chinese lanterns. The highlight of our 48 hour stay ended up being cruising around the nearby countryside by bike. Under the protection of an overcast sky, we rode through villages surrounded by rice paddies, grazing water buffalo, and handfuls of enthusiastic children screaming hello. One such journey brought us to what appeared to be a scam perpetrated against foreigners. Within sight of the local beach, we were stopped by a pair of locals, who calmly explained that we had to leave our bikes in the 'official' parking area, which cost 12 cents. We reluctantly handed over 4,000 dong and made for the beach. Upon returning and retrieving our bikes, we were treated to an unexpected performance displaying the musical prowess of our bike guardian, which left us feeling like we got our moneys worth. To the background music of a Vietnamese pop song, bike man sang a passionate, improvised ballad, and in the process, insisted on taking my hand and leading me through a dance routine. "I watch your bike, you no worry. I watch your bike, your bike ok with me!" He continued in similar fashion for the duration of the song, and bid us farewell with a dramatic bow.

A four hour bus ride north delivered us to the imperial city of Hue, (pronounced Way), which was the capital of Vietnam as recently as 1945. The city was crushed during the war, and only recently have its many historical landmarks begun to be reconstructed. Based on the following experiences, this ended up being my favorite place in Vietnam. On the night of our arrival, we stumbled upon a gem of free entertainment - a high school dance competition in a park overlooking the Huong River. Hip hop appears to be alive and well in Vietnam, as group after group put together some impressive breakdancing performances, some more creative than others. The standouts were one crew that played air guitar with traditional Vietnamese instruments and another that danced to a Vietnamese remix of the Beverly Hills Cop theme song. The only low point of the night was a mass ensemble of about 25 kids performing a routine to the theme song from high school musical. That aint hip hop.

Again, a major highlight here was exploring the nearby countryside by bicycle, the most entertaining journey being a quest to locate one of two existing Japanese covered bridges in Vietnam. After asking a handful of eagerly helpful locals for directions, we eventually got ourselves in the vicinity of the bridge, and then found it by dumb luck, as a woman vendor flagged us down to come have a beer. We caved in to her sales pitch, only to find that her snack stand was located in the shadows of our desired location. Upon entering the shelter of the bridge, we were met by an intriguing character, an old woman with painted on eye brows, and bare feet exposing freshly painted, bright red toenails. She spoke excellent English which she attributed to her past marriage to an American soldier. After our initial introductions were complete, she proceeded to inform us as to why she was occupying the bridge; to tell the fortunes of those who pass. For shits and giggles, we both presented her with open palms, which resulted in some mind blowing revelations. First for the father: "You very good man, you very good to your family, very handsome, you have good son, love you very much." Then for the son: "You very handsome. Your family love you very much. You very good boy. Good to your father. Very nice boy." Then the most important news, she forecast that our deaths would come at the respectively ripe ages of 88 and 82.

From one interesting character to another. Just beyond the bridge, we reached the village museum, whose sole employee was an unforgettable old woman in her pajamas, who guided us through the most entertaining museum tour on the face of the earth. The museum housed a small collection of traditional Vietnamese farming equipment, which the woman who was well into her 80's, proceeded to passionately demonstrate one at a time. With the energy of a small child, she jumped from one piece of equipment to the next, violently stirring the rice grinder and pedaling the bicycle-like water distributor, adding to the drama with an impressive array of sound effects, such as the chopping of the rice plants, crying babies, and water buffalo splashing through the mud. All the while, she sported a friendly smile, exposing teeth that appeared to be intentionally blackened. After a failed, modest sales pitch for us to buy some water buffalo figurines from the dusty gift shop, she graciously accepted a small donation to the museum and waved goodbye before going back to sleep on the table at the entrance.

Hue also became the place where we would get our most insightful look at the day to day lives of some typical Vietnamese folks. Through the wonders of the Internet, i was able to get in contact with Thuan, a local university student, who agreed to meet us for the prototypical social gathering, drinking coffee. After a night of getting caffienated by the city lake, which he and his friend described as lover's lake (for all of the couples who frequent it), he invited us for lunch in his apartment, which is shared with his younger brother and friend. We arrived at his abode to find that these 3 guys share one 6' x 10' room with one bed and one desk, which immediately made me fell like a spoiled idiot for ever having issues with the amount of personal space afforded by the dorm rooms of California. His roommate prepared us a delicious lunch, which we shared on their bedroom floor, regularly interrupted with a rotating shot glass of rice wine,(their drink of choice because of its combined potency and affordability - 30% alcohol and 42 cents for a .5 liter bottle). After our meal, the landlord, a 92 year old man known as Uncle Le, crashed the party. Uncle Le didn't speak any English but seemed fascinated by the presence of the 2 strange foreign visitors, an ear to ear smile glued to his face for the duration of our stay. Through the students' translation, Uncle Le made several attempts to set me up with one of his many granddaughters. Lunch officially ended with a photo shoot of the students and Uncle Le, who burst into uncontrollable laughter every time we showed him the freshly captured images on the screen of my camera.
The following afternoon, we boarded a hard sleeper train, (named for the 1cm thick mattress we slept on). We quickly crossed through the former demilitarized zone (DMZ), which separated north and south Vietnam in the not so distant past. 15 hours later, we were stumbling out into the madness of morning rush hour traffic in the capital city of Hanoi...