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...

Southern 'Nam

Arriving in Ho Chi Minh City, aka Saigon, was a dramatic return to the developed world. For the first time since China, my field of vision was cluttered with high rise buildings and neon lights as far as the eye can see, a strange twist of communist fate. Within hours of arrival i realized that i had died and been sent in the opposite direction of hell. Pho for $1, Vietnamese sandwiches for 60 cents, the strongest coffee known to man for 30 cents, and draft beer for 18 cents. Needless to say, i treated HCMC as my personal buffet, and most of my waking hours there were spent stuffing my face.

5 months in China trained me well for what would otherwise be a difficult vietnamese venture, parting the sea of motorbikes and crossing the street. Here, rush hour is a term that applies from 6am to 11pm, as the streets are consistently packed with masses of 2 wheeled vehicles. Getting to the promised land, the other side of the street, requires blind faith and cat like reflexes. Maybe the biggest motivating factor to cross through the madness was witnessing several blind people parting the sea unassisted!
HCMC was also the fated location for me to be reunited with my dad, who would join me on a nearly 1,000 mile journey up the Vietnamese coast, to within reach of the Chinese border.
One of the most bizarre and memorable, yet least recommendable experiences of our trip was an organized tour of the Cu Chi tunnels, a complex underground network of manmade caves which were occupied for a mind blowing 17 years by the local Vietnamese, who were escaping American troops. (On this side of the Pacific, the war is referred to as the American war.) Our guide, who introduced himself as Mr Bean (Binh), was a soldier for the South Vietnamese fighting alongside the Americans. Over the course of the next 5 hours he proved to be an unforgettable character.

During our 2 hour bus ride Mr Bean sped through as much Vietnamese history as possible, with his own life story intertwined. He reminisced about his time living in New York, which is where he likely acquired his colorful vocabulary. "Lonely planet is bullshit book!" he proclaimed. "i tell you the real history of Vietnam!" He then illuminated the group on one thousand years of various occupations of his homeland, first by the Chinese, then the french, then the Americans and later by the Khmer Rouge. During his passionate, rapid fire presentation, many questions arose, one in particular from a German tourist who was having trouble understanding Mr Bean's new york accent. "Why Vietnam was divided into north and the south?" Mr. Bean explained "its complicated, (under)'stand?" and moved right along with his presentation. During our journey, Mr Bean made many a questionable claim, including knowing who killed JFK - obviously he couldn't reveal the details.

We eventually reached our destination of the Cu Chi tunnels which proved to be a strange and disturbing place. The site has been converted into a guerrilla warfare amusement park, featuring replicas of painful booby traps used against the Americans, along with robotic Vietcong, who with the flick of a switch, kick into gear and simulate the creation of handmade weapons and uniforms. Along the way, Mr bean unveiled the mystery as to why westerners are unable to sit in the famous Asian squat: "because you sit on lazy toilet!" To be fair, he also explained why Asian people have small eyes: "When you eat rice with lot of chili, make you shit like this (He squeezes his eyes shut with all his might).

The midpoint of the tour was the infamous shooting range. Here, tourists can live out their wildest, violent fantasies and fire AK 47's and M-16's into the Vietnamese hillside, for $1-$1.25 per bullet, with a minimum investment of one clip, (a fee that can become hefty when dealing with automatic weapons). Not surprisingly, most of the tour members who partook in this event were in my age and gender brackets. Everyone else took shelter in the nearby gift shop, covering their ears, as the sounds of massive explosions blended with the screams of frightened children.

The tour concluded with Mr. bean, beer in hand, leading us into the feature presentation of the tour, the chance to actually travel through the cu chi tunnels. He reassured us that the tunnels had been widened in order to accommodate westerners, otherwise " your fat ass get stuck in the tunnel!" Our entire busload of lemmings descended into the tunnels and attempted to travel a modest 100 meters undergound. After about 10 meters of nearly crawling on hands and knees in the musty dark, stuck behind a traffic jam of oversized tourists, i nearly suffered a debilitating panic attack from the resulting claustrophobia. For a variety of reasons, i was relieved when the tour ended. The take home message: you have to respect the resiliency of the Vietnamese to live in such cramped conditions for 17 years. I would not recommend this tour to anyone, but if you do get a chance to have a conversation with Mr Bean, you should hop on that train. I'll now conlcude this story in the same fashion that Mr Bean ended his tour. "Thank you. Hope you have good time. God bless you. Hallelujah!"

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From the sweltering heat of HCMC, me and pops escaped to the mountainous town of Dalat,which the french referred to as the vietnamese alps, for its cool climate and green hills. Here, we relished the opportunity to wear long sleeve shirts and sleep with blankets. One of the primary tourist attractions in Dalat is rightfully known as "The crazy house." It's a bizzare museum/ hotel, designded by a woman whose father was a high ranking member of the communist party. Her special family ties are what granted her the authority to build such an extravagant, "crazy," and non communist building, something I never imagined would exist in Vietnam. The architecture is Alice and wonderland meets Antoni Gaudi, with giraffes, giant spiders, and stairs that resemble congo drums. It really is a crazy house.

Most of the other crazy fun to be had in Dalat is on the outskirts of town, reachable by bicycle or motorbike. For some strange reason, Dalat seems to be the tandem bike capital of Vietnam, so much so that finding a normal bike is close to impossible. A common sight in town is a mob of young vietnamese tourists racing each other through the streets on these 4 pedal vehicles of mayhem. After a fruitless hour attemting to procure traditional rental bikes, and even attempting and failing to use a tandem bike, we relunctantly rented a motorbike for the day, which ended up being $3, half the price of a tandem bike.

We managed to safely escape from city limits and reached the Datanla waterfalls, which seems to have developed into a major tourist attraction in the area. Upon entering the site, visitors are presented with a fork in the road; a) a steep trail of steps leading down through the rainforest, or b) a roller coaster that seems to be made primarily of bamboo. Being reluctant to be the guinea pigs of this experiment, we chose a), but after witnissing handfulls of other more adventurous (or lazy) tourists zoom by, we returned to the top and chose b - and lived to tell about it. At the bottom of the path, Datanla falls carves through the rocks and is surrounded by more tourist gimmicks. Vietnamese cowboys and a lonley guy in a bear suit wait idly for trourists to have their pictures taken with them. Luckily, we saw a tourist have his picture taken with his head inside of the bears mouth, so his suffering through the midday heat inside of such a torturous costume did not go unrewarded.

After a few days relaxing in Dalat, we embarked upon an insane 20 hour bus journey North, to the city of Hoi An...

Cambodge

My two week stint in Cambodia was a continuos battle against my own ignorance and a journey to nearly every point on the spectrum of human emotion. I bounced from my traumatizing, aforementioned entry to Siem Reap, to the splendor of Ankor Wat, time traveling in Battambang, the depressing legacy of the Khmer Rouge in Phnom Pehn, to the tranquility of the beaches in Sihanoukville.

Despite drowning in a hellish inferno for most of its recent history, Cambodia is a surprisingly upbeat place. Everywhere, examples of the incredible spirit of the people are present. Never before have I seen such a fierce determination to survive. Never before have I seen so many people and/or goods loaded onto a single vehicle. A man weaves through traffic on a byciyle while delicatley balancing a washing machine on his back. A motorbike rides by with a female passenger holding her own I.V. above her head. This is Cambodia.

The legacy of continuous war and genocide has birthed overwhelming poverty here, but somehow the Cambodian people manage to be some of the nicest folks ive ever encountered. But because of the poverty, its no surprise that nearly everyone who approaches you in the major tourist areas is trying to sell something. These pitches range from "Sir, you need tuk tuk?, Ms. you want moto ride?, Mr. you wanna buy book?, Madame you need guest house?, my friend smoke - marijuana - opium?," or my personal favorite, the vague "Mr. buy something from me." This can be overwhelming at times, but the more you know about this place, the more tolerant you become of such bombardments.

After recovering from my nightmare of a transition from Laos, I finally felt at ease in Siem Reap, within a few miles of the temples of Ankar. My first ignorance shattering moment arrived in the form of early morning prayer, emanating from the local mosque, which happened to be located almost directly behind my guest house. My ignorance as to any kind of muslim population in cambodia was left demolished by virtue of this scene being replicated in 4 of the 5 places I visited here. My next ignorance shattering moment came in 3 days of touring the temples of Ankar. Previous to this trip, I only knew of the existence of Ankor wat, the famed temple that appears on Cambodias flag, national beer and countless paintings and t-shirts. Turns out that this is just one of many temples - the entire surrounding area is saturated with some of the most elaborate and intricately designed buildings the world has ever seen. Touring these massive ruins felt like an archaeological Disneyland for grown ups, because of the huge amounts of tourists, all being shuttled from temple to temple in tuk tuks (myself included). While wandering these complexes in nearly unbearable heat, I couldnt help but wonder about the man hours required to build them and the god complexes of those who ordered them built. Either way, you cant help but be blown away by the imagination of the human brain.

Since leaving my latest hometown of Huzhou, China, ive felt myself being pulled deeper into an increasingly narrow funnel of a tourist trail, which has deeply disturbed me. Being able to make even the slightest detour from the flock of sheep came to be of the utmost importance in the maintenence of my sanity. This detour came in Battambang, which is Cambodia's 2nd biggest city, but not a major stopping point on the tourist trail. There's still a noticeable tourist population here, but the town isnt dependent on tourist $, so as a result, its easier to feel invisible and avoid all the sales pitches of other locations. Maybe the highlight of my time spent in Cambodia, was 2 days of journeying out into Battambangs surrounding villages by motorbike.

As an introduction to this story, ill let it be known that my first, and only previous attempt to ride a motorbike nearly ended with me plunging into the tepid waters of lake Titicaca on the Peru - Bolivia border, but that's another story. So, on day one of village exploration, im handed the keys to a spiffy little 2 wheeler with a whopping 125cc! (less powert than most lawn mowers). As im strapping on my helmet, the trustworthy and maybe naive local who is lending me his prized possession asks me if i know how to drive it, to which i reply "kind of," . A nervous paranoia overcomes this mans face, and he begins to carefully explain the instructions of changing gears, using the brakes, etc. He takes me onto a backstreet for a test drive, while he sits behind me, an experience that im sure was not confidence building. After making it explicitly clear that I would be financially responsible for any damage caused ("you brake bike you pay"), he approved the rental and the real test began.

Getting out of downtown battambang proved to be an intimidating experience despite the fact that the city feels like a large village. Still, even a village can be intimidating when there are no stop signs or traffic lights, and vehicles travel on whichever side of the road is most convenient. So, after a nerve wrecking 15 minutes of learning how to change gears and use the brakes, while dodging oncoming traffic, i made it onto a straight dirt road which signaled the end of the madness. For the rest of the day I was cruising past random villages, whose populations all seemed to be comprised of 70% primary school children, who all screamed "hello" as i passed - with no sales pitches to follow. Being here was the kind of experience I came searching for on this trip - to feel transported to a simpler place and time. I imagine that life in these villages hasn't changed much in my lifetime - except for the occasional cell phone.

The rock bottom on the spectrum of human emotions came in the capital city of Phnom Penh, touring sites that have seen some terrible days. I did enjoy my stay here, but because of its history, it wasnt the most uplifting place to visit. Most depressing was a visit to S-21, a high school turned not-so-secret prison operated by the Khmer rouge, which systematically tortured and killed over 20,000 people in the late 1970's. Ive never felt such a negative energy in any place ive ever been. On a less severe but still depressing topic, my guest house, again in the shadow of a mosque, was near the shores of Boeng Kak, the largest lake in the city. When asking a guest house employee as to why there was a crane operating on a patch of sand at the south end of the lake, i learned that it's being filled in to make way for high rise buildings. So what you see will not exist one year from now.
My cambodian experience ended on a natural high in the beach town of Sihanoukville, named after the king. Stepping foot into the ocean after a 7 month absence felt like I had just completed a pilgrimage from the frozen tundra of China. For 48 hours, i kicked back under a beach umbrella, to the soundtrack of waves coming in from the gulf of Thailand. Being another tourist town, the soundtrack was interrupted by sales pitches for bbq'd seafood, bracelets, pedicures and massages. The temptation of an hour long massage on the beach proved to be too great to pass up for a mere $6. This ultimately proved to be a wise investment, but there were times of doubt, as i parted ways with my outermost later of skin due to the strong sandy hands of my masseur, who i think was pregnant. The last night in paradise began with some of the freshest seafood ive ever tasted and concluded with a natural light show unlike anything ive ever witnissed. Shortly after de-shelling my last grilled prawn, the sky behind me erupted in a silent flash of light. Over the course of the next hour, lightning illuminated a sky full of ominous and otherwise invisible cloud formations. Like most good things, this cant really be conveyed in pictures or words, but here's a video i managed to catch.


48 Hours later I was in food heaven in the chaos of Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam...

Chinese nostalgia and the legend of the iron pit

Now that i’m one month and two countries removed from china, I’m far enough to possess some perspective on my experience. Mostly, i really seem to be missing the place. I realized immediately that I miss the language; upon entering Laos and being completely incapable of communication, I realized how much I actually learned in China. I dearly miss the food, partly out of thriftiness, but mostly out of deliciousness. Most of all, I miss the utter unpredictability of Chinese life. Along the way, countless previously unimaginable events took place in China, which I will not soon forget.

I beat several Chinese people in ping pong, and I lost to several Chinese people in basketball. I suffered mild electrocution, rode a bike to work in below freezing temperatures, hula-hooped with a group of middle aged women, had a chiropractic manuever stealthfully performed on me while urinating, and got chased by wild dogs... The list could go on. Mark my words- I will return to the middle kingdom.

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Due to numerous successful run-ins with food of questionable levels of sanitary quality, ive been dubbed the “iron pit,” referring to the ability of my stomach to convert troublesome material into raw energy. Part genetic, part real world experience, the iron pit was forged in the fiery furnace of East Oakland, where the streets are graced by countless taco trucks and some of the greasiest burgers in the Western Hemisphere. From here, my gastronomical quest has spread outward, to the shores of Mexican beaches, back alleys of Barcelona, and all you can eat bbq in the parking lots of Brazilian gas stations.

In Asia, the legend of the pit has only grown in splendor, mostly due to my surviving 4 months of Chinese cafeteria food. There, at least 5 meals per week were spent eating rice and soup out of a communal trough, shared by fellow teachers, and greasy fingered students alike. Following this miraculous success, my post teaching life on the road has further put the pit to the most rigorous of tests, consisting of daily doses of street food, which was like a continual game of Chinese roulette. I recently boasted about my successfully spending 5 months in asia with no stomach ailments, and this confident boast appears to have been my downfall. A few days later, I would fall terribly ill from the unlikliest of causes. While enjoying the paradise of the 4000 islands of Laos, a trojan horse rolled up to the gates of the iron pit, in the form of a banana shake. This seemingly harmless cocktail of bananas, ice, and sugar, would soon prove to be the beginning of the end. Hours later, i felt the onset of something terrible, a rumbling from the depths that resulted in 24 agonizing hours of laying paralyzed in a hammock. Eventually, the strength was summoned to move on to Cambodia, which meant 24 hours of minivans, and buses, all done with a mind splitting headache - not a wise move.

Should you be fortunate enough to have not experienced a bus journey in this region of the world, don’t put it on your to do list. Even in full health, it requires a tremendous amount of blind faith. Shortly after crossing the border, our vehicle engaged in a deadly game of cat and mouse with another bus. The better part of the next half hour involved each vehicle passing the other, only to be overtaken again, a vicious cycle, which only ended when the other bus blew a tire and was left in a heap of smoke on the side of the road. Compounding the pain of this arduous journey was the horribly timed incompetence of my ipod, which meant being subjected to (no offense to any Cambodian pop stars), a looping video of Cambodian karaoke. Never again will I take the ipod for granted. Never. Eventually, I reched my desired destination of Siem Reap, the base town for exploring the famed temples of Ankar, which would make the previous 48 hours seem more than worthwhile…

The Laotian

Crossing the China-Laos border is an instant departure from the developed world . To mark my arrival, i was extorted out of $1 by the Lao border official, who politely explained that there was an extra fee for crossing the border on Sunday (I've completely lost track of the days, but i later learned that it was Saturday). From this point on, the pavement is regularly interrupted by bumpy patches of dirt, and the bus journey is regularly interrupted by the crossing of cows, chickens, and ducks, (one of which was involved in a nonfatal collision with our bus). Clinging to the highway are scatterings of small villages of thatched roofed huts, who all strangely have satellite TV. The prevalence of four wheeled vehicles on the streets decreases 10 fold compared to China, and the prevalence of children on the streets increases ten fold, (the lack of a one child policy is blatantly obvious). In China, a baby is usually never spotted without at least 3 elderly caretakers, while in Laos, its common for children to roam the streets in packs of 4-5 with no adult supervision. Its also not uncommon to spot groups of ten year-old's wielding machetes, or piled upon one another and zooming by on a motorcycle.

If I were reborn as a nation, I would likely be Laos. This is by far the most laid back place Ive ever been. I only spent 2 weeks in this little land locked nation of 6.5 million, and 40 of these hours were spent in transit, which is painstakingly slow here. So, needless to say, my understanding of the place is incredibly shallow. There were several things that remained consistent in my Lao experience. Every day began at a god awful hour thanks to the widespread existence of roosters, many of whom cluck to the beat of their own drum, with no regard to whether or not the sun is getting ready to rise. Each day was filled with gratuitous use of sahbaidee (hello), and concluded with beer Lao while watching the sun set into Thailand.
My first destination was Luang Prabang , a UNESCO heritage site and a tourist haven. The town is filled with temples, monks, and foreigners, and as a result, previously unimaginable western amenities such as Nutella! While leaving the city, I spotted a construction site, where government workers where drilling into the pavement of a closed off street. The scene may have been the same in any other city in the world, but here the work was being done with a hammer and a chisel - no heavy machinery in sight.

In route to the capital, I made the typical tourist stopover in Vang Vieng, which is world renowned for its drunken tubing. Tourists float downstream in inner tubes, passing a plague of bars blasting high energy music, where the locals persuade you to attempt all of the dangerous creations they've concocted like diving boards, water slides, and rope swings, which all deposit you into the dangerously low waters of the river. I later heard tourists swapping emergency room stories such as loss of teeth and broken bones resulting from these death traps in frivolous lawsuit-less Laos. Luckily i got in the river early and enjoyed what seemed to be a peaceful day, floating soberly down the river, passing water buffalo, with no drunken revelry or accidents along the way. Unfortunately, going to the stupid tourist place means being branded as a stupid tourist one way or another. In my case, the scarlet letter came in the form of a sunburn from hell. Falling asleep on the water in the midday sun, with my pale belly exposed, left the intersection of my stomach and waist looking like a slab of bacon. Besides this tragedy, the town of Vang Vieng quickly drove me away with an inexplicable cultural phenomenon. The town is littered with video bars displaying DVD's of shows such as family guy and the simpsons, in hopes of luring in tourist $'s. Unfortunately the most popular show of choice is Friends, which is played every waking hour of the day, volume blasting at full volume. I HATE FRIENDS!
The development of Laos is best described through my experience in the capital of Vientiane, which is roughly the size of Oakland. There is probably not a single structure over 50 feet tall, and the street lights are so few and far between that they're displayed on the city map. Any non major thoroughfares are non paved, which makes for a bumpy ride on a bicycle. Basically, Vientiane is a sprawling village. In a strange twist of fate, my visit coincided with a Sean Kingston concert, which was advertised wildly all over town. I went to the site of the show, which was in the parking lot of a huge shopping mall, to satisfy my curiosity as to what kind of crowd would turn up for such an event in Laos. Despite the reasonable $2.50 entrance fee, I decided to browse the mall instead, and departed with my musical values still in tact.

My Laotian experience concluded in the far south, in the land of 4,000 islands, which turned out to be my favorite Lao location. Here, accommodation includes mosquito nets, and electricity is only available from 7-10 pm. The days were spent lounging in a hammock, watching river life go by, and exploring the surrounding islands by bicycle. The island's claim to fame is being one of the few places to spot the rare Irrawaddy dolphin. I was able to catch a few fleeting glimpses of our porpoise friends, but the audible experience was the most memorable. After hiring a local teenage captain of a motorized canoe, which was taking on dangerous amounts of water during the journey, I was delivered to the place known as ''dolphin home,'' a stones throw from the Cambodian border. Here, I floated in the water and listened to the dolphins communicating under water, which was a bizarre and fascinating event. The only sound I've ever heard that i could compare it to is John Coltrane. For the duration of my 30 minute listening, the dolphins communicated at a steady pace, with no pause, which left me wondering what kind of schemes they were busy concocting.
All was seemingly well in paradise until a memorable but not so enjoyable transition into Cambodia...

Xin nian kuai le

My three weeks in the Yunnan province of Southwest China represent the full spectrum of what traveling alone can and will be. It began in a solitary, agitated, and snot infested state, followed by an escalating scale of China highlights. The journey started in the provincial capital of Kunming, known as the city of eternal spring for its supposedly constantly pleasant climate. Due to false advertising or bad luck, I was disappointed to find Kunming blanketed in a thick grey cloud, which gave it the appearance of any other generic concrete Chinese jungle.

In what can only be described as a shitty few days, all of the little things began to take their toll on my sanity. There was the chain smoking, knee tapping, caffeine addicted teenager beside me in the Internet cafe; the cats who were either mating or slowly dying outside of my dorm room; and the old man who was slowly dying from the worst snoring I've ever encountered inside of my dorm room. So, after a frustrating, mucus filled, and otherwise uneventful stay here, i made the 5 hour bus journey West to Dali, which would shortly feel like a world away from Kunming.

Known as one of the backpacker meccas of China, its no surprise that locals constantly greet you on the street with friendly hello's, followed by chants of "smoke the ganja?," usually from innocent looking old women clutching small children in their arms. (This isn't the reason why my fortunes changed for the better). Dali is plagued by swarms of tourists from all over China and beyond, and this results in all of the main corridors being filled with merchandise whose quality and functionality are highly debatable. Luckily, this madness is easily escaped on a bicycle, and riding through the nearby villages and rice fields, combined with improved health, and suddenly meeting handfuls of interesting folks from all over the globe signaled good things to come.

From Dali, I headed as close to Tibet as i will go on this trip, to the city of Lijiang. Another backpacker mecca, Lijiang's old town is a winding maze of cobble stone streets, lined with more useless tourist crap and some entertaining streets sings.

The town itself was nothing too special, but it was the jump off point for the Tiger Leaping Gorge, the highlight of my 5 months in China. With a group of fellow travelers, I embarked on a 3 day trek of the gorge, named after a famed tiger, who according to local legend, was being chased all over China, and eventually came face to face with the surging rapids of the Yangszte river, which slices through the second deepest canyon in the world. With no other alternatives, the tiger took his historic/mythological leap over the river and the rest is history.

From the onset of the trek we were chaperoned by a seemingly friendly man on a donkey, who cautiously followed our group. We debated his presence, wondering if it was included in the 50 yuan park entrance to prevent naive foreigners from wandering off the trail. His intentions quickly came to light, as one of the group members struggled to make it up a steep pass, and donkey man, as we came to immortalize him, came to the rescue and offered up the back of his sturdy, 4 legged companion, charging 140 yuan for his services. Once we reached our destination, the sun was setting over the gorge and we were face to face with the most massive mountain i have ever encountered. It took up my entire field of vision, which can't possibly be communicated through pictures, but here's a sample.
It will go down as one of the most impressive natural sights I've ever witnessed. Darkness soon prevailed, giving way to the best star gazing I've experienced in China, which compared to previous attempts, felt like a thick layer of Chinese smog had been squeegeed from my pupils.

Back in Lijiang, the scene was set for lunar new years. I didn't have high expectations for this event because most Chinese folks told me that people generally just light fireworks and stay at home with their families. This turned out to be a pretty accurate forecast, but new years eve ended up greatly surpassing my expectations. Never have my ears been bombarded with such a continual assault, not even 4th of July in East Oakland. From 11:45pm to 12:30am, there wasn't a single moment of silence or clear sky. Bootleg Chinese fireworks of varying degrees of quality and safety erupted into the night sky, or in the faces of innocent onlookers, in what was the closest experience I've ever had to being in a war zone. This was the first time i really felt completely removed from the western world, despite the fact that the display took place in the foreground of the local KFC. All over China, since there's only one time zone for this whole massive nation, the scene was likely identical, a sky full of bright lights and explosions, while the majority of the rest of the globe was carrying on business as usual. The festivities continued for the next 5 days, marked mostly by a continuous flow of fireworks, usually ignited by small children who could barely tie their shoes - if they were wearing any.

What I thought was my symbolic exodus from China took place before getting my passport stamped, on a one hour flight to Jinghong, located a few hours north of the China-Laos border. The airborne journey replaced what would have been a grueling 20 hour bus ride traversing its way down 6,500 feet of mountain terrain into the tropics. As fate would have it, the carrier for the flight was none other than "Lucky" airlines, which only became known to me at the airport check in. The thought of blasting through the atmosphere at 30,000 feet in a massive steel vessel already makes me search for a higher power to answer my prayers. Combine this with an overcompensating name like "lucky air" and you have a passenger who is ready to join an evangelical church. After a turbulent hour, I touched ground in the tropics and contemplated hugging a palm tree. Before my flight i symbolically deserted my $9 jacket which i had been wearing every day for the previous 5 weeks, evidenced by multiple grease stains resulting from careless noodle soup consumption. Its now perfectly clear that I'm not built to live in a place which suffers through freezing cold winters.

It suddenly appeared that China as I knew it was in the rear view mirror. Bilingual street signs lead the way in Chinese and Burmese, monks roamed the streets, and sandals and shorts were the normal attire. Vendors selling coconut milk and pineapple on a stick produced flashbacks of past trips to the tropics. This all felt like i had left china, at least until i officially crossed the border into Laos, which is another world entirely....

The Dirty South

China's Guanxi province, population roughly 49 million, is a place i thought only existed in the land of my limitless imagination. All of the exaggerated expectations I had of this nation seemed to appear somewhere in my whirlwind 10 day stay here. Karst limestone peaks burst through the soil, reaching for the sun like mother natures equivalent of the Mayan pyramids. On every block, some form of spicy noodle aroma penetrates your nostrils. People are swimming in the river, meaning it's at least clean enough for your body to not dissolve upon contact. Old fishermen drift slowly downstream on handmade bamboo rafts. Amongst the beauty are shocking and sometimes depressing reminders. In my first destination here, Guilin, I passed a strange spectacle on the way into town, known as the "Bear and Tiger Mountain Village." I would later learn that here you can supposedly witness a group of calf's being introduced into an arena of famished tigers, who predictably tear them to shreds. Elsewhere, dog carcasses hang on meat hooks, while their kin sit idly in inhumanely small cages awaiting a similar fate. Nearby, a mountain of de-fleshed canine skulls, eyeballs still intact, sit staring at every would be customer. Walking the streets means constantly being greeted with a friendly hello, but most of these are followed by a sales pitch of "bamboo, bamboo," for a tour of the Li river on a bamboo raft, or "pretty young girl, sex message for you," no further explanation needed. I eventually caved in to the former offer, and with the help of a local, it ended up being one of the highlights of Guangxi.

On a day trip from Guilin, i went on a day tour of the Devils Backbone Rice Terraces, which are named for obvious reasons. Before continuing, I must make it clear as day that i hate organized tours, but due to time constraints this was the only feasible option. The site itself was amazing, with rice terraces snaking around a mountain of a mountain and disappearing into the foggy horizon. Still, the most memorable event of the day was a trip to a traditional village of the Miao, an ethnic minority in China, with a population of about 10 million. This topic brings me great discomfort because I cant really offer up any kind of practical solution. Amongst a group of other tourists, i was led through these peoples village as they supposedly engaged in their typical day to day affairs. The mirage of daily life was lifted by the end of the tour, as the tourists were treated to a performance of singing and dancing, followed by a mock wedding ceremony, in which 4 lucky foreigners were chosen from the crowd to join their pretend bride. Although slightly amusing at the time, I was nearly sick to my stomach at the thought of treating these peoples home like a living museum. Still, I couldn't help but take a few pictures.
Tourism provides these people with a great deal of their livelihood, but it seems unfortunate that it has to come from such an exotification of their culture. At least the Chinese are making an effort to preserve their diverse ethnic minority communities rather than eradicate them, like some unmentioned countries. It was fascinating to get a glimpse of these people, but I couldn't help but feel uncomfortable watching a couple feed their baby in front of their living room fire pit.

The majority of my time in Guanxi province was spent in the small river town of Yanshuo. Despite a plague of tourist focused businesses, this was my favorite place thus far in China. The surrounding area is full of small villages, temples, rice paddies and unreal rock formations. While browsing a menu in a local restaurant, I encountered a group of Chinese art students who proposed that I join them for dinner, since I was dining alone. According to lonely planet, this is the setup for a sure fire swindling in the immediate future. Despite this and the communication barrier resulting from our respective lack of English and Chinese ability, i joined the party. We feasted on the local specialties of beer fish, and chili snails, while attempting to string together some form of a conversation. This never really got any farther than me telling them my father was born in China, and that the food was delicious, but everyone seemed to be satisfied by the end of the meal. Not only did they not swindle me, they refused to let me pay, and we spent the rest of the night together in a bar, laughing at our inability to communicate.

The highlight of the region was definitely my accepting the offer for "bamboo, bamboo." This is almost entirely due to the fact that I went with a local, the owner of the restaurant where I met the honest art students. So, by the good grace of her presence, I was able to get a discount of about 70%. The cruise began from a famed spot, which is featured prominently on the back of the 20 yuan note.

From here, we rode upstream for about an hour, passing various rock formations known by such majestic names as snail hill and snow lion ridge, which all looked beautiful, but indistinguishable to me.

We were suckered into stopping on a small island, inhabited by an ocean of seafood vending women, but thanks to the local discount, managed to feast on fried shrimp cakes and an entire fried fish on a stick for $1.50. We made a u turn with the sun setting to the west, and a full moon rising in the east. So, the majority of the ride back home looked something like this.
I could easily have stayed another month in this place, but the combination of the weather being colder than I'd like, and the fact I'd already booked an outgoing flight, means I'll just have to come back again. The very next day, I touched down hundreds of miles away in Kunming, the capital of the Yunnan Provence. More to come...