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…