The End (Sort of)

Here I am, back at the Rainbow Guest House at Khao San Road, Bangkok. I had meant to spend these last couple days catching up on stories from China and everything I missed in Vietnam, but I instead spent it wandering and reflecting on where I had been and how I had changed in these past two months.

Mostly, I was just plain tired. Two months living out of a backpack and crashing in hostel dorms and air mattresses just about bled my energy and comfort levels dry and right around the end of my time in Beijing I was very ready to go home. This was partially the result of the physical stress of traveling, but mostly I had reached a point where I was tired of traveling being the only thing that I did. I began to feel uncharacteristically unproductive and longing just to DO something. Anything.

I realize that this will be the only time in my life where my only responsibility is finding the next cool tourist site to visit, but despite how much I've loved it, it grew thin near the end. One important thing I've learned about myself in these past few months has been that I could never be one of those people who simply does nothing. It's nothing against those people; it's just not me. I missed my desk and computer and cup of coffee in the morning. I missed afternoon runs. I missed studying or working on something. And I think that's a very good thing.

Over the next couple weeks I'm going to work on telling all the stories that I have missed and I'm excited (because there are some really good ones). But to sum it all up in an irresponsibly similar format...

Things I've eaten: pad thai, all kinds of curries, Burmese noodles, the freshest fruit and juices I've ever had, scorpions, crickets, chicken hearts, chicken heads, pho, chao, com, stingray, squid, dumplings in the best restaurant in Asia, and all kinds of authentic Chinese food that absolutely destroyed my stomach

Things I've ridden: planes, trains (regular and insanely high-speed), buses, vans (with maniac drivers), tuk-tuks, my motorbike (miss you, Nixon), elephants (miss you too, Lotus Flower)

Things I wish I saw more of: southern Vietnam, Shanghai, soccer, the Angkor temples

Things I saw too much of: Bangkok

I maybe could have done a bit more but I definitely could have done a hell of a lot less, and the fact that I'm ready to go home is an indication that I made the most of my time. I may return some day. I may not. Either way, this place will always be a part of me. And I'm glad for that.

A few thank yous

As I am planning my last few weeks in Asia and taking a look at where I've been and where I'm going, I feel the need to thank all those who have helped make this trip possible, either through financial assistance, advice, emotional support, what have you. This definitely would not have been possible without the help of many of you, and I am forever grateful. I will certainly be in touch with all of you to thank you in person in the near future, but special thanks in advance to SS, JM, EB, RC, CL, MK, and TK for all your help.

The Beijing Tea Party

"Tea?! Did you say tea?! Demian, get out of there right now! You have to get out!"

"Stu, what? What are you talking about? I'm just sitting having tea."

"Just get out! Now!"

Tarantino rewind. I'm in Beijing now. I have a lot of catching up to do with regards to this blog, including most of our southern travels in Vietnam, the journey to Beijing, some midnight debauchery on the Great Wall, a football (soccer) game, and lots and lots of food poisoning. But first, there was the Beijing Tea Party.

I'm staying with one of my best friends from college who lives in a cool little expat neighborhood right down the street from Worker's Stadium (home of the not-so-legendary Guo An Football Club, of which I am now a fan). He works at a nonprofit here and although he was able to take a few days from work to show me around the Great Wall and Xi'An, he returned to work on Wednesday leaving me to explore the city on my own.

Yesterday was a sick day for most of the morning. I rolled around in my intermittent intestinal misery and sipped Gatorade and ginger ale until my energy began to return. At around 2:30, I decided to go for a run to Tiananmen Square, about 4.5 miles away.

The smog had cleared but the sun was beating down at between 4 and 5 kajillion degrees, leaving me dizzy, dehydrated, and slightly delirious by the time I reached the Square. But I had made it, and I took some time to walk around the outskirts of what I later learned was the Forbidden City across from the Square.

It was here where I met Cah'Li (best guess on the spelling, but it sounded like "Colleen" without the "n"). Cah'Li was a friendly, near middle-aged traveler from a town just north of Xi'An. She was in Beijing for five days, seeing a few sights before she headed back home to work. We walked for a while, she practiced her English and asked questions about America. I asked questions about her home and Beijing. It was refreshing to meet someone who was completely friendly but not trying to sell me anything.

Then she suggested that we stop for a cup of tea.

She led me to a small cafe on a side street near the subway station and we sat down in a private room. I ordered an orange juice and a water and she ordered a pot of tea and some snacks. We kept talking. I guzzled down the juice and had a few polite sips of tea here and there. About ten minutes pass before I decide to call my friend, Stu, to get directions on the subway back to his apartment.

"Hey, what's going on? How was the run?"

"Good, I'm heading back in a few minutes. Just finishing up some tea with a new friend I made."

"Tea?! Did you say tea?! Demian, get out of there right now! You have to get out!"

So here's what I didn't know. Apparently a common scam around the Tiananmen area is to invite a tourist in for some tea and then charge them exorbitant prices for it. Usually it's about $100 for a pot of tea. Sometimes it can be a couple thousand. If the person resists, there are often large thugs who implement a more physical form of persuasion.

I didn't know any of this. All Stu told me was that it was a scam and I needed to get out. I hung up the phone and all of a sudden the room looked and felt very different. Cah'Li wasn't speaking, just looking at me and smiling. I calmly explained that something had happened to my friend and I needed to leave. Cah'Li called for the check.

Sure enough. 600 RNB (about $100). This included a $50 pot of tea and a $20 room charge. Then the yelling started.

I explained that I was not going to pay anything close to this and that I didn't even have that much on me (I had about 100 RNB with me). They insisted that I use a credit card or get my friend to bring money. We argued back and forth for a few minutes. I shook my head and handed them what I owed for the water and juice, which was about 70 RNB.

"I'm keeping this last 25 for a cab ride home. That is all that you're getting."

"You not going to pay?! You American man make woman pay?!"

"Sorry, but yes. That's what's happening."

Cah'Li and the waitress began shouting with each other in Chinese and I rose from my chair. "I'm leaving," I said, and made my way to the door. The waitress moved to block it and I was forced to lower my shoulder and shove my way through, running for the front door and into the street. I ran the couple of blocks to the subway station and disappeared into the crowds.

China has been an adventure so far. It's an entirely different world from southeast Asia, an almost polar opposite culture, and it's all very very strange but completely fascinating. I'm glad that I was able to make it up here and see a completely different face of Asia, and I'm incredibly happy to be able to spend some time with my friend and see the world he has lived in for two years. The journey continues.

Southbound Day Six: The Descent into Chaos

We started the day in a motorcycle dealership. We were rested and well, but Ruby had a hole in her gas tank which needed to be repaired and on Vietnam time that took until noon. But we got it done, paid the bill and we were off, blazing down the highway once again headed for Phong Nha.

Everything was going so smoothly. We rode fast, weaving past rice fields and through valleys making great time on our way until we reached the mountains. The last time my bike broke down was on a hill, and these hills just outside Phong Nha proved to be just as difficult. I sputtered along as well as I could for a while before Richard Nixon (which is the name of my bike if I haven't mentioned that already) coughed out its last breath on the side of the ridge in the middle of nowhere with not a soul in sight.

I pumped at the kick start to no avail and resigned myself to wheeling it as far as I could while Ruby rode ahead to find help or gasoline or whatever it was that I needed to make the last 30 kilometers to Phong Nha. That was the last I saw of her for a few hours. I rode down the hills in neutral when I could, but spent most of the time pushing that hunk of metal up the scorching hills of the Vietnam countryside.

After about an hour, a group of locals pulled up on motorbikes and began shouting in Vietnamese. They tried their best to get it started but nothing seemed to work. They shouted and laughed and pointed at the stars and stripes on one of my bags, trying desperately to cross the language barrier that would prove to be the ultimate challenge of our brief relationship.

Finally, they tied my bike to the back of a scooter and began towing me to the next town. We arrived in a dusty street lined with huts under the shadow of mountains where Ruby was waiting. They pulled me to a garage and by the time I stepped off my bike there were at least ten Vietnamese locals shouting at me, pointing at different parts of the bike, and trying their best to figure out what had happened. They unstrapped my bags and pulled my bike into the garage before I could resist and I quickly called our friends in Hanoi to try to scrap together some semblance of guidance. Fleur and Hop told us to get out of that garage and head to a garage in Phong Nha, which was a mere 15 kilometers away. They gave the locals directions to the garage and we got a tow into town for a scammer's price of 300,000 dong (about $15).

When we arrived in Phong Nha, the tower (and his friends who followed him) stopped short of the destination and demanded an additional 700,000 dong (about $40) which was a ludicrous demand given the eight kilometers we had to travel. A waitress at a nearby restaurant joined the commotion. Two kids playing "Gangnam Style" on a cell phone ran circles around us. Another Vietnamese girl approached us and tried to help us make sense of the situation. I was on the phone with the Australian who owned the hotel we were trying to reach trying desperately to figure out where we were and where we were supposed to go while chaos escalated around me.

In the end, we found a local point of interest, a small dive called "Jungle Bar" and waited for the Australian to pick us up while the scammers waited for their extra payment, which I had no intention of delivering. When they positioned their bikes around us, blocking us to the curb, I made a fake phone call to the tourist police and they scattered, leaving Ruby and I alone at the bar to try to make sense of what the hell had just happened to us.

The Australian was drunk when he pulled his roofless Jeep to the curb, but the mere sight of him almost made me cry. He spoke English. He was here to help us. He was taking us to a bed.

He ordered a beer which he hid under his hat next to the stickshift as he drove us to the Phong Nha Farm Stay. And here I am, sitting at a table, surrounded by Westerners for the first time since I left Hanoi. I ate a cheeseburger for dinner and it was simultaneously the worst and best burger I have ever had in my life.

All is well in the jungle. I'm fucking going to sleep.

Southbound Day Three, Four, and Five: Into the Wild

Day Three

Mai Chau marks one of the beginning points of the Ho Chi Minh Trail on the northern end. It is, however, far from a highway. Our first day on the trail and our third day traveling was a scrappy winding ride through dirt paths, jungles, and villages. We stopped for directions frequently from the start to make sure we were on the proper path and it was one of these stops that introduced us to Nu. 

Nu was about fifteen years old, spoke English very well, and was insistent on showing us her house down the street. She led us across a bridge to a small village where her home sat overlooking a river. She poured us tea, told us to sit down, and began telling us about her life, her school, and asking us questions about America and our travels. She was energetic, pleasant, and one of the nicest people I've met on the trip thus far. Our brief visit with Nu was one of many little glimpses into the lives of the people we pass on the road. Wherever we go, children see us and smile, wave, and shout "Hellooooooo!" It was an odd feeling at first, but I've come to love the small insights into people's worlds that we've been able to experience on this trip.

We found one more that day although under slightly worse circumstances. Around mid-day, Ruby hit a corner too hard, braked on some loose dirt, and took a rough spill, the first (and luckily only) crash of the trip so far. We managed to get her up and going and we soon found a gas station where she was able to get patched up.

At the station, two men about my age brought me into a small room with a bed, a television, and a few windows overlooking the backyard. They served me chicken, soup, peanuts, and beer (which I had to refuse many many times). They showed me pictures on their phone of similar-looking pale-faced tourists that had passed by and it quickly became clear that they wanted to party with me the way these bearded tank-topped travelers had. But we ventured on. 

We stayed in a small town called Ngoc Lac that night, got mended properly by an actual doctor, and fell asleep almost instantly. 

Day Four

The following day was a day of highs and lows. We rode out of Ngoc Lac early in the morning and found straight, open highway for the first time on our trip. No more twisting jungle roads and devilish patches of gravel. There were road signs and guard rails and divider lines painted in the middle of the road and it was glorious. 

As we pressed on, however, Ruby began to feel sick. The weather was darkening and although we only faced a light drizzle, it appeared that a storm was ahead. We took a gamble and blared forward, set on reaching Pho Chau, the next large town on the map, by nightfall. When the rain began to pound, we took refuge in the roadside home of a small family, had some tea, and waited for it to fade. It lightened a bit, but after about an hour, we were once again in the midst of a full-fledged storm. We rode on, edging the turns carefully and flying through the mists as quickly as we could. 

We made it to Pho Chau just as the sun was setting, settled into a hotel, and called a doctor. Ruby was developing a fever and was feeling worse by the minute. The doctor arrived on a motorbike and we began the frustrating back-and-forth of Google Translate messages, explaining what had happened, asking questions, and contemplating sending Ruby back to Hanoi on a bus. 

In the end, we got some medications, checked them out online to be safe, and went to bed. 

Day Five

We both felt better in the morning but took the day to rest and recover in Pho Chau. Nothing eventful happened. I went for a run and ate some Pho. Bye. 

Southbound Day Two: The Mountain Pass

"Well my only idea is to crawl into that bush over there and die in this tiny Vietnamese town. Got anything better?"

These words exited my mouth as Ruby and I sat dejected on the edge of a sidewalk, 20-30 kilometers from our destination. My clothes were drenched in sweat and I continued to drip more. My skin was burned and I was so dehydrated I could barely see a few feet in front of me. My broken motorbike stood a few feet away, I had no idea where I was, I didn't speak the language, and I had absolutely no idea what to do.

The day had started out pleasantly enough. We rode from one small town to the next on the dusty Vietnamese roads skirted by jungles. We were on our way to Mai Chau, the beginning of the Ho Chi Minh Trail where we were to meet Manh, a friend of Fleurr, who promised us a nice stay at his guesthouse resort.

We made it about twenty kilometers before my bike sputtered and stalled out for the first time. We found refuge in the shade of an old garage where I drained the carburetor and made a few little tweaks to get going. When it broke down a few minutes later, we were at the foot of a small garage in a little roadside town that seemed to consist of just a few houses and restaurants.

It's worth noting here that in this part of Vietnam, every home seems to be a store. Houses have open fronts with glass cases where you can buy water, energy drinks, and a few other things depending on the place. Some people have kitchens where you can eat a meal. Many have garages where they can change your oil or make repairs. But everywhere we stop seems to be a person's home rather than an establishment.

It took about three or four hours for them to fix my bike and about twenty minutes for it to break again, leading me to realize that they had no idea what I was talking about when I tried to pantomime the problem. While they had been making their repairs they would hold up spare parts and point to them, indicating that this was what they were fixing and in my naivete I let them do it, figuring they knew much better than I.

But I learned. When I broke down on that blindingly hot stretch of road I reached a point of helplessness I had never felt before. I didn't know whether I should try to get to where I was going or head back to Hanoi. I didn't know how I was going to get to either place. I didn't know if the next mechanic was going to rip me off or just misunderstand me. I was disoriented and fatigued from the heat and since I didn't know what to do or where to go, I just sat on the curb.

We finally found a mechanic and put them on the phone with our friends in Hanoi who were able to help the bike get fixed for good (at least for now) and we were back on our journey, despite the minor mental breakdown that preceded it.

It was sunset when we entered the mountain pass and about twenty minutes later it was completely dark. It was then that I realized my headlight didn't work. I followed close behind Ruby, keeping my turn signal on so she could see me as we wound through the twisted mountain roads. We went up and down hills, across dirt paths and alongside steep declines, all in total darkness. Sometimes there were guard rails, sometimes there were not. If my bike broke down again, I don't know what I would have done. If one of us was hit by any of the speeding trucks or motorbikes that passed us, I don't know what I would have done. It took about an hour, but it was one of the most terrifying hours of my life and certainly the most dangerous thing I have ever done.

But we made it. The sight of streetlights had never been as beautiful as they were when we rolled into Mai Chau.

We called Manh and he met us on the main road and escorted us through the rice fields to his quiet, secluded resort. He showed us the dorm-style bungalow where we would sleep and served us a feast that we scarfed down as quickly as we could. That night we followed the sound of music to a field outside Manh's resort to see a series of bonfires with Vietnamese children and adults dancing around the flames. There were deejays playing music, people playing games, and dancers performing rituals. They quickly grabbed us and we joined one of the circles, attempting to follow the steps and not appear as the delirious sunburned giants we were.

It was our first full day of the trip and it was a fine start.

Southbound Day One: Buying the bikes, breaking the bikes, and braving Hanoi

Greetings from the other side of the world! It's been a long time since I've written since I haven't had reliable internet since I left Cambodia. I still need to write about the Angkor temples (they were beautiful) and adventures in Hanoi (which could take up a book), but I'm going to jump forward a bit to the point where I bought a motorbike, found the highway, and drove south.

I met my friend (who wishes to remain anonymous so will henceforth be referred to as Ruby) in Hanoi and aside from exploring the town and all the wonderful things it had to offer, our chief concern was finding motorbikes, learning to ride them, and beginning our trek down the Ho Chi Minh Trail, her to Saigon, me to DaNang.

We met up with a spunky Kiwi girl named Fleur and her Vietnamese counterpart Hop, who showed us a few options and took us for some test drives, explaining the basic mechanics, how to make small repairs, and what to do in emergencies.

After buying two and filling out the necessary paperwork, we had to drive the bikes through downtown Hanoi, which is chaos in its purest form. The streets are a teeming sea of motorbikes, pedestrians, and automobiles, all going every which way at varying speeds, honking and sputtering along the way. Driving in that city reminded me of swimming into a school of fish in Koh Phi Phi in that everything seems to flow around you. You cross an intersection with bikes coming toward you from all directions, yet as long as you continue to go straight, everyone will weave around you.

After Fleur gave us a big hug and wished us safe travels, she paid a local moto driver to escort us out of the city and near the highway which would lead us to Mai Chau, the beginning of the Ho Chi Minh Trail. From there it was a long stretch of highways and roadside stands, small towns caked with red dust and dry heat, pulling out the map whenever we got lost (which was frequently), and pounding bottles of water under the brutal Vietnamese sun. After beginning our trip heading in the complete wrong direction, we finally got on course on a stretch of highway that weaved through the countryside. We rolled past green mountains and hills dotted with rice farms. We weave between small herds of cows that walked the streets. We made it as far as we could before Ruby experienced the first of three flat tires on day one of our trip. Luckily, as we soon found, just about everyone in small Vietnamese towns is a mechanic, or at least knows their way around the basics of a motorbike.

Ruby got another flat in the next town as the sun was beginning to set, so we got a quick meal, found a cheap homestay, and quickly fell asleep. This was the beginning of what would be a chaotic journey and it was easily the tamest day that we experienced on the road thus far.

Runnin' with the Buddha

We're blaring down a dusty road in a packed van at what looks like 100 mph and a Cambodian child keeps poking me. This was my morning bus/van ride from Phnom Penh to Siem Reap, wedged in a tight minibus with a very nice German doctor and two or three Cambodian families, the children of which all decided to scream for most of the ride. The countryside roared by and I slept, at least as well as I could with my knees pulled to my chin. 

The previous afternoon I had spent wandering around Phnom Penh and walking along the Mekong. The riverside seemed like an area that combined all different facets of Cambodia culture and I could have walked its banks for hours. Monks in orange robes walked alongside children. Teenagers played soccer on the tiled walks. The ledge along the river was lined with people relaxing, smoking cigarettes, selling foods and spices, and the scent of incense from a communal wat hung in the air. Laughter and shouts mixed with the everpresent rumble of motorbikes and music played from boom boxes. After about 20 minutes I was hailed down by a man named Palong (I think) who sat down with me and asked me questions about America. His daughter was actually heading to Washington, D.C. to study nursing, and when I told him I had lived there (and previously worked in healthcare) he called her on the phone to speak with me. There was a muffled shout, followed by Palong explaining that she was on the toilet and we laughed and parted ways.

I had a few drinks at the Foreign Correspondents Club, a cream-white Victorian building sticking out from the main road with a beautiful view of the river and the streets below. I imagined the place packed with journalists in the 70s, covering the history of the Khmer Rouge which I had learned in greater detail that morning, but the place seemed to be more of a tourist destination now. 

I journeyed onward, seeing what I could of the city while I was there. Phnom Penh is gritty and real. This is a place where people over 40 years old or so witnessed first hand the single greatest devastation their country had ever seen. You can walk a single road and see sadness, anger, optimism, and disregard in the people who live here. I'm not a poverty tourist, and I don't ever intend to become one, but I appreciated seeing the honesty of the people and culture of Cambodia. There were very few neon-drenched roadside stands selling "I (heart) PP" tee shirts and visors like you see in Bangkok or Koh Phi Phi. In Phnom Penh you see people actually living their lives. 

When I arrived at Siem Reap I walked for a bit with my German friend then parted ways to find a hostel. I wandered into one called "The Backpackers Hostel" which seemed fitting enough, and was greeted by a very eager tuk tuk driver and his friend shoving a shot of whiskey into my face. I sat with them and another German tourist for an hour or so, eating lunch and having a few drinks at the persistence of the driver, and booked a tour of Angkor Wat for 5am the next morning. When I went up to my room later in the afternoon, one of the drivers was vomiting on the tile of the second floor, screaming what I can only assume were curses at the top of his lungs. He slept there for most of the day. This is an odd place.

I wandered through town for a bit in the afternoon, then went out for my first run since I began traveling. Whenever I'm in a strange place, I always like to go for a long run with no destination as a way to see new things and get lost in weird places. My hostel sits alongside a river, so I ran along its bank until I got to the end, looped around, then ran down the other side for about a mile or two before turning back (as some pretty serious storm clouds were fast approaching). It was dangerously hot and I had to juke out a few motorbikes as I crossed intersections, but that only added to the thrill and it certainly beat my multiple loops around the reservoir in Richmond. 

It was a lonely day. The past couple days have been since I parted ways with my friends in Bangkok. I've passed the two-week point and am starting to feel a bit exhausted and overwhelmed, but the thrill at each corner continues and that pushes me forward. I'm off for my sunrise Angkor Wat tour tomorrow morning, then catching a night bus back to Phnom Penh for a flight to Hanoi the following afternoon, so the next couple days will be a bit of a whirlwind, but that's what I signed up for. 

Cambodia Day One, Morning: Killing Fields and Tuol Sleng

Cambodia was almost exactly what I was looking for. This came as a surprise, considering everyone with whom I spoke before this trip encouraged me to only spend a few days here. I could get lost here for weeks. My first day was essentially split in half, a morning of shock and reflection followed by an afternoon of awe. Here's the tough part.

I landed in Phnom Penh at 9am with about three hours of sleep logged in. I looked up a hostel in my Lonely Planet guide while waiting in line in immigration, picked one that sounded decent, and hailed a tuk tuk into town outside the airport. I dropped off my bags, paid for a night, and hopped in another tuk tuk for a day trip to see the Killing Fields and Tuol Sleng genocide museum. The ride to the outskirts of town demonstrated to me the madness of this place. There don't seem to be one- or two-way streets here, only roads filled with motorbikes and tuk tuks packed with people driving in whatever direction they feel like. The panicked driver in me foresaw at least twelve accidents on the road, but they handle it with precision. Unlike Bangkok, Koh Phi Phi, or even Chiang Mai, this is not a place for tourists. I have seen very few in my one day here. It's a place where the culture and unfortunately the poverty is very real, and you can see it everywhere.

My eyes and throat were raw with gasoline fumes and dust kicked up from the street by the time we reached the Killing Fields of the Khmer Rouge. The experience was unlike anything I had seen on my trip thus far. Pol Pot's haunting legacy was left in this roadside memorial to the devastation he created. The dirt roads studded with bones jutted between the concave remains of mass graves and memorials to the dead. Altars were resurrected along the way, some studded with memorial bracelets, others with excavated jawbones. The most haunting realization of this very dark place is the fact that the bones continue to rise from the earth with each rainy season, a continual memory to the hell that the dictator unleashed on these people.

Two things about the Killing Field struck me in very different ways, aside from the horror the experience is supposed to create. First, next door to the memorial, a mere fifty feet from where tourists and locals alike were paying homage, a resort was hosting some sort of party with a full DJ and loudspeaker. The contrast between the solemn dictation of the audio tour and the pounding bass of "Gangnam Style" in the distance was haunting in a very different way. Like any region that has experienced a tragedy like this, there are people who remember it and people who don't. When I arrived at the memorial stupa, a forty-foot tower of human skulls and bones in the center of the field, I saw four very young kids standing on the edge and dancing for the tourists, the walls of skulls at their backs.

Second, at around the middle of the tour there's a long trail that runs alongside a lake, which is essentially another mass grave that they have chosen not to excavate. At this point of the tour, visitors are encouraged to listen to any of the eleven stories from the genocide that are a part of the audio tour. This is also where a legless Cambodian man hangs by the fence, beckoning tourists to give him money. He is impossible to ignore, especially surrounded by such gravity, but it is also impossible to see his presence as manipulative. He, like many other people of this nation, is a victim to the horrors of Cambodia. Over the course of the day, I saw many people just like him, preying on tourists and begging relentlessly. Even tuk tuk drivers here don't try to sell you on the sights; they beg. They tell you that they need the work and ask for your help, which makes them difficult to ignore.

The Tuol Sleng genocide museum was haunting simply in its presence and the story that it tells. There's little I can say that isn't inherent in the story. The museum was a converted high school that was used by the Khmer Rouge as a prison and torture chamber for several Cambodian citizens. The museum walks you through the cells, the torture devices, and the walls of faces of the victims. This last part was what affected me the most, because of one face in particular I spotted among the hundreds in the building.

I walked past the walls of photographs and at first was simply struck by the numbers, similarly to how the Vietnam Memorial in Washington, D.C. always leaves me breathless. But then I started looking closer, and putting each face in the context of the story, how each one of them felt and how their expression was a reflection of how they faced their death, which was staring them in the eye through a camera lens. Some of them glared with anger. Others gave blank stares. The one that floored me, second row, second from the left, simply looked away.

The Music of the Trip

Fair warning: This post is almost entirely for my own benefit and I doubt very many people will find it interesting.

I spend almost every waking moment listening to music and as a direct result, I tend to tie a lot of major events and periods of my life to specific songs and albums. I knew that this trip was going to be one of the most life-changing two months I had ever experienced going in, so it took me about five hours to select the songs I was going to take with me. I holed up in a Starbucks in Richmond, ordered two coffees and plugged in, poring through hundreds of gigs of music to make sure I had every song I could possibly need.

(Side note: For some strange reason, I totally missed "Holiday in Cambodia" by Dead Kennedys)

In the end, I crafted a masterpiece, a blend of favorites, new stuff, and albums I simply couldn't live without for any period of my life. What surprised me over the past two weeks are the songs that have stuck and will forever be tied to specific moments on this journey. Here are a few of them, again, entirely for my own benefit.

"Communist Daughter" by Neutral Milk Hotel

A stunningly beautiful song from one of my favorite albums, but far from my favorite song by the group. For some reason, this has been one of the crucial songs of Thailand, but for a very different reason. It pops up in times of extreme stress and anxiety. When a bout of homesickness settles in, or a lightning bolt of fear strikes in a crowded airport or street, this song puts me at ease. I use it like a drug, popping in my earbuds and letting the subtle, soft guitar calm every nerve as I blend into the chaos around me. I wish there was a better mantra for my anxiety than the refrain "semen stains the mountaintops" but for some reason, I find it soothing.

"Diane Young" by Vampire Weekend

The only reason this song (and album) made it on the list was because the group dropped it a few days before I left. This has become my song of transition. It played on repeat for most of my flight to Asia and has since been the soundtrack to long walks through airport terminals or train stations.

"In the Aeroplane Over the Sea" by Neutral Milk Hotel

Another song from the same album, but I have no regrets. It's one of the best albums ever made and this has been my song of bliss and beauty. "And one day we will die and our ashes will fly from the aeroplane over the sea, but tonight we are young, let us lie in the sun and count every beautiful thing we can see" has popped into my head in the bays of Koh Phi Phi, the hills of Chiang Mai, and most recently the Mekong River of Phnom Penh.

So there you have it. If you made it this far, at least listen to the songs and relax for a while. They're all beautiful.

Weird Mind Explosions

Now Playing: "Brain Stew" by Green Day

By traveling in a foreign country, it's inevitable that you do some exploring into your own mind. My first few days in Thailand were spent in a sort of numb haze, where all of what I was doing was inputting information and attempting to process it all. It was physically impossible for me to try to create anything or produce anything resembling an insight because I couldn't turn a corner without coming across something completely new and absolutely insane by my general understanding of the world that demanded my attention and forced me to think about it. It was an A.D.D. nightmare of distractions but it was beautiful. Now that the initial culture shock has faded, I can at least stop and think every once in a while, but there's still a bit of that fuzz that will probably never go away as long as I'm here.

When I'm home, the writing process is very simple. I pour a cup of coffee (or a glass of beer, depending on the time of day), I sit at my desk, and I open my computer. Everything around me is normal and static. My desk is still covered in Sharpie notes, my Buddha statues are in a row, and my SMBC "Life of Thought" poster is hanging in exactly the same place it always hangs. To my right, there's a little black rectangle that I can use to contact everyone I know. Everything is normal and comfortable so I can focus entirely on the white page in front of me.

Trying to write or even think about writing in Asia is like trying to take the SATs in the middle of an elementary school dodgeball match. I knew that things would be different here, but I had no comprehension that EVERYTHING would be different. If I see a dog on the sidewalk in Richmond, I can understand it and its general dogliness, I can process it, acknowledge its existence, and ignore it in less than a second. If I see a dog in Thailand, it's game over. The dog's face will be different. It will make a slightly different-sounding bark. It will probably be chasing a lizard. It will without a doubt be the craziest fucking dog I've ever seen and I will be forced to not only process the chaos of its existence, but also place that little dog in the context of this entire strange world around me. Where is this dog going? Where does it sleep? Who feeds it? Do Thai people think dogs are as cute as I do? Does this dog hate cats or does it have some other animal enemy I haven't seen yet?

Every waking moment is a mental exercise and it's all fascinating and exhausting. And thankfully, it was exactly why I came out here.

Swimming in the Sky

"But for now we are young, let us lie in the sun and count every beautiful thing we can see." - Neutral Milk Hotel

This is the first part of the trip that has involved chocolate truffles. They arrived on a tray that was also bearing apples, oranges, and bananas. Flowers came a few minutes later. We ate the truffles on one of our four balconies from the 59th floor overlooking the massive Bangkok skyline and spent the night relaxing on couches under a glass chandelier, enjoying a few glasses of wine as the city hummed around us. It was a fine way to cap off a day of travel from Kho Phi Phi.

But this demands some explanation and far more backtracking. Last Friday I left Chiang Mai to meet up with a few friends in Bangkok. We dove head first into the nightlife of Sukhumvit, eating meals at streetside restaurants, exploring dive bars, and getting lost in this chaotic city of neon lights and pounding bass. Saturday afternoon we bought tickets to a Muay Thai match and saw Thai boxers beat the crap out of each other to the wail of strange music and the crowd roared over the flurry of fists and sweat and crippling knockouts. It was unlike any sporting event I had ever seen in the sense of sheer speed and violence.

Up next on our journey was Koh Phi Phi, the tiny island best known as the setting of the movie The Beach. We spent four days and three nights on the island and it was a strange mix of local culture, tourist sleaze, and some of the most striking natural beauty I have ever seen. Turquoise water kissed the sand with green rocks and mountains studding the landscape. The streets twisted between two bays, lined with restaurants, tee shirt shops, and day trip vendors who shouted at tourists from their stoops. There were no cars and very few motorbikes, and the small town was filled mostly with people walking from place to place and people on bicycles weaving through the crowds shouting "Beep Beep!" as they passed.

We hiked the surrounding hills and kayaked in the bay for the first few days, and tried to avoid the beachside tourist traps at night, which were essentially like the Jersey Shore with fire dancers. But then, one beautiful day, we decided to take a day trip on a boat with a bubbly French tour guide and about 15 other travelers. They drove us out to the bay where we snorkeled around the reef for a while and leaped from the top of the boat's roof into the water. They took us to an island cove surrounded by mountains where we lied in the sand and walked through the jungle camps of the rangers who maintained the island.

At night we ate fried fish and rice on the deck of the boat under the stars. I've been living in cities for so long that I forgot what a secluded starry night looked like, and how awe-inspiring it can be. But that night came the favorite moment of this trip.

We knew that we would be swimming with the bioluminescent plankton that night, but we didn't quite know what to expect from it. We couldn't see them as we fixed our goggles and snorkels at the stern of the boat, and I was starting to doubt if it was going to be as beautiful of a sight as the one I had created in my head. I jumped in, but still saw nothing. I popped my head above water and heard our guide shouting "Shake Shake Shake!" I ducked my head below and waved my arms around to see beads of light trailing each of my movements. I wiggled my fingers and the lights danced and flickered like sparks in the sea. I kicked and shook and waved my arms like a conductor in the silent world below the water and generated swirls and streams of light with each motion. The light was all I could see, an expanse of blackness and silence broken by the stars I made with my body. It was a dream.

It was a beautiful way to end our trip, but our travels brought us back to Bangkok last night, where my friend was somehow able to land an affordable rate for a suite in the Lebua at State Tower hotel, a ludicrously luxurious hotel best known (and heavily marketed as) the hotel from The Hangover II. We're taking these days to rest and recover. One of my friends is pretty sick and I'm just exhausted from two weeks of traveling so far. I leave for Cambodia tomorrow and will once again be on my own, which scares me a bit. I still love living in the unexpected and being in a place where everything is new and different, but this week with my friends was great in that it brought me a sense of home. I've started to get bouts of homesickness here and there, missing a few things specifically, but overwhelmingly I miss the sense of familiarity. I miss waking up with the knowledge of my surroundings, a familiar place to sit and think, and the sense of control I have with my thoughts when I'm not constantly being bombarded with new sights and smells and information every second. But things are certainly better than they are worse, and the thirst for adventure still tingles. Off to Cambodia for Chapter Two.

The Northern Mountains: Day One

Now Playing: "Mountain Sound" by Of Monsters and Men

The mountain region to the north of Chiang Mai is one of the most beautiful places I've ever been.

Marco (my German counterpart) and I rode from Chiang Mai with two other travelers about an hour outside of the city and into the hills, beginning an overnight trip in the rural regions. Our journey began with a hike, where we met our guide, Paa. We appeared to get the only guide with a machete, which seemed like a good thing. Paa was also the only guide with a pet squirrel attached to a chain around his neck, which was an even better thing.

Paa showed us through the trails, picking berries and leaves and offering them to us to smell or eat. It was at this point that it began to strike me the almost insane level of trust I had been placing in the Thai people I relied on during my trip. Here was a man whose only qualification was the fact that he was standing outside the Jeep door when I got outside. Yet we put our lives in his hands and trekked onward through the hills.

The hike ended at a waterfall and Marco, the two British travelers and I swam and cooled off before hiking back.

From there, we rafted down a river to our home for the night, a resort-like series of huts built into the side of a hill along the river bank. We were surrounded by green mountains, tropical foliage, and silence, save the calling of birds and the occasional motorbike passing down the road.

I walked through the town that evening, seeing what I could of the small villages and homes, and waving to the people who lived there. The town reminded me of some of the small lake towns in New Hampshire only with bigger bugs, hotter sun, and many, many more Thai people. Also more motorbikes. And much better-smelling foods. Now that I think about it, the two places aren't that similar at all, outside of the fact that they have dirt roads and lots of trees. Here's a picture, judge for yourself.

Our two British friends left that evening, but Marco and I stayed at camp overnight, enjoying a huge meal of stews, rice, and soups with Paa and spending the rest of the night drinking Thai moonshine and eating dragonfruit in a circle with the other guides.

The following night (today) was one of my favorites of the trip so far and I can't wait to write about it. Hint: it involves elephants.

Tomorrow is my last night in Chiang Mai, and I hope to revisit the night bazaar and find a quality Chiang Mai restaurant for dinner before flying back to Bangkok tomorrow to meet with two friends from home. Things remain exciting. Confusing and sometimes overwhelming, but never boring. Onward.

Chiang Mai Part One: Northbound

Now Playing: "Road Trippin'" by the Red Hot Chili Peppers

I'm a little behind on posts. I haven't been in the room much since arriving at Chiang Mai and our hostel has an internet ration, so I have to catch up on everything in small bursts. But I hope to get up to speed by tomorrow morning.

(Side note: There are lizards crawling across the table in front of me and I keep having to shoo them away. I've never had this problem before.)

I arrived at the train station in Bangkok at around 11 a.m. on the 19th to board an overnight train to Chiang Mai. The night before I had wondered if the train would have wifi and I would be able to catch up on some writing and email-replying-to. I laughed at the thought of it as soon as I boarded. Blue seats, metal walls, rusty metal ladders leading up to the upper bunks, and long windows. That was about it.

I sat down across the aisle from a German backpacker named Marco and was soon joined by another German backpacker and a Chiang Mai local. We chatted for a while, had a few beers and some dried squid to start the trip as we rumbled our way through the Thai countryside. The train was hot and we would periodically have to lift the windows when we passed through small rainstorms. But the countryside was beautiful. The landscape alternated between small cities, slums, and open fields and farmland with controlled brush fires filling the cabin with smoke.

After the sun had set I bought a couple of chicken fried rice dishes for me and Marco, which ended up being the worst meal of the trip so far, but by far the best train food I've ever had. We chatted for a while, mostly about FIFA soccer and Bayern Munich (which was largely a one-sided conversation on his part) until it was time to fold out the upper bunk beds and confine ourselves to our respective tiny tube-shaped beds and attempt to fall asleep in the wet heat. My feet were propped up on my backpack, my arms were laced around a guardrail so I wouldn't fall, and anything valuable was hidden from sight as we chugged along to finish up the 14-hour train ride.

We arrived in the grey early morning and Marco and I decided to find a hostel in Chiang Mai together. In hindsight, I wouldn't say I regret this decision, but it has led to the adopted mantra "make friends, but not commitments". But that's a story for another lizard-infested night.

Tomorrow we are off on a two-day expedition through the jungles outside of Chiang Mai to hike, white-water raft, ride elephants, feed them, learn how to take care of them (get ready, roommates), and camp alongside the river. This is the part of the trip for which I have been most excited since I started planning it. Until departure, I'm off for some street food and the Chiang Mai night bazaar. I am slowly falling in love with this town.

Once more unto the breach

Now Playing: "Night of Wine and Roses" by Japandroids

It's 3:30 a.m. and I can't sleep. I'm sitting in the dark and empty restaurant underneath my hostel, staring out into the street that continues to hum with motorbikes and taxi cabs.

Today was a fitting mix of everything I wanted and didn't want for this trip. I woke early for breakfast and hung around the restaurant for Youngblood to wake up (his name is Alex, but he really likes the nickname). We got moving around 11 a.m. set on seeing what we could of the city. We downed some water and coffee and found a tuk-tuk driver named Moon outside the hostel. He promised us a day's tour for a cheap rate and we hopped in, racing off into the Bangkok morning.

The city was waking as we sped off toward the floating market outside the city. Gradually, the urban landscape faded off to dirt and gravel and townspeople who waved at the sight of us. We parked under a canopy of trees and walked over to the riverside marketplace, teeming and steaming with fried foods, chopped fruits and vegetables, and the murmured shouts of townspeople. The river was full of leaping catfish and slender boats sliced through them, wet tails slapping against the wood. Moon directed us to the boat of a friend of his and the four of us pedaled off through the quiet canals. We passed riverside homes, saw television sets propped up under canopies on the canal's edge. We ate lotus flowers from the water. Mansions stood alongside huts on the canal's edge, but all was beautiful.

We docked after an hour and ate a fried egg, shrimp, and bean sprout meal in the market. We walked through the shops, saw local children feeding long strands of grass to buffalo, saw dogs running through the aisles, and saw a very obese cat being gently fanned by his owner as he sat atop a pile of linens.

We drove onward, off to Wat Pho, the home of the reclining Buddha statue, and walked among the temple grounds for a good deal of time. I paid 20 baht for a handful of coins and dropped one in each of a long line of buckets along the Buddha's rear side, each clink of brass bringing a sense of ease and relaxation.

We drove on to a few more wats until it was late afternoon and Moon dropped us off at our hostel. After a bit of rest, we ate at a local shop and took a tuk-tuk to China Town, just to walk among the local side streets and take in the sounds and smells.

We returned to Khao San Road after about an hour and wandered to an outdoor bar for a few drinks. Youngblood (let's call him Alex from now on) was quiet, and as he stared off in a blank gaze I remembered what a confusing time it was to be 18 and in a strange place. For me, it was Baltimore. I couldn't imagine what was going through his mind and didn't get the chance as he left shortly to return to the hostel and call his parents.

I chatted up a group of three Irish girls for about an hour before he returned in better spirits and we made an evening of it. The five of us all drank too much and lost ourselves in the touristy mayhem of Khao San Road for a night, and although it was fun, it was a type of fun I could have found many other places in the world. We listened to bad acoustic guitar in the street. We made up backstories for the more creepy tourists we saw passing by. I lost a game of thumb war to a seven-year old Thai child and was forced to buy five roses which one of the girls fixed in her hair. It made me ready to leave Bangkok and eager to make the trip to Chiang Mai (which I guess begins in a mere seven hours).

It was a fun night, but it wasn't why I came here. I'm hoping to find something more meaningful than a party, and from all I've read of Chiang Mai, I might find it there.

The first day

Now Playing: "The Wanderer" by Dion

I love waking up in strange new places. I rustled awake around 3am this morning to the sound of thumping bass from the clubs outside, a light pattering of rain, and the murmur of six-or-so British girls moving into my hostel room. It took a few moments to remember that I was in fact, no longer in central Virginia. I woke again at 8am, headed downstairs to the cafe for some mango and a cappuccino, and here I am.

My first day in Bangkok was somewhat unbelievable. My hostel is exactly what you get when you only spend $7/night, a six-bunk dorm room with water puddling in the hallways and dripping from the ceilings from the bad piping and the showers that are really just hoses in the bathrooms. There's a cafe below the rooms which I've been using as a home base to relax, read, and write, although the menu is all Indian food, unfortunately.

After I finished writing my last post, I packed my bag and just wandered around Khao San Road and its outlying neighborhoods all day. I walked until I could no longer see white people. I was approached by countless number of tuk-tuk drivers trying to sell me tours around the city (which is a scam) and one who was absolutely adamant about selling me "massage and boom boom". I saw people of all different nationalities and varying degrees of hippies and bros. I saw people with families, couples, locals, musicians, photographers, expats, people seeking enlightenment, people seeking vice. It's the most diversity I've ever seen in one place. I breathed in the complex palate of smells, the foreign spices, the earthy scent of the alleyways, the cigarette smoke and sweat and flowers.

I ate two of the best meals I've ever had in my life. I wanted to find a gritty local place for my first meal in Bangkok and steered clear of the restaurants and bars crowded with backpackers. I found a place off a narrow side street with an open porch overlooking a street teeming with motorbikes and delivery trucks. The woman spoke very little English but the menu only had four items, so I pointed at one and she brought me this:

It cost a little over a dollar (including the beer) and it was better than any Thai food I've ever had in America.

I wandered some more after that, found my way to a wat near my hostel and attempted to meditate for a while under the shadow of two very beautiful golden Buddha statues.

Evening fell quickly, I had some of the best pad thai of my life, and headed to the hostel for a quick nap where I met Youngblood, unpacking his bags in the dorm. Youngblood was so named by his backpacker friends because he was only 18 (unfortunately I didn't catch his actual name). He was a British student at the tail end of a gap year before University and was doing the same thing I was, backpacking solo with friends meeting along the way. He had been motorbiking his way from Ho Chi Minh to Hanoi before he got sick and had to swing back up to London for a while, but was now back on the trails. We chatted for a bit and grabbed a few beers on Khao San Road, but by the end of the night the jet lag was beginning to take its toll and I was in a deep haze. We stopped back at the hostel for Youngblood to exchange some Vietnamese dong around 9:30 and unfortunately, I sat down on my bunk and fell immediately asleep.

Today I think we're planning on finding our way to the Bangkok zoo and possibly walking through China Town to eat some crab curry. I leave for Chiang Mai tomorrow afternoon on an overnight train for a whole new set of adventures, but I hope to get at least a glimpse of Bangkok during my brief stay.

I've only been here for a day, but this is likely going to be the coolest thing I've ever done and I have zero regrets.

It begins with a bang

Now Playing: "Communication Breakdown" by Led Zeppelin

I've been in Bangkok for about three hours now and it feels like I've been shot from a cannon. I landed around 7am feeling fuzzy but surprisingly awake after 24 hours of flying, navigating airports, and watching crappy airline movies. And now I'm in a hostel bar on Khao San Road drinking my first Chang Beer, people watching, and reflecting on the whirlwind that brought me here.

There have been several moments when this trip has felt more and more real. The first (and probably most emotionally significant) was when I closed my apartment door in Richmond behind me, knowing the key was in the hands of a subletter. The next was hugging my friend's mom (who had driven me to the airport) and walking into the airport alone.

The rest has been a blur. I remember being half-awake and trudging through the airport in Abu Dhabi, being bombarded with the scents of a thousand different perfumes and feeling like a minority as an American for the first time. I remember faces on the plane and half-eaten chickpea and curry dinners eaten at strange intervals as my biological clock struggled to catch up. And then I was here, bombarded with strange people speaking strange languages and everything moving a thousand different directions at once.

I studied the subtle differences on the cab ride to Khao San Road, the billboards, the pickup trucks and motorbikes packed with people, the street vendors peddling foods I can't wait to put in my mouth. I was dropped off in Khao San and approached by a chain-smoking tuk tuk driver who walked me over to the police station to give me a map and help me prepare for my trip to Chiang Mai in a few days. They tossed me into a tuk tuk headed for the Tourist Bureau and I was off once again, blaring through the streets of Bangkok in open air, all the sounds and smells and sights pouring over me as I sat back and let the ride take me.

I'm not going to remember writing this. I'm still in the static-filled, sleep-deprived fuzz of being in a place that's completely new. Future posts will be more coherent. But right now, I'm off to wander and see where these confusing streets take me.

Lost in the Woods

Now Playing: "Break on Through (To the Other Side)" by The Doors

I brainstormed about fifty titles for this blog, most of them toying with ideals of adventure, quarter-life crises, youth/adulthood, displacement, just about any other cliche you could apply to an already very cliche backpacking trip. Part of me thought that a title should be the last thing you give a piece of writing (or anything you create for that matter) because it seemed senseless to prematurely label something you haven't experienced yet. Another part of me thought that giving this thing a preemptive title would create a state of mind that would transform into the experience or define it in some way. The way people born into the name "Jeff" create their own brilliant and unique "Jeff-ness". I scribbled down "Nirvana Buffering" before I realized it was 3 a.m. and I was sleep-deprived, so I went to sleep. And when I went to sleep, I had a dream about the woods behind my childhood house.

When I was growing up in Massachusetts, I lived at the edge of a massive forest. It was the biggest, most mysterious place in the world and was filled with goblins, trolls, monsters, and other beasts of varying degrees of friendliness. I would stand in the back yard, poke my fingers through the holes in the chain-link fence, and stare out at the madness of branches and vines that stretched out into nothingness. I played by the fence, defending my home from armies of skeleton creatures by cursing them with a long, crooked stick I found in the yard (which is what gave me my magical powers). I orchestrated masterful military strategies and sent my elven and dwarfish troops onward into the dark, evil forest. They were proud to fight for 7 Quamhasset Drive, and they fought with honor. The woods were a hidden expanse of mystery I could see from my bedroom window and I could only imagine what they contained until the day I conquered them.

I hopped the fence and began walking through the brush, tromping through the battlefields where countless adventures had been waged. I walked for maybe ten minutes before the woods ended and I came to a road. I looked back and could see my house through the trees.

Traveling is my socially-accepted way of playing in the woods as an adult. My fence has twin engines and my elves are people with new cultures and ideas, but I'm approaching this trip with the same child-like wonder and imagination as I did in my brief career as a six-year old military leader. I hope to learn something, I hope to create something, and I hope to be a different person on the other side of the woods.