Friday, June 28, 2013
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.
"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.
Wednesday, June 12, 2013
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.
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
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.
Tuesday, June 11, 2013
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.
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.
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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.
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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.
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.
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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.
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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.
Sunday, June 2, 2013
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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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Saturday, June 1, 2013
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.
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.
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