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.