Cambodia, Vietnam, and a Slice of Pai

When passengers of foot heave in sight, tootle the horn. Trumpet him melodiously at first, but if he still obstacles your passage then tootle him with vigour.
-Instructions from Asian car rental agency

There are places where a specific phenomena dwarfs all other sensations. In a brewery, the smell of hops and yeast dominates. In the Alaska Range, Denali soars uncontested above neighboring peaks. In South East Asia, it is the constant, unceasing sound of a million motorbikes and autos. -James T. Struan

Having 35 days until my new position began, I opted for a wander through Cambodia and Vietnam. This entry is a random account of the rhythms of third world budget travel. While Bill Bryson would not be jealous of my narrative, I somehow feel that he could relate. My journey begins in Bangkok.


greg-1-1-07 tagged map by user - Tagzania

Via bus, sky train and motorcycle taxi, I make my way to the Northern Bus Terminal. In this sprawling complex of competing bus companies, I find the correct connection to the border town of Aranya Prathet. Atleast, I hope it's correct. After finding the designated platform and pulling way from the station, I realize that no one has asked to see my ticket. The consequence of this is that no one has confirmed I'm on the right bus. On past bus trips there has always been a 'hostess' aboard, a woman who collects the tickets and (usually) distributes water and cokes.

So, traveling out of Bangkok, I resign myself to a state of complacent cluelessness. About two hours down the road, in the middle of nowhere, the bus pulls over and two hostesses board. Why there? Who knows. I consider it a success to have made the correct connection; understanding the nuances is pure bonus points.
The bus pulls into Aranya Prathet at 5:30 pm, and it's a two dollar tuk-tuk ride to the Cambodian border. I split the cost with a student from South Korea who is also exiting my bus.

Cambodia is like you're always tripping. -English teacher in Cambodia
The clash between this traditional culture and the modern world is part of the energy of Phnom Penh. A journalist remarks that, "This is a society that's been through hundreds of years of agrarian feudalism, twenty-three years of communism and isolation, ten years of foreign occupation, and then the world just flipped a switch and turned Cambodia into this democratic, capitalistic, open, developing country. You think there might be some tension created?"
-'Off the Rails in Phnom Penh: Into the Dark Heart of Guns, Girls and Ganja,' by Amrit Gilboa

My first task is to cross the Cambodian border with minimal damage to my wallet. A one-month tourist visa requires twenty dollars U.S., and a passport-size photo. However, the immigration officials routinely charge their own bribe, in this case a thousand Thai Bhat (about $29.). After some haggling, I give the officer two dollars. A reasonable amount of graft I can deal with.
I pass through Border Control and into the Cambodian town of Poipet. Here's a description from the Lonely Planet travel guide: "Viva poipet! Long the cesspit of Cambodia, sadly it's the first place in the kingdom many of you will witness. There's absolutely no reason to stick around here."

The town lives up to its description. While understanding third world destitution, I am also aware of the desperation it can engender. I put my wallet and valuables in a daypack, and wear it across my chest instead of on my back.

Unfortunately, it is too late to catch a bus for Phnom Penh, and I need to find accomodations for the night. Immediately I am hemmed in by touts, offering me taxis, hotels, and any other desire which might fatten their wallets. They jabber rapidly in what seems to be a mixture of Cambodian, Thai and a sprinkling of English. "Look," I tell them. "You want to make as much as possible from me, and I'm trying to travel on the cheap. You're probably all great guys, but we're not on the same team here." At least that's what I say in my head. Aloud, I say, "huh?"
Getting the name of a guest house from my tavel book, I break away to hop on the back of a motorcycle taxi. At ten dollars, the hotel is relatively expensive but it boasts air con and a television. Sanctuary.

Later, I cross the street for a meal. No one speaks English, but Thai seems universally understood at this border town. I order chicken curry, and it comes with chicken parts that Colonel Sanders never dreamed of. A young woman from the restaurant stands before my table and stretches elaborately before sitting down next to me. She makes no eye contact, and leaves after a few minutes.

While it's true that nuances may only be bonus points, it can still be somewhat disconcerting when you don't understand them.

The next morning I leave the hotel at 5 am, having been told there is a 6:00 bus to Phnom Penh. I catch a motorcycle to the bus station, and even at this early hour we pass optimistic touts who call out enthusiastically for me to stop.

The 'bus station' is a long row of busses with periodic card tables set up to sell tickets. After purchasing my fare, I head to an eating establishment where I order rice and chicken soup. In a few minutes I am brought a shot glass filled with a dark liquid (coffee?), sitting in a bowl of hot water, and accompanied by a full pot of tea. Well, perhaps it's best to have an empty stomache for what is reported to be a bone-jarring ride.

After a long day, I arrive at the Cambodian Capitol, and am predictably met by people offering transport and accomodations. I choose a guest house from my guide book, and it turns out to be a good find. Run by a genuinely friendly family, for $4. I get a room with hot water and cable t.v.. They also arrange to get my Vietnam visa and to book the next leg of my jouney, a bus to Saigon.

This allows me a task-free day, and I hire a motorcycle taxi for some sightseeing. First stop is the Tuol Sleng Museum, a high school which had been converted into a prison during Pol Pot's regime. Accounts vary, but of 17,000 prisoners less than a hundred survived. It reminds me of Dachau, and possesses the grimness of such places. As I walk the grounds, a group of six school children approach me. A ten-year-old girl, spokesperson and bright as a button, confidently practices her English with stock phrases. "Hello. What is your name?" "Where are you from?" "What is your occupation?" Not having any magic props on hand, I pull a few pebbles from their ears (to our mutual delight). I walk on, grateful for the balance the encounter provided to this scene of torture and murder.

My next stop is 'the killing fields,' a site made infamous in the West by a movie of the same name. Enroute, my driver swerves to miss a bicycle and we spin out, crashing onto the dirt road. No serious injuries for either of us, and a trip to the killing fields puts a scraped leg in proper perspective.

Esteemed blog reader: Are you still with me? I need to begin condensing my journey here, or this will result in a book instead of a blog.

It's a day's bus ride from Phnom Penh to Saigon, and I leave the next morning.

Head injuries resulting from traffic accidents are the number one cause of accidental deaths in Saigon. Nobody gives way to anybody. Everyone just angles, points, dives directly toward his destination, pretending it is an all-or-nothing gamble. People glare at one another and fight for manuevering space. All parties are equally determined to get the right-of-way - insist on it. They swerve away at the last possible moment, giving scant inches to spare. The victor goes forward, no time for a victory grin, already engaging in another contest of will. Pedestrians cross the road in clusters, holding hands and eyeing the oncoming motorists, mincing through the mad roar slowly, careful to keep their profiles to a minimum.
-'Catfish and Mandala; A Vietnamese Odyssey' by Andrew X. Pham

We seem bent upon saving the Vietnamese from Ho Chi Minh, even if we have to kill them and demolish their country to do it.... I do not inted to remain silent in the face of what I regard as a policy of madness which, sooner or later, will envelop my son and American youth by the millions for years to come. -George McGovern, 1967

America has made no reparation to the Vietnamese, nothing. We are the richest people in the world and they are among the poorest. We savaged them, though they had never hurt us, and we cannot find it in our hearts, our honor, to give them help - because the government of Vietnam is communist. And perhaps because they won. -Martha Gellhorn, 1988

So one important lesson of Vietnam is, the first casualty of an unwise and unjust war are the American troops called on to fight it. Their service should be honored. -Paul Begala

I only stay for a night in Saigon (Ho Chi Minh City), and catch a plane to Hanoi the next morning. I am rendezvouing there with some Thai friends, and if I take a bus or train I'll miss them.

After my friends return to Thailand, I spend two days and a night on a boat in Halong Bay. Thirty dollars covers the five-hour bus ride, a private cabin on the boat, meals, caving and kayaking. Travel in Vietnam does not have to be expensive.

Seventeen dollars buys me an open bus ticket from Hanoi back to Saigon, and I take about ten days, choosing to get off at four different places along the way.

Even though I am trying to shorten my narrative, I must comment on the traffic scene, particularly in Hanoi and Saigon. Crossing the street involves weaving through hundreds of oncoming motorcycles, usually without the benefit of street lights. Are you familiar with the adage, 'never run from a bear?' Well, in Vietnam it's 'never run from a motorcycle.' It will strike you down like prey. The general rule is to keep a slow steady pace while crossing the street, and make eye contact with your potential attacker. If they can project your movements, they will veer (often at the last moment) accordingly. If however you freeze or suddenly dart in panic... Well, there's a domino effect in Vietnam that Kissinger never mentioned.

Another technique is to find a local who is crossing the street and stick to him like a shadow. As a tribute to my skills in this street-crossing business, twice locals have shadowed me. Admittedly, both times they were probably in their 90's, but one of them still had most of her limbs.

On a more serious note. As an American traveling in Vietnam, it is impossible not to contemplate 'the war.' This is not the time for commentary, but its impact is still very tangible here. I mourn for the losses suffered by both sides.

From Saigon I travel, mostly by boat, back to Cambodia and Phnomn Penh. I find the Thai consulate, and begin my next order of business. For a work permit in Thailand, a foreigner needs a non-immigrant B visa, which can only be obtained outside of Thailand. It will take four days to process my visa, so I travel to Sihanoukville, a cambodian beach town. Here is an excerpt from the Sihanoukville Advertiser: "Three sides of Sihanouk Ville are surrounded by beaches. Eating, drinking swimming, sleeping, reading, listening to music and walking are the main activities here." All right, my kinda place. The Advertiser doesn't mention that you can also buy 'happy shakes' almost everywhere, which include ingredients that would widen Ronald McDonald's eyes.

There are a number of 'sand kids,' here. Impoverished children who beg, sell trinkets or themselves.... But a project has been started by an artist from Sweden. Children are supplied with canvas, paint, and art lessons. They then sell their works along the beach, or tourists can purchase them at the small restaurant that sponsors them. A painting goes for four dollars, half of which goes to the running of the project and half goes to the child painter. If a buyer offers more, that also goes to the child. So the kids are given a skill, a place to hang out, and a daily nutritious meal. They are also given a source of income and a sense of pride.

As I lay on a beach chair (with three commisioned art pieces to be picked up later), two girls approach. One offers a pedi-manicure, which I accept. The other wants to sell me a handwoven bracelet, which she will weave on the spot with any name I choose. I decline, but she suggests we play a game of tic-tac-toe. If I lose, I buy a bracelet. And can you believe it? I actually lose two out of three, and I really wasn't trying to lose! I can always, at the very least, come to a draw in this game. Either the girl is a tic-tac-toe prodigy, or there's some magic trick involved. Either way, she has earned her sale.

After three timeless days of sun and shade, I catch a bus back to Phnom Penh and reclaim my passport. Next stop is Angkor Wat, and I leave for Siam Reap in the morning.
I spend two nights here, with only one full day to explore the Temples of Angkor. Their desription is worth a blog of its own, so I will only say they are immense, intricate, and awe-inspiring. I also stop at the Land Mine Museum. This is run by a man who has made it his mission to detect and defuse landmines in Cambodia. He has also opened his home to a dozen orpahns, most of whom are land mine victims.

I catch a bus back to Bangkok, and the ride to the border is on a particularly rough road. It is not a ride for the weak of heart or weak of bladder.

After attending a party with friends in Bangkok, I still have ten days before my job begins. I can head south to the islands, or north to the mountains. There is an International Rainbow Gathering taking place in the south, and that could be interesting. But, with the prospect of a job and stability before me, I opt for the peacefulness of Pai, a northern town about three hours beyond Chiang Mai.

Some of you (hopefully not the editors) may have asked yourselves by now, 'Why is this regular column on 'Dudeism' printed in this newspaper?' The fact that you're probably wondering this while hanging out in a hammock, sipping a banana shake and listening to mellow Jack Johnson tunes might supply a clue. Also, you're probably wearing flipflops. Et tu, Dudeist? Though the little town of Pai in Northern Thailand might not exactly be Dude Jerusalem (figuratively speaking I mean - there are enough Israeli backpackers here for that to qualify), it must be considered a sacred and historical spot in Duderonomy. So what happened here to put it on the Dudeist via mellowrosa? Absolutely nothing at all. In fact, so much nothing at all takes place here every day that it should immediately be conferred Dudeist UNESCO status. Since one of the hallowed mottoes of Dudeism is "What day is it? Is this a weekday?" this town - beyond time, beyond nationality, and beyond drinking laws - offers the perfect place to study and develop the fledgling science and religion of Dudeism. And we should all get right on that immediately. Perhaps after an invigorating nap. -The Pai Post, "The Tao of the Dude," by Oliver Benjamin.

To wrap this blog up (or to wind it down), here is a typical day for me in Pai.
Wake up in my thatched hut on stilts, and cross the bamboo bridge into town.
Enjoy a 15 cent breakfast of rice soup, followed by fresh ginger tea.
A two-hour wander, following a river to a pristine waterfall.
A chicken baguette with fries, followed by a nap.
Rent a movie, with a private room to watch it in.
Wander through the towns bookstores, stopping for a latte and choclate cake.
2-hour herbal sauna and Thai massage.
Beer and a light supper at the reggae bar.
Sabai, sabai... Relaxed and happy
As I conclude this entry, what is striking by their absence are the people I met along the way. There is no time to cover them, but they were a meaningful and significant part of the journey.

We are all travelers in the wilderness of this world, and the best we can find in out travels is an honest friend. We travel, indeed, to find them. They keep us worthy of ourselves; and when we are alone, we are only nearer to the absent. -Robert Louis Stevenson

Walkin' in a winter wonderland...

Winter in Alaska has not been entirely unlike our last few winters - in 2003-2004, we were at a ski resort in Utah where we got over 600 inches of snow and spent a majority of our time waiting for avalanches, and last winter we were at a lodge outside of Yosemite National Park and got snow, more snow, and even more snow, but at least we learned how to snowshoe (okay, so 2004-2005 doesn't count. We were in Florida. Oh, sunny Florida, with coconuts, sandy beaches, and no fear of snow ever.). We're not unaccustomed to snow - Begee hails from Colorado, where he was practically raised on skis, and Erin is from Ohio, where more than once she woke up excited to watch the TV listings for school closings (oh, glorious snow days!). We know snow. We like snow. But the snow in Alaska is a different kind of snow altogether.

Begee's the unlucky one. He walks to work. In the snow. Every morning and every afternoon. A mile - uphill both ways! (Okay, maybe not, but it is a mile.) And he would be fine with this, except for the snow. See, it doesn't just snow here. It rains. And then it snows some more. And then it rains some more. So what you're left with is one big ice skating rink covering the sidewalks and streets of Seward. It's slippery, and even with our newfound YakTraks (big rubber bands with spikes that go on your shoes to give you some traction), around every corner is a patch of ice waiting to make you fall. It's like an obstacle course!

And speaking of obstacles, let's talk about the windchill. Sometimes the sky is blue and the windchill is -15 degrees, and then we actually wish for snow! Imagine. When it snows, it warms up. This boggles our minds! We go for days and days wishing for no more snow, dreaming of Margaritaville and little umbrella drinks, and then we get our wish (without the umbrellas). It stops snowing. But then it gets cold. So cold your nose turns pink as soon as you step outside, so cold your lips turn blue, and so cold you actually wish for snow. Okay, so maybe we're the lucky ones. North of us they had -50 degree temperatures - temperatures, not including the windchill factor. That's enough to freeze any margarita!

Weather aside, we have had a great winter here. The holidays are always hard away from our families, but at least we got to meet Santa Claus (we aren't that far from his home, ya know). We helped him light the town Christmas tree - right in downtown Seward - and then had hot chocolate and cookies. We cooked up an amazing Christmas dinner of crab legs and halibut - they don't have Christmas like that in the Lower 48! We also went to Anchorage to see the Oregon Ballet Company's production of "The Nutcracker." It was beautiful and wonderful and put us in the holiday spirit. (Too bad there was snow in it, but at least it wasn't real!)

Last week, we got interviewed by a local journalist about all our travels and got an offer to write for the Seward Phoenix Log - very exciting!

Winter in Alaska has been a complete change over the summer here. On the summer solstice, we enjoyed nearly 24-hour daylight, but on the winter solstice, we had about 5 and a half hours of it. We're gaining daylight every day, but whatever sun we have, it definitely doesn't make it feel warmer! Seward in the summer is bustling full of people coming off the cruise ships or train or buses, but in the winter, you see the same faces and can actually hear yourself think. It's quiet, but it's beautiful. It sounds strange, but it's nice for us to actually be somewhere long enough to watch the seasons change. The summer is coming quickly - the first cruise ship comes in four months - and sometimes, especially when walking to work in the snow, it seems like it can't come quick enough, but sometimes, like making snow angels in the dark at 3 o'clock in the afternoon, it seems like winter could last forever. And that actually isn't such a bad thought. As long as we have our YakTraks and frozen margaritas!

Preparing for Caribbean adventure

A couple of weeks ago we went for realizing our dream to sail the islands in the Caribbean Sea. We headed for the ports (marinas) on the coast of Yucatan Peninsula in the South of Mexico, in order to search for a boat, which would give us a free ride to the islands.

We were lucky. The first day when arriving at the island Isla Mujeres (the island is near Cancun) we met Stuart from England - the owner of an orange trimaran (boat with 3 hulls). Stuart wanted to go to the Caribbean Islands, and was searching for a crew. BINGO! Without long discussions he invited us to be his crew, even though we know nothing about sailing. Moreover, Stuart allowed us to live inside the boat right away, until the day we are heading towards the Caribbean Islands.

We will start sailing in one week. There is a preliminary plan to visit Cuba, Jamaica, Dominican Republic, and British Virgin Islands (B.V.I.). We are not sure about the further route, as in B.V.I. we suppose to meet the second owner of the boat - David.

The name of the orange trimaran is Aransas ("lost soul" - American indian name). Originally it was owned by an American millionaire, who died in a crash when flying his private plane. Since this accident 3 years ago, the trimaran was standing in the water and it was not in use. This and the rough sailing from Texas to Isla Mujeres are the reasons, why Aransas still needs a lot of minor fixes.

We agreed to volunteer fixing Stuart's boat, so we ended up staying 2 weeks in a dockyard, where Aransas was lifted up.

The dockyard had about 10 boats under repair and a lot of men working even during national holidays. Besides, there is a young couple - Tom from US and Megan from Canada, who are building their own catamaran from the scratch. They got married 5 years ago and decided to build a ship for living on it. Sailing the oceans and having their own family onboard - that is their big dream. Although they planned to finish the boat a year ago or so, they are still working on it. It is the 4th year now and there are probably another 2 years to go. Tom's and Megan's catamaran will be about 60 feet long, which is enough to fit in a family with several kids. The boat will have separate compartments for the kitchen, dining room, bedrooms and other elements of an ordinary house.
Living in a boat is a completely new world we are discovering, where people talk about the length of different boats and by this judge how comfortable they are. Important is how stylish boats are equipped. A fancy interior is at least as important as the length. Whenever somebody docks on a harbour, they start chating with other boat owners, have a drink or two in a classy bar, and dine together in expensive restaurants. Making social connections leads very often to friendship, ending up in working rather on another than the own boat. Everybody helps everyone in getting their boats fixed for the next sailing adventure.

There is also a type of boat owners, who dedicate their lifes to sailing, living on the boat for 30 or more years. This kind of sailors look usually very alternative, and seeminly do not pay as much attention to an expensive lifestyle as those going for a sail once in a while. For those alternative sailors freedom is the most important, the freedom to go everywhere and not being attached to a certain place. I guess Tom and Megan will be that kind of sailors once their boat is finished ;)

Meanwhile we every day get to know more about boats and sailing. On board of our trimaran, we learn new words, which are for identifying different items on the boat. We learn about the functionality of the boat, are taught to read the navigating instruments, and the importance of repairing boats in a cautious manner to avoid leaking and - well, sinking. Stuart - a real captain, used to navigate even big cruise liners - is a good teacher to us.

Now we look different to boats passing by, ourselves guessing the length and discovering our own curiousness about the interior of catamarans, boats, trimarans, and whatever we find around us. We feel happy watching a whole bunch of tourists, having a day's cruise on a huge catamaran, sitting out there dressed only with swimming suits, and roar with laughter singing to the newest pop-songs. It is a real joy watching especially middle-aged woman dancing in their bikinis like crazy on the wobbling boat.

We feel respect especially towards fishing boats, with men on board who all seem to have an inflated chests. We can imagine them diving to the depth of the sea without being provided oxygen from out of a bottle bound to their backs. Only by looking at them we can see the hard work they are doing...

Meanwhile we are making final touches to trimaran Aransas and looking forward to our adventure through Caribbean Islands.