I got on the bus at 6:30 pm, and off 24 hours later.
On the first 12-hour leg of the trip I was seated next to a 30-something Vietnamese man who had been living in the U.S. for the last 15 years. I had grown accustomed to my blatant relative wealth every time I pulled out my iPod or my digital camera, and it was odd to see this diminutive man next to me listening to his 80 gig and talking about how he loves to go shopping in the city. Once you're up to cruising speed, the road to American excess is a short one.
We had an interesting talk. Having an outsider's as well as an American's perspective, he could firmly say that America was, all things considered, a wonderful place to live; that Vietnam - although much improved in recent years - is still a very difficult place to live; that the government presents the tourists with its idealized vision of its cities and culture, while eroding from corruption inside.
Changing buses the next morning, bleary-eyed and sore, I observed the driver remove a stick of incense from his stash behind the wheel, light it, wave it around the front of the bus, and place the smoldering stick in the front grill of the vehicle. It was a simple and lovely ritual, and anything to keep us safe on those roads was ok by me! (I have since realized that I can't ride on the left side of the bus; fearing that the oncoming traffic will clip precisely my window precludes any hope of rest.)
The ride down to Sai Gon - the second 12-hour leg - made up in geography what it lacked in conversation. Having left the muggy central coast, the climate was now bone-dry, the South China Sea to my left and desert and cactus to my right. Upon arriving in greater Sai Gon the palm trees and humidity returned. How does relative humidity work? Where's Jeff Tooker when you need him?
Also during this part of the trip I noticed that, climatic conditions aside, much of the land was barren, and that there were large plots planted with precisely laid out rows upon rows of deciduous trees. The type and size of tree and the organization of their growth made me think that these had most certainly been planted in the last 30 years, likely as a means of re-foresting the area after Agent Orange had destroyed all the trees and plant life during the war.
In short, a bus ride jam-packed with heat, history, and hope that around the next turn would be the city. Speaking of which, these cities in SE Asia (few though they are) sprawl like none other I have seen. If you get up high somewhere downtown in Bangkok, Hanoi, or Saigon, and look around you, there is city as far as you can see. Arriving on the bus you drive through dirty suburban sprawl for over an hour before reaching anything like an actual city. It's pretty oppressive, and helps explain why everyone wears those surgical masks over their faces.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Monday, February 26, 2007
A Soup Like No Other and Another Like No Other
The glistening orange droplets of chile oil that refused to mingle with the broth stood in about a one-to-one ratio to the latter; in short, it was spicy. The noodles, three inches long and one quarter inch in diameter, thick and translucent and chewy, just like tapioca but in the shape of a noodle. Several pieces of that pork product that is somehow compressed, dense and firm with little air pockets, then sliced. (Anyone who knows what that stuff is, please comment.) One fish ball - shredded white fish mixed with spices and who knows what else and then deep fried. A handful of the ubiquitous scallion and cilantro and bean sprout mix. Dress it with tiny pickled red onions and chiles, and eat with a warm and crusty baguette, all washed down with some icy cold crazy tannic Vietnamese tea.
It was tasty and novel but not quite all there. I returned today to find, to my delight, the perfected product: true pearl tapioca this time, hundreds of clear little spheres, not overly chewy but undeniably tapioca floating in a mildly spicy chicken broth. Shredded chicken throughout, the green herb mixture, several chickpea-like white beans, a few hard-cooked quail eggs here and there, and loads of cracked black pepper. Dress with the same condiments as above.
A 10 cent beer as the sun sets over the river, and now I'm going back for another bowl. I'm taking my camera, and am sure to get laughs and stares, but it's worth it for the best food yet in Vietnam.
It was tasty and novel but not quite all there. I returned today to find, to my delight, the perfected product: true pearl tapioca this time, hundreds of clear little spheres, not overly chewy but undeniably tapioca floating in a mildly spicy chicken broth. Shredded chicken throughout, the green herb mixture, several chickpea-like white beans, a few hard-cooked quail eggs here and there, and loads of cracked black pepper. Dress with the same condiments as above.
A 10 cent beer as the sun sets over the river, and now I'm going back for another bowl. I'm taking my camera, and am sure to get laughs and stares, but it's worth it for the best food yet in Vietnam.
Saturday, February 24, 2007
Day 1 #2
This morning Alex and I parted ways for some solo travelling. As our itineraries are quite similar I'm not sure how long we'll go before running into each other (the backpacker's Vietnam is surprisingly small). Anyway, rather than focus on a particular experience or insight, I thought it would be fitting to document my day, an average one remarkable in many ways.
I started off by renting a Vespa-like motorbike - which I am now proficient at navigating, despite the broken front brake - and riding out of town (Hue, by the way) in the general mapless direction of the Royal Tombs. I must have taken a wrong turn, as the road turned dirt and rocky shortly after leaving town, but it was a pleasant ride nonetheless. I was surprised yet again by the local response to the big whitey on the motorcycle; I was greeted not with anger and resentment as I originally anticipated but with smiles and friendly waves.
Back in the city I headed to a street vendor I had visited the other day for a heaping plate of steamed rice piled high with cold dressed green beans, thin spicy noodles, a small glazed pork chop, and a whole egg that had been hard-cooked and then deep-fried. Ladled over all was a soy-type sauce with chiles and garlic and herbs floating around in it. Strange combination of foods but satisfying.*1
As I ate an older local guy sidled up to me and started chatting me up in pretty solid English. He had learned it in the '70s when the Americans visiting. I felt awkward at the mere mention of our respective countries' shared history but he seemed genuinely friendly so I tried to be as well.
In the afternoon I headed over to the Citadel, a massive walled off complex in the middle of the city that had formerly served as the imperial capital back in the day. Peaceful grounds, lots of Chinese palace buildings with engravings of dragons all over the place, and, strangely, tenements lining the outer wall.
After returning the motorbike and briefly resting, it was, of course, time to venture out in search of food. I walked along the riverside, pleasantly made into a sculpture garden with plentiful benches and families strolling around. There were several vendors set up along the street, so I stopped at the first one I came to: small bowl of chicken broth, but oddly grayish and opaque, perhaps from the rice in it; mixed veg of mint, bean sprouts, morning glory, scallions; and some little fried airy crunchy things on top, reminiscent of what I think are pork rinds (?). Chile throughout for a good lip sear. Throughout it all there were two Vietnamese women - I think I gathered they were mother and daughter - sitting with me and evidently carrying on a conversation with me. For not understanding a word they said, I guess I responded surprisingly accurately.
Vendor number 2: small black snails simmered in their shells with a ton of lemongrass, served with a dipping sauce of chiles and fish sauce, and a plate of sliced fresh cucumber. Quite nice. And the occasional "'Allo" from the table behind me, prompting me to turn around to meet three giggling little girls turning away from me, only to say "'Allo" again once I resumed my dinner.
I saw the stadium lights in the distance so I headed over in the hopes of catching the soccer game, but all I found upon arriving was an empty field and some weary young Asians lifting weights to 1980s American pop music. I think it was Madonna.
Back at the guest house now and hungry, so perhaps a short stroll for some more food and a beer. Then a shower*2 and off to a new place tomorrow.
*1 A note on the set-up of these street vendors. I don't know if Big Al's Deep Discount was having some sort of liquidation sale, but every one is equipped with miniature plastic chairs and tables. Too small even for the locals. More than once have I inadvertantly lifted the whole table on my knees, and then stood up and found the chair still affixed to my body.
*2 In the vast majority of my experience thus far, a shower requires two changes to a normal bathroom: (1) a shower head anywhere on any wall, and (2) a drain in a corner of the bathroom, preferably downslope from the showerhead. Viola, a fairly uncomfortable shower.
I started off by renting a Vespa-like motorbike - which I am now proficient at navigating, despite the broken front brake - and riding out of town (Hue, by the way) in the general mapless direction of the Royal Tombs. I must have taken a wrong turn, as the road turned dirt and rocky shortly after leaving town, but it was a pleasant ride nonetheless. I was surprised yet again by the local response to the big whitey on the motorcycle; I was greeted not with anger and resentment as I originally anticipated but with smiles and friendly waves.
Back in the city I headed to a street vendor I had visited the other day for a heaping plate of steamed rice piled high with cold dressed green beans, thin spicy noodles, a small glazed pork chop, and a whole egg that had been hard-cooked and then deep-fried. Ladled over all was a soy-type sauce with chiles and garlic and herbs floating around in it. Strange combination of foods but satisfying.*1
As I ate an older local guy sidled up to me and started chatting me up in pretty solid English. He had learned it in the '70s when the Americans visiting. I felt awkward at the mere mention of our respective countries' shared history but he seemed genuinely friendly so I tried to be as well.
In the afternoon I headed over to the Citadel, a massive walled off complex in the middle of the city that had formerly served as the imperial capital back in the day. Peaceful grounds, lots of Chinese palace buildings with engravings of dragons all over the place, and, strangely, tenements lining the outer wall.
After returning the motorbike and briefly resting, it was, of course, time to venture out in search of food. I walked along the riverside, pleasantly made into a sculpture garden with plentiful benches and families strolling around. There were several vendors set up along the street, so I stopped at the first one I came to: small bowl of chicken broth, but oddly grayish and opaque, perhaps from the rice in it; mixed veg of mint, bean sprouts, morning glory, scallions; and some little fried airy crunchy things on top, reminiscent of what I think are pork rinds (?). Chile throughout for a good lip sear. Throughout it all there were two Vietnamese women - I think I gathered they were mother and daughter - sitting with me and evidently carrying on a conversation with me. For not understanding a word they said, I guess I responded surprisingly accurately.
Vendor number 2: small black snails simmered in their shells with a ton of lemongrass, served with a dipping sauce of chiles and fish sauce, and a plate of sliced fresh cucumber. Quite nice. And the occasional "'Allo" from the table behind me, prompting me to turn around to meet three giggling little girls turning away from me, only to say "'Allo" again once I resumed my dinner.
I saw the stadium lights in the distance so I headed over in the hopes of catching the soccer game, but all I found upon arriving was an empty field and some weary young Asians lifting weights to 1980s American pop music. I think it was Madonna.
Back at the guest house now and hungry, so perhaps a short stroll for some more food and a beer. Then a shower*2 and off to a new place tomorrow.
*1 A note on the set-up of these street vendors. I don't know if Big Al's Deep Discount was having some sort of liquidation sale, but every one is equipped with miniature plastic chairs and tables. Too small even for the locals. More than once have I inadvertantly lifted the whole table on my knees, and then stood up and found the chair still affixed to my body.
*2 In the vast majority of my experience thus far, a shower requires two changes to a normal bathroom: (1) a shower head anywhere on any wall, and (2) a drain in a corner of the bathroom, preferably downslope from the showerhead. Viola, a fairly uncomfortable shower.
Monday, February 19, 2007
A Beginner's Course
You're on a crumbling, pock-marked once paved road no more than ten feet wide. You hug the sand-covered and rock-strewn shoulder as a hulking relic of a bus whizzes past you, horn blaring in your ear. With a tight grip on the handlebars lest you fade right into the treacherously deep sand off the side of the road you notice a few key elements rapidly approaching.
That black mass just to your right slowly becomes a water buffalo, blithely ignorant that he represents a one ton obstacle that you must somehow avoid. The bicyclist with the conical hat and the load of bamboo trunks pedals leisurely along, and in the next five seconds you will decide whether you're better off hitting her or the water buffalo, because that bus is still somewhere just outside your peripheral vision.
As luck would have it the road disappears and you find yourself on a collection of jagged rocks interspersed with the occasional red brick. With no road to stay on you are free to take that leap of faith and drift right, hoping sweatily that your Minsk doesn't fail you now. You bounce along, free from the bus but not from the motor scooter pulling out from a side road and, of course, right in front of you.
Think fast: which one's the brake and which one's the clutch? You just down-shifted and then raced the engine and you're still gaining on him. What is that technique for braking most efficiently? Pump hand brake then foot brake but watch out for the tree trunk blocking the entire rock collection of a road. Swerve and gun it and hope for the best.
And then come the mountains.
That black mass just to your right slowly becomes a water buffalo, blithely ignorant that he represents a one ton obstacle that you must somehow avoid. The bicyclist with the conical hat and the load of bamboo trunks pedals leisurely along, and in the next five seconds you will decide whether you're better off hitting her or the water buffalo, because that bus is still somewhere just outside your peripheral vision.
As luck would have it the road disappears and you find yourself on a collection of jagged rocks interspersed with the occasional red brick. With no road to stay on you are free to take that leap of faith and drift right, hoping sweatily that your Minsk doesn't fail you now. You bounce along, free from the bus but not from the motor scooter pulling out from a side road and, of course, right in front of you.
Think fast: which one's the brake and which one's the clutch? You just down-shifted and then raced the engine and you're still gaining on him. What is that technique for braking most efficiently? Pump hand brake then foot brake but watch out for the tree trunk blocking the entire rock collection of a road. Swerve and gun it and hope for the best.
And then come the mountains.
Sunday, February 18, 2007
More on New Year Festivities
Well, it's a few days late but we've been on the road and internet access has been spotty. Still, the night was weird enough that it's worth recapping, even if it's not as timely.
As Andy mentioned, there were only us and three French people staying in the enormous hotel, so I was curious about what the Tet celebration was actually going to consist of. So curious that I fell asleep at 9 PM. Not to worry though, as our phone rang at 11:30. I thought it was the alarm clock and was getting frustrated because I couldn't figure out how to turn it off, and when I finally realized it was the phone it had gone dead. Again, not to worry, as our phone rang at 11:35. This time I answered and was invited in very hesitant English to join in on the celebrations downstairs.
I'm never one to miss a party, so down I went. Andy decided to take it easy and stay in bed, so I ventured alone down the creepy abandoned hallways. Downstairs in the main lobby, there were two rows of fifteen chairs facing each other, with a christmas-y tree on one end and two tvs on the other. One tv was showing the live New Years programming. The other one was, of course, for karaoke. Although there were probably about 30 hotel employees and their friends and family present, when I got down at 11:45 and it was practically silent and not jovial at all. Not until the karaoke machine was activated at 11:55 did it really feel like a party.
At the stroke of midnight...nothing happened. No one reacted at all. About a minute after the televised clock had shown the new year, people started to drink more and talk more, but it was not a big eruption as I'm used to. A fireworks display took place outside, but most people left while it was still in progress, eager to return to karaoke.
I stayed for the entire fireworks show and then went back to bed, looking forward to my new new year and the next day of riding.
As Andy mentioned, there were only us and three French people staying in the enormous hotel, so I was curious about what the Tet celebration was actually going to consist of. So curious that I fell asleep at 9 PM. Not to worry though, as our phone rang at 11:30. I thought it was the alarm clock and was getting frustrated because I couldn't figure out how to turn it off, and when I finally realized it was the phone it had gone dead. Again, not to worry, as our phone rang at 11:35. This time I answered and was invited in very hesitant English to join in on the celebrations downstairs.
I'm never one to miss a party, so down I went. Andy decided to take it easy and stay in bed, so I ventured alone down the creepy abandoned hallways. Downstairs in the main lobby, there were two rows of fifteen chairs facing each other, with a christmas-y tree on one end and two tvs on the other. One tv was showing the live New Years programming. The other one was, of course, for karaoke. Although there were probably about 30 hotel employees and their friends and family present, when I got down at 11:45 and it was practically silent and not jovial at all. Not until the karaoke machine was activated at 11:55 did it really feel like a party.
At the stroke of midnight...nothing happened. No one reacted at all. About a minute after the televised clock had shown the new year, people started to drink more and talk more, but it was not a big eruption as I'm used to. A fireworks display took place outside, but most people left while it was still in progress, eager to return to karaoke.
I stayed for the entire fireworks show and then went back to bed, looking forward to my new new year and the next day of riding.
Friday, February 16, 2007
New Year's Eve and The Party is Dead
After a full day of riding our rigs through the mountains, alongside rice paddies and water buffalo and waving screaming children (I swear we're like movie stars here; it's really strange), we have found refuge at an exorbitant - $18 a night - on the outskirts of a small town in Northern Vietnam.
Everything within our anticipated price range is closed as tomorrow is Tet, the New Year holiday that everyone in this country has been celebrating for the last month. As I write this post the hotel attendants are setting up tables and some sort of a sound system in the lobby for a party to go down at midnight. I'm not exactly sure who will attend, as the only hotel guests are me and Alex and a French family of three.
Anyway, more riding tomorrow, but tonight we celebrate. In all likelihood by falling asleep by 9:00 p.m.
Everything within our anticipated price range is closed as tomorrow is Tet, the New Year holiday that everyone in this country has been celebrating for the last month. As I write this post the hotel attendants are setting up tables and some sort of a sound system in the lobby for a party to go down at midnight. I'm not exactly sure who will attend, as the only hotel guests are me and Alex and a French family of three.
Anyway, more riding tomorrow, but tonight we celebrate. In all likelihood by falling asleep by 9:00 p.m.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
More on Hanoi
Alex covered much of our Hanoi experience thus far in his post, so I'll be brief.
It's exhausting standing nearby - let alone navigating by foot or by motorbike - the streets of the Old Quarter, but redeeming experiences have been frequent.
We've eaten good food:
Banh my: warm, toasted baguette (French colonial residue is all over the place) stuffed with braised pork belly, cucumber, red cabbage, cilantro, onion, tomato, and a sauce of mayonnaise and abundant chile. It's soft, crunchy, warm, cold, rich, sweet, and a perfect late night snack.
Roadside Pho stalls: a morning noodle soup similar to the one I posted about below.
Fried food stands: sweet and savory everything cooked in a giant wok of glistening oil.
Bia Hoi shops: Daily kegs of fresh (no preservatives) beer sold for 2,000 dong (about 12 cents) a glass.
Our first night in Hanoi we were sitting on the steps of the only cathedral I've seen thus far in SE Asia, drinking a final beer of the evening, when a rather inebriated young man stumbled over to some adjacent steps. He spoke impeccable English, and told us his story of coming down to the city from the country - his father having died - struggling for any money he could come by. He slept in the streets, looking for work until the point when he had to return home for lack of alternatives.
The wary traveller in me suspected some sort of a scam, and maybe that's what it was, but I gave him several thousand dong and we parted amicably. Over the next few days we ran into Hii twice more. He gave us some Vietnamese lessons, and I gave him some more money for the train back home for Tet. He seemed genuinely grateful, and either way it was a pleasure to spend time with him.
I write about this in an attempt to illustrate how difficult this whole travelling thing can be. The money we give will not, in all likelihood, make any significant difference. Chipping away in this manner seems futile, while ignoring the problem seems callous. Some cultural bridge was built (pardon the platitude), scam or not, financially futile or not, so for that I'm pleased. Anyway, a constant consideration.
Apologies for the ramble. Tomorrow morning we leave for a week-long motorcycle trip up through the mountains to Sapa. Our hogs are pretty sweet: old Soviet Minsks, the workhorses of Communist states worldwide. They call it "the old buffalo" in Vietnamese, and apparently they're as durable and rugged as bikes get. On the down side they're said to break down every five minutes or so; sounds like an adventure to me. See you all soon.
It's exhausting standing nearby - let alone navigating by foot or by motorbike - the streets of the Old Quarter, but redeeming experiences have been frequent.
We've eaten good food:
Banh my: warm, toasted baguette (French colonial residue is all over the place) stuffed with braised pork belly, cucumber, red cabbage, cilantro, onion, tomato, and a sauce of mayonnaise and abundant chile. It's soft, crunchy, warm, cold, rich, sweet, and a perfect late night snack.
Roadside Pho stalls: a morning noodle soup similar to the one I posted about below.
Fried food stands: sweet and savory everything cooked in a giant wok of glistening oil.
Bia Hoi shops: Daily kegs of fresh (no preservatives) beer sold for 2,000 dong (about 12 cents) a glass.
Our first night in Hanoi we were sitting on the steps of the only cathedral I've seen thus far in SE Asia, drinking a final beer of the evening, when a rather inebriated young man stumbled over to some adjacent steps. He spoke impeccable English, and told us his story of coming down to the city from the country - his father having died - struggling for any money he could come by. He slept in the streets, looking for work until the point when he had to return home for lack of alternatives.
The wary traveller in me suspected some sort of a scam, and maybe that's what it was, but I gave him several thousand dong and we parted amicably. Over the next few days we ran into Hii twice more. He gave us some Vietnamese lessons, and I gave him some more money for the train back home for Tet. He seemed genuinely grateful, and either way it was a pleasure to spend time with him.
I write about this in an attempt to illustrate how difficult this whole travelling thing can be. The money we give will not, in all likelihood, make any significant difference. Chipping away in this manner seems futile, while ignoring the problem seems callous. Some cultural bridge was built (pardon the platitude), scam or not, financially futile or not, so for that I'm pleased. Anyway, a constant consideration.
Apologies for the ramble. Tomorrow morning we leave for a week-long motorcycle trip up through the mountains to Sapa. Our hogs are pretty sweet: old Soviet Minsks, the workhorses of Communist states worldwide. They call it "the old buffalo" in Vietnamese, and apparently they're as durable and rugged as bikes get. On the down side they're said to break down every five minutes or so; sounds like an adventure to me. See you all soon.
Photos
It took a good while to upload these six photos; there are several hundred more still to come. Have a look.
http://www.flickr.com/photos/37912472@N00/?saved=1
http://www.flickr.com/photos/37912472@N00/?saved=1
The highs and lows of Hanoi
Hanoi is overwhelming. Navigating through the streets on foot is a constant challenge and dropping one's guard pretty much guarantees at least a few horns being honked in your direction. The din of horns is pretty constant though, and it's often hard to say what purpose they're actually supposed to serve. It's louder and busier than anywhere I've ever been, and I think I'm starting to like it. Not to live here, mind you, but when there's so much activity all the time, there's always an interesting situation to stumble upon.
On Sunday night, we decided to go out for a quiet drink at a bar we had read about. We weren't expecting much excitement, and we may not have found any had we not sat next to some young Viatnamese high-rollers. They were sitting around a big table, doing frequent shots of one of the house liquors. They invited us to do a shot with them, and we accepted like the polite young gentleman we are. One shot somehow turned into us sitting around their table doing many shots of a smoky liquor (I lost count,) being fed delicious food, and learning useful Vietnamese phrases like "He's drunk."
We were having a great time, but it was pretty late so we tried to help pay and head back to our hostel. They refused any efforts by us to help with the bill. As we later learned, one of the young folk owns a couple companies and was more than happy to share his pre-new-year celebration with some friendly foreigners. And what better way to finish a celebratory dinner then taking everyone to a karaoke bar, getting a private room for us, ordering expensive whiskey and covering the entire tab??
We sang our hearts out. Oddly enough, I think I performed much better on the Vietnamese songs than I did on the American ones. Our hosts were much, much better singers than us. And they knew more of the words to the songs in both languages.
Apparently if you have enough money in Hanoi, you can escape the din and craziness. Andy and I were fortunate enough to be hanging out with some folks who knew how to do it in style. Then we went back to reality at our ant and roach-infested hostel.
On Sunday night, we decided to go out for a quiet drink at a bar we had read about. We weren't expecting much excitement, and we may not have found any had we not sat next to some young Viatnamese high-rollers. They were sitting around a big table, doing frequent shots of one of the house liquors. They invited us to do a shot with them, and we accepted like the polite young gentleman we are. One shot somehow turned into us sitting around their table doing many shots of a smoky liquor (I lost count,) being fed delicious food, and learning useful Vietnamese phrases like "He's drunk."
We were having a great time, but it was pretty late so we tried to help pay and head back to our hostel. They refused any efforts by us to help with the bill. As we later learned, one of the young folk owns a couple companies and was more than happy to share his pre-new-year celebration with some friendly foreigners. And what better way to finish a celebratory dinner then taking everyone to a karaoke bar, getting a private room for us, ordering expensive whiskey and covering the entire tab??
We sang our hearts out. Oddly enough, I think I performed much better on the Vietnamese songs than I did on the American ones. Our hosts were much, much better singers than us. And they knew more of the words to the songs in both languages.
Apparently if you have enough money in Hanoi, you can escape the din and craziness. Andy and I were fortunate enough to be hanging out with some folks who knew how to do it in style. Then we went back to reality at our ant and roach-infested hostel.
Wednesday, February 7, 2007
We've Entered the War Zone
We've decided to get off the road for a couple of nights in Phonsavanh, a small town in Northeastern Lao. Besides breaking up our 28-hour bus ride from Vientiane to Hanoi, Phonsavanh serves at the stopping off point for the Plain of Jars, an archeological site comprising several fields of giant jar-shaped boulders, the origin of which remains a mystery. The jars were worth a visit, but we really must thank the United States Armed Forces for the most remarkable and pervasive aspect of our stopover.
In the lobby of our guest house stands a glass display case holding hundreds of rounds of spent ammunition, army helmets, and three foot long bomb casings. In the surrounding villages one sees houses raised on stilts of bomb shells, fences of discovered casings, and everywhere people - adults and children alike - wearing U.S. Army jackets and fatigues.
The farmland encompassing the Plain of Jars is pock-marked by bomb craters; one can't walk 10 meters without encountering one. There is a toppled Russian tank and scorched earth and memorial sites and destruction.
I've read that Lao is the most bombed country per square inch of land, and my experience today made that statistic seem probable. Unbelievably the potential devastation is not over. MAG (Mine Advisory Group) has posted signs and markers alerting inhabitants of the areas that have and have not been cleared of active land mines and still live bombs.
We've entered the war zone, and encountered a new form of cultural discomfort. I expect it will only get worse.
In the lobby of our guest house stands a glass display case holding hundreds of rounds of spent ammunition, army helmets, and three foot long bomb casings. In the surrounding villages one sees houses raised on stilts of bomb shells, fences of discovered casings, and everywhere people - adults and children alike - wearing U.S. Army jackets and fatigues.
The farmland encompassing the Plain of Jars is pock-marked by bomb craters; one can't walk 10 meters without encountering one. There is a toppled Russian tank and scorched earth and memorial sites and destruction.
I've read that Lao is the most bombed country per square inch of land, and my experience today made that statistic seem probable. Unbelievably the potential devastation is not over. MAG (Mine Advisory Group) has posted signs and markers alerting inhabitants of the areas that have and have not been cleared of active land mines and still live bombs.
We've entered the war zone, and encountered a new form of cultural discomfort. I expect it will only get worse.
Tuesday, February 6, 2007
A.M. Soup
They love soup in this corner of the world. So do I.
Generally speaking there aren't any set meal times, no "lunch" or "dinner" as we know it, and restaurants and street vendors remain open from early morning to late night. There does, however, seem to be a conventional morning dish of noodle soup. Walking around from dawn to late morning you'll see people hunched over their bowls, haphazardly dashing condiments and aggressively slurping noodles.
I've tasted many variations, but the central theme is something like this: small mounds of various vegetables - Chinese watercress, scallions, leafy greens, mint and cilantro sprigs, wedged onions - are placed in a large bowl. A heap of blanched thin rice noodles goes in next, and then some simmering chicken stock is ladles over all. The whole mix is sprinkled with fried shallots, more cilantro and scallions, and a scoop of chunky peanut and chile sauce.
At table the preparation continues. Fish sauce, soy sauce, chile sauce, vinegar soaked chiles, lime juice, salt, sugar, bottles and jars and canisters and receptacles covering the table.
By the time the assembly is completed the flavors have had a chance to begin melding with one another. When you're halfway finished a bland bowl of chicken stock and vegetables has transformed itself into a fiery, salty, sweet, sour and utterly delicious way to start the day.
(Still hoping for photos!)
Generally speaking there aren't any set meal times, no "lunch" or "dinner" as we know it, and restaurants and street vendors remain open from early morning to late night. There does, however, seem to be a conventional morning dish of noodle soup. Walking around from dawn to late morning you'll see people hunched over their bowls, haphazardly dashing condiments and aggressively slurping noodles.
I've tasted many variations, but the central theme is something like this: small mounds of various vegetables - Chinese watercress, scallions, leafy greens, mint and cilantro sprigs, wedged onions - are placed in a large bowl. A heap of blanched thin rice noodles goes in next, and then some simmering chicken stock is ladles over all. The whole mix is sprinkled with fried shallots, more cilantro and scallions, and a scoop of chunky peanut and chile sauce.
At table the preparation continues. Fish sauce, soy sauce, chile sauce, vinegar soaked chiles, lime juice, salt, sugar, bottles and jars and canisters and receptacles covering the table.
By the time the assembly is completed the flavors have had a chance to begin melding with one another. When you're halfway finished a bland bowl of chicken stock and vegetables has transformed itself into a fiery, salty, sweet, sour and utterly delicious way to start the day.
(Still hoping for photos!)
Sunday, February 4, 2007
Bear Down
Ah well. I got up at 6 AM today so I wouldn't miss opening kickoff. Sat in front of the TV watching ESPN international, freezing because I refused to put anything over my Bears t-shirt. And then the opening minute was glorious...and it was pretty much all downhill from there.
It's appropriate that I watched the superbowl in Vangvieng as this town is all about watching tv. There's one main drag and it's lined with bars all showing American television, all the time, and they're packed with tourists. There are TWO bars that show Friends exclusively, back to back to back episodes without end. It's surreal.
We did manage to get in a good day of tubing down a river (with plentiful watering holes and ziplines along the way) and a hike through some caves, and that seems to be about all this town has to offer aside from the TV watching. Time to move on.
And there's always next year for the Bears.
It's appropriate that I watched the superbowl in Vangvieng as this town is all about watching tv. There's one main drag and it's lined with bars all showing American television, all the time, and they're packed with tourists. There are TWO bars that show Friends exclusively, back to back to back episodes without end. It's surreal.
We did manage to get in a good day of tubing down a river (with plentiful watering holes and ziplines along the way) and a hike through some caves, and that seems to be about all this town has to offer aside from the TV watching. Time to move on.
And there's always next year for the Bears.
Friday, February 2, 2007
Kids Like To Laugh
Today was a remarkable day for the youthsinasia. We began with several hours of kayaking on the Ou and Mekong Rivers with our diminuitive guide, Su, and his eerily long, sparse chin hairs. After capsizing only once (in a sad attempt to impress a group of village women with my maritime agility), we put in at a small hilly village on the shore.
We stepped off the boats to meet a crowd of little childrem, many of them naked, all of them giggling uncontrollably at us. The seeminly difficult task of two non-Lao speaking tourists interacting with a lot of non-English speaking children turned out to be remarkably simple: evidently all you have to do is smile as widely as you can and say "Sa Bai Dee" (general greeting) and everyone loves you.
A group of four little boys actually got under the kayak we were carrying and helped us transport it through the village and to the street above. Having no way of verbally thanking them, I made some awkward gestures that I thought might be construed as thanks (putting the palms of my hands together at my chin and saying "Thank You"). This seemed much too austere for a group of kids anywhere, though, so I searched my pockets for something to play with, coming up with only my digital camera; thankfully it turned out to be enough.
I snapped some pictures of the little tykes and then let them gather all around (and on top of) me and shout and laugh when they saw their faces reproduced in the little metal box. Warmed the heart, indeed.
That Alex and I were the only two white people in the village endowed me with considerably more daring than I would have exhibited had we been part of a pack of tourists getting off the bus. In groups of tourists I tend to exchange engagement for tact; I want to be the unobtrusive and hopefully unobnoxious traveller in the group. Whether or not we had any more of an "authentic" experience I can't say; I couldn't even tell you what that would be.
Either way, everyone was happy and laughing and running around, and that was enough.
We stepped off the boats to meet a crowd of little childrem, many of them naked, all of them giggling uncontrollably at us. The seeminly difficult task of two non-Lao speaking tourists interacting with a lot of non-English speaking children turned out to be remarkably simple: evidently all you have to do is smile as widely as you can and say "Sa Bai Dee" (general greeting) and everyone loves you.
A group of four little boys actually got under the kayak we were carrying and helped us transport it through the village and to the street above. Having no way of verbally thanking them, I made some awkward gestures that I thought might be construed as thanks (putting the palms of my hands together at my chin and saying "Thank You"). This seemed much too austere for a group of kids anywhere, though, so I searched my pockets for something to play with, coming up with only my digital camera; thankfully it turned out to be enough.
I snapped some pictures of the little tykes and then let them gather all around (and on top of) me and shout and laugh when they saw their faces reproduced in the little metal box. Warmed the heart, indeed.
That Alex and I were the only two white people in the village endowed me with considerably more daring than I would have exhibited had we been part of a pack of tourists getting off the bus. In groups of tourists I tend to exchange engagement for tact; I want to be the unobtrusive and hopefully unobnoxious traveller in the group. Whether or not we had any more of an "authentic" experience I can't say; I couldn't even tell you what that would be.
Either way, everyone was happy and laughing and running around, and that was enough.
My mini-friends
My hair has strange powers. It attracts things as if with gravitational pull, and once they're near it's almost impossible to not get ensnared. I once pulled a dead bee out of there. Lord knows how long that thing struggled to escape the tangles of my Jewfro before finally succumbing.
I'm aware of its powers, so I wasn't really concerned at all when Andy told me I had something in my hair as we neared the end of a strenuous near-vertical hike up and down a waterfall. I brushed my hand through my hair and felt a smear. Bird shit, I assumed. Would that I had been so lucky. Andy gets a quizzical look on his face and tells me to hold on a second while he picks something off my shirt and eventually tells me that I should probably know that there are lots and lots of tiny white things crawling on me. That's right, it wasn't bird shit on my head; it was a spider egg sac, and it opened in my hair.
I ripped my shirt off and saw the creepy little buggers all around the neck, inside and out. Running as quickly as possible, I reached the nearest place to jump in the water and ran in. The water was freezing, but cleansing (I hope.) I pulled all the buggers off my shirt and chest and neck . I'm hoping they're out of my hair, but only time will tell on that one.
I'm aware of its powers, so I wasn't really concerned at all when Andy told me I had something in my hair as we neared the end of a strenuous near-vertical hike up and down a waterfall. I brushed my hand through my hair and felt a smear. Bird shit, I assumed. Would that I had been so lucky. Andy gets a quizzical look on his face and tells me to hold on a second while he picks something off my shirt and eventually tells me that I should probably know that there are lots and lots of tiny white things crawling on me. That's right, it wasn't bird shit on my head; it was a spider egg sac, and it opened in my hair.
I ripped my shirt off and saw the creepy little buggers all around the neck, inside and out. Running as quickly as possible, I reached the nearest place to jump in the water and ran in. The water was freezing, but cleansing (I hope.) I pulled all the buggers off my shirt and chest and neck . I'm hoping they're out of my hair, but only time will tell on that one.
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