After a slightly rocky transition from travel to vacation mode, as noted by Alex below, an exceedingly pleasant week was passed in the sunny, relaxing, and generally decompressing beach community of Thong Nai Pan Noi. Eating regularly at select locally run restaurants, playing volleyball daily with the same local kids, and meeting great Thais and tourists alike, I felt the week to be, as hoped for, a culmination to the past 80 or so days of travel.
Keeping the 2,000 baht in my large pack rather than on my person wasn't the smartest move, but secreting it away in the recesses of a small, locked pouch seemed sufficient to deter any would-be thieves through the duration of our 11-hour bus ride back to Bangkok. Not so, evidently.
The theft, while certainly discouraging my recently renewed enthusiasm for Thailand, served another and undoubtedly more useful function. Having been robbed of slightly more money at the very start of the trip, on a similar bus en route to Northern Thailand, this morning's financial collapse brought the entire trip to an odd sort of conclusion.
I met an Italian man in a restaurant today. He has been travelling around the world for 12 years, funded primarily by certain fortunate stock decisions. At a certain point of our unanticipatedly lengthy talk in Italian - his fluent and mine rather broken - we came around to wrapping up our divergent conversational strains. He offered a rather pithy bit of unifying philosophy: it's not important what life gives you; what's important is how you respond to it.
Two thousand baht is not a lot of money in my personal grand scheme; it will get me two days' rent in New York City. But together with the similar occurrence at the start of this trip, it's given me a chance to reflect on how I've responded to the overwhelming stimuli of the past two and a half months, punctuated by these two nearly identical endpoints.
Because, as the Italian said, it's not what life gives you, it's how you respond to it.
Saturday, March 31, 2007
Sunday, March 25, 2007
The Cutest Threat Ever
Ever the thrifty one, I chose to sleep in the cheapest bungalow I could find.
Looking past the gaping holes in the floor and the sparse furnishings, I deemed the 6 ft x 8ft room sufficient for my time here on the beach. I figured I wouldn't be spending many waking hours within the dank hole where, I presume, souls go to die; and indeed I haven't.
The first night in my cell, however, was regularly punctuated by aggressive scratching sounds issuing from somewhere within the wall/ceiling above the door, a sort of half-inside and half-outside DMZ between myself and the mosquitoes. I immediately began imagining scenarios in which I may soon have found myself: a raccoon - the first documented in SE Asia - clawing through the mosquito net over my bed; a baby monkey attacking my face; a chain of red ants suddenly surrounding me; and so on, to the detriment of an otherwise pleasant night's sleep.
I hustled outside the next morning to investigate the situation, and soon discovered tiny heads and perky little ears peeking out over the rafter above the door: a mother cat with at least three tiny kittens nestled around her, frozen in fear while I stared them down.
You guys are welcome to stay there again tonight, just as long as you take care of the raccoon, monkey, and red ants.
Looking past the gaping holes in the floor and the sparse furnishings, I deemed the 6 ft x 8ft room sufficient for my time here on the beach. I figured I wouldn't be spending many waking hours within the dank hole where, I presume, souls go to die; and indeed I haven't.
The first night in my cell, however, was regularly punctuated by aggressive scratching sounds issuing from somewhere within the wall/ceiling above the door, a sort of half-inside and half-outside DMZ between myself and the mosquitoes. I immediately began imagining scenarios in which I may soon have found myself: a raccoon - the first documented in SE Asia - clawing through the mosquito net over my bed; a baby monkey attacking my face; a chain of red ants suddenly surrounding me; and so on, to the detriment of an otherwise pleasant night's sleep.
I hustled outside the next morning to investigate the situation, and soon discovered tiny heads and perky little ears peeking out over the rafter above the door: a mother cat with at least three tiny kittens nestled around her, frozen in fear while I stared them down.
You guys are welcome to stay there again tonight, just as long as you take care of the raccoon, monkey, and red ants.
Friday, March 23, 2007
travel and vacation
For the past 9 or so weeks, Andy and I have been traveling. While it has certainly been nice to take a break from the working world, especially as we both had somewhat trying schedules back home, it has not been what either of us would consider a vacation.
A vacation, in my mind at least, conjures up images of relaxing getaways, spending money rather nonchalantly, and not particularly challenging oneself. That is far from what the vast majority of our trip has been. This is why I find myself a bit vexed now that we have entered vacation mode at the end of our travels.
Our island adventure on Ko Pha Ngan was planned at the start of the trip as a way to wind down after trying travels, a bridge between adventure and re-entering our lives in America. I think we may have started the wind-down a bit early though, as I find myself somewhat bored after a week on the beach, with another week to go before we head back to Bangkok and back home. I realize it sounds terrible to be complaining about being stuck on a beautiful beach on a Thai island and that many people would happily trade their wintry climes for a week on an island somewhere.
The issue is that this trip was a way of challenging myself and growing as a person (cheesy as that may sound) and I don't feel like I'm getting any of that from my time here. I'd rather be working toward something positive back in America, ideally having grown and employing what I've learned in these past several weeks. Working on my tan and paying too much for food and lodging (compared to the rest of our trip) just seems wasteful at this point.
The point of this post isn't to complain about my situation, though that seems to be what I've done. Rather, it's to hopefully demonstrate the difference between travel and vacation, at least as I see it, and to explain how my travels have made me less interested and less fulfilled by my current vacation. After everything Andy and I have seen and done, there's only so much pleasure we can get from seeing sweat-drenched aging stoners dancing goofily to trance music as the sun rises.
I'm ready for my next adventure.
A vacation, in my mind at least, conjures up images of relaxing getaways, spending money rather nonchalantly, and not particularly challenging oneself. That is far from what the vast majority of our trip has been. This is why I find myself a bit vexed now that we have entered vacation mode at the end of our travels.
Our island adventure on Ko Pha Ngan was planned at the start of the trip as a way to wind down after trying travels, a bridge between adventure and re-entering our lives in America. I think we may have started the wind-down a bit early though, as I find myself somewhat bored after a week on the beach, with another week to go before we head back to Bangkok and back home. I realize it sounds terrible to be complaining about being stuck on a beautiful beach on a Thai island and that many people would happily trade their wintry climes for a week on an island somewhere.
The issue is that this trip was a way of challenging myself and growing as a person (cheesy as that may sound) and I don't feel like I'm getting any of that from my time here. I'd rather be working toward something positive back in America, ideally having grown and employing what I've learned in these past several weeks. Working on my tan and paying too much for food and lodging (compared to the rest of our trip) just seems wasteful at this point.
The point of this post isn't to complain about my situation, though that seems to be what I've done. Rather, it's to hopefully demonstrate the difference between travel and vacation, at least as I see it, and to explain how my travels have made me less interested and less fulfilled by my current vacation. After everything Andy and I have seen and done, there's only so much pleasure we can get from seeing sweat-drenched aging stoners dancing goofily to trance music as the sun rises.
I'm ready for my next adventure.
Monday, March 19, 2007
Back in Thailand
It is a bittersweet feeling that welcomes me back into Thailand after nine weeks in the neighboring and much different countries of Laos, Vietnam, and Cambodia.
Bangkok is just as expansive and bustling, but having experienced the much dirtier, sweatier, poorer, and more crowded cities of Vietnam, it is considerably more navigable and less daunting. Thailand's infrastructure - tourist and otherwise - so vastly exceeds that of the communist countries to its east, that it is difficult to recognize a personality beneath the veneer that is presented to travellers. One receives the Thai Tourist Package, a well-tested collection of Things To Do, mass produced for the millions of backpackers passing through the country every year.
Coming back through Thailand will certainly lessen the reverse culture shock that is often so strong upon returning home, packed as one is with new insights and perspectives. I already feel closer to New York than to Phnom Penh, the abject poverty and filth of the latter fading in the bright city lights of capitalism.
I find myself - most definitely unfairly - almost resenting Thailand for its affluence in the midst of such destitution. While certainly much poorer than many nations, it stands as the only country in SE Asia that was spared culturally stagnating colonialism, cruel invasion, and devastating war. Thanks to the events of recent decades there is a commerical and economic gap between Thailand and the rest that seems almost insuperable.
Travelling from Siem Riep to the Thai border we rode an ancient bus (our second of the day: the first had no brakes), crowded and sticky, down a dirt and rock road through the middle of dried up rice paddies, dust covering us from head to toe. At the border we transferred to another bus for the trip into Bangkok; an air-conditioned double decker VIP cruiser that smoothly sped along an autobahn-quality highway.
Of the countless things this trip has taught me, two stand out: Communism, for all its cachet as a hip political idea within intellectual liberal arts circles, in practice devastates people's lives. Second, so does war.
Back home I fear it will be easy to slip back into blithe ignorance and self-righteousness, forgetting that I am one of the luckiest and richest residents of the world, but I hope not.
Bangkok is just as expansive and bustling, but having experienced the much dirtier, sweatier, poorer, and more crowded cities of Vietnam, it is considerably more navigable and less daunting. Thailand's infrastructure - tourist and otherwise - so vastly exceeds that of the communist countries to its east, that it is difficult to recognize a personality beneath the veneer that is presented to travellers. One receives the Thai Tourist Package, a well-tested collection of Things To Do, mass produced for the millions of backpackers passing through the country every year.
Coming back through Thailand will certainly lessen the reverse culture shock that is often so strong upon returning home, packed as one is with new insights and perspectives. I already feel closer to New York than to Phnom Penh, the abject poverty and filth of the latter fading in the bright city lights of capitalism.
I find myself - most definitely unfairly - almost resenting Thailand for its affluence in the midst of such destitution. While certainly much poorer than many nations, it stands as the only country in SE Asia that was spared culturally stagnating colonialism, cruel invasion, and devastating war. Thanks to the events of recent decades there is a commerical and economic gap between Thailand and the rest that seems almost insuperable.
Travelling from Siem Riep to the Thai border we rode an ancient bus (our second of the day: the first had no brakes), crowded and sticky, down a dirt and rock road through the middle of dried up rice paddies, dust covering us from head to toe. At the border we transferred to another bus for the trip into Bangkok; an air-conditioned double decker VIP cruiser that smoothly sped along an autobahn-quality highway.
Of the countless things this trip has taught me, two stand out: Communism, for all its cachet as a hip political idea within intellectual liberal arts circles, in practice devastates people's lives. Second, so does war.
Back home I fear it will be easy to slip back into blithe ignorance and self-righteousness, forgetting that I am one of the luckiest and richest residents of the world, but I hope not.
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
It Was About Time For A Story
Tired and nearly ready for bed, we had just sat down in our guesthouse lounge to partake in some local herbal medicine (sorry Mom and Dad, but it's essential to the story) and then perhaps get some dinner. Kim, our tuk-tuk driver from the previous day, sidled up to us and started asking, in choppy English, about our plans for the evening. We replied that it would probably be an early night, as we had a bus to catch in the morning. He mentioned something about a bottle of vodka and pointed to the table behind him, and then started talking about a biergarten with karaoke and ladies and "real Cambodia". Never hesitant to jump into a strange situation in a foreign land, we agreed to join them, and off hustled Kim to get his motorbike, now detached from the tuk-tuk and able to seat about half an American, or a Cambodian family of four.
We piled on, two motorbikes between the five of us, and swervingly headed out of town. As the lights of the main strip dimmed in the distance, I looked around me to find a state of herbally enhanced confusion. We rode down a bumpy paved street lined by a tall and rather elegant stone wall, with bright lights of luxury hotels looming overhead. As the buildings thinned I began to notice the surrounding landscape: barren dusty expanses, tall curved palm trees, and a feeling of most certainly having left the tourist area.
My mind, as it is wont to do in such situations, began exploring the possible scenarios that we currently found ourselves in. Are Kim & Co. just friendly guys extending an hospitable hand to a couple of weary travellers, or were we about to pull over and get robbed? How would three of them, as diminuitive as they are, overpower the two much larger-boned Westerners? Do they have knives? But my driver Tiem, or Chiem, or Chim, or Jim, was asking me questions and seemed genuinely friendly. So I figured I'd wait and see where we ended up.
We turned left off the paved road and onto a wide, seemingly suburban dirt road. Everytime we swerved around the giant potholes a cloud of dust would be kicked up into my eyes, making the situation no less confusing. The lack of streetlights, or lighting of any kind, only quickened the pace at which my paranoid thoughts intensified; all the scam stories I read in the Lonely Planet came back; I should have left some money at home; how do we get out of this alive?
Just as I fought off the urge to tuck and roll off the back of the motorbike we pulled into a small parking lot out front of a brightly lit restaurant and stage. I guess we made it.
We approached the front entrance and were greeted by a line of 10 women, heavily made up, sompeahing (palms together at chest) to each of us in turn. We were led to a private table off to the side of the stage, where the women immediately bombarded us with fliers advertising the particular beer they endorsed. We deferred to our host, by this time both wary and overwhelmed by the circumstances we suddenly found ourselves in, surrounded by "beermaids" off a dark, dusty road somewhere outside of Siem Riep, Cambodia.
When the beer arrived so did the glasses and the "ice cube maid", filling our beers with ice at every possible opportunity. You'd think she was making a commission off of each cube; she was attentive, to say the least. Tiem or Jim, sitting to my right - Young Smiley we'll henceforth call him - was belting out the current karaoke song at the top of his lungs, smiling from ear to ear; Kim, our English speaking host, was occupied with the beermaid to his left; and silent, brooding Third Wheel across the table was still silent and brooding, but was now also scratching his forehead with extremely long and strangely sturdy fingernails, and then sniffing them.
Awkwardness continued for some time. I attempted conversation, but was rebuffed by the repeated sudden realization that I didn't speak a word of Khmer. The server-friend to my right continually re-filled my bowl with rice, my glass with watery beer (and two straws; don't forget the two straws!), and at one point fed me and then Alex a chopstick-retrieved mouthful of green papaya salad. More people filed into our small room, more bottles of beer were being opened, and Kim seemed to be talking to us less and less. Perhaps it was unfounded, but I was wary.
Talk of the subsequent nightclub visit became more and more frequent, and little suspicions became only more suspicious (no attempt at communication from our English speaking companions; progressively more "attentive" service; somehow always full bottles of beer). We finally managed to speak up and say we should be getting back to the guesthouse, and with barely a goodbye from Young Smiley and only a silent brooding stare from Third Wheel, we went outside and found a motorbike driver to take us back into town (wherever we were).
The driver took an unfamiliar route back, bumby and dusty, and would often swerve the bike severely to the left - I assumed to turn a corner - only to subsequently swerve back hard to the right. I don't know if he was falling asleep, was bored with his life, or was just a horrible driver, but after several near turf brushes we made it back to good ol' #9 Guesthouse.
Frazzled but glad to be back, we headed inside the gate, followed rather aggressively by a scrappy, panting dog. He continued hopping around our legs as we walked up, and kept right with us as we made our way down the hall. Suspicious as we had become of everything that evening, we accelerated our pace, hoping to lose him around the next corner; no such luck.
A fitting end to a bizarre night: A jolly dog trotting down the hall and us fumbling to get the key in the lock and slam the door in the tail-wagging puppy's face.
Good Night, Real Cambodia.
We piled on, two motorbikes between the five of us, and swervingly headed out of town. As the lights of the main strip dimmed in the distance, I looked around me to find a state of herbally enhanced confusion. We rode down a bumpy paved street lined by a tall and rather elegant stone wall, with bright lights of luxury hotels looming overhead. As the buildings thinned I began to notice the surrounding landscape: barren dusty expanses, tall curved palm trees, and a feeling of most certainly having left the tourist area.
My mind, as it is wont to do in such situations, began exploring the possible scenarios that we currently found ourselves in. Are Kim & Co. just friendly guys extending an hospitable hand to a couple of weary travellers, or were we about to pull over and get robbed? How would three of them, as diminuitive as they are, overpower the two much larger-boned Westerners? Do they have knives? But my driver Tiem, or Chiem, or Chim, or Jim, was asking me questions and seemed genuinely friendly. So I figured I'd wait and see where we ended up.
We turned left off the paved road and onto a wide, seemingly suburban dirt road. Everytime we swerved around the giant potholes a cloud of dust would be kicked up into my eyes, making the situation no less confusing. The lack of streetlights, or lighting of any kind, only quickened the pace at which my paranoid thoughts intensified; all the scam stories I read in the Lonely Planet came back; I should have left some money at home; how do we get out of this alive?
Just as I fought off the urge to tuck and roll off the back of the motorbike we pulled into a small parking lot out front of a brightly lit restaurant and stage. I guess we made it.
We approached the front entrance and were greeted by a line of 10 women, heavily made up, sompeahing (palms together at chest) to each of us in turn. We were led to a private table off to the side of the stage, where the women immediately bombarded us with fliers advertising the particular beer they endorsed. We deferred to our host, by this time both wary and overwhelmed by the circumstances we suddenly found ourselves in, surrounded by "beermaids" off a dark, dusty road somewhere outside of Siem Riep, Cambodia.
When the beer arrived so did the glasses and the "ice cube maid", filling our beers with ice at every possible opportunity. You'd think she was making a commission off of each cube; she was attentive, to say the least. Tiem or Jim, sitting to my right - Young Smiley we'll henceforth call him - was belting out the current karaoke song at the top of his lungs, smiling from ear to ear; Kim, our English speaking host, was occupied with the beermaid to his left; and silent, brooding Third Wheel across the table was still silent and brooding, but was now also scratching his forehead with extremely long and strangely sturdy fingernails, and then sniffing them.
Awkwardness continued for some time. I attempted conversation, but was rebuffed by the repeated sudden realization that I didn't speak a word of Khmer. The server-friend to my right continually re-filled my bowl with rice, my glass with watery beer (and two straws; don't forget the two straws!), and at one point fed me and then Alex a chopstick-retrieved mouthful of green papaya salad. More people filed into our small room, more bottles of beer were being opened, and Kim seemed to be talking to us less and less. Perhaps it was unfounded, but I was wary.
Talk of the subsequent nightclub visit became more and more frequent, and little suspicions became only more suspicious (no attempt at communication from our English speaking companions; progressively more "attentive" service; somehow always full bottles of beer). We finally managed to speak up and say we should be getting back to the guesthouse, and with barely a goodbye from Young Smiley and only a silent brooding stare from Third Wheel, we went outside and found a motorbike driver to take us back into town (wherever we were).
The driver took an unfamiliar route back, bumby and dusty, and would often swerve the bike severely to the left - I assumed to turn a corner - only to subsequently swerve back hard to the right. I don't know if he was falling asleep, was bored with his life, or was just a horrible driver, but after several near turf brushes we made it back to good ol' #9 Guesthouse.
Frazzled but glad to be back, we headed inside the gate, followed rather aggressively by a scrappy, panting dog. He continued hopping around our legs as we walked up, and kept right with us as we made our way down the hall. Suspicious as we had become of everything that evening, we accelerated our pace, hoping to lose him around the next corner; no such luck.
A fitting end to a bizarre night: A jolly dog trotting down the hall and us fumbling to get the key in the lock and slam the door in the tail-wagging puppy's face.
Good Night, Real Cambodia.
Sunday, March 11, 2007
More on Cambodia
Several decades ago Phnom Penh was one of the most cosmopolitan cities in SE Asia, a cultural and commercial epicenter for the region. With the advent of the brutal Khmer Rouge regime in the mid-1970s, however, the city was emptied and effectively stagnated for the next several years. Today it shows characteristics of both ages: Wide tree-lined boulevards are crossed by dirt alleys strewn with garbage; the trendy river- and lake-front tourist ares offer an exception to the dilapidated buildings and crumbling walls of much of the rest of the city; and that bottle of water you buy may be from a relatively affluent corner store proprietor or a dirty, ragged small child.
Just south of the city lies the largest killing fields of the Khmer Rouge, a one square kilometer patch of dry brown earth where thousands of political prisoners (read: one-fifth of the population) were removed from trucks and savagely murdered. The ground is pock-marked by giant craters that not too long ago held hundreds of dead and dying women, children, old men, and everyone in between. A four-story monument stands at the center of the compound, silently offering a gruesome reminder of the land's former function: human skulls, piled high and surrounded by shabby torn clothing once worn by their bearers. The site is at once sobering and shocking and maddening and pathetic.
Several hours northwest lies Siem Riep, a dusty but bustling town that serves as the base for exploring the ancient temple complex of Angkor Wat. The ruins are a source of great national pride, and rightly so. Giant temple walls carved with Buddha faces and ornate patterns, tall sandstone spires, and all in the middle of the jungle. This place is deserving of a separate post, so I'll leave it there.
More than any other coutry in SE Asia, I feel like Cambodia is a place that rewards persistent travelling. It is easy to get annoyed by the aggressive (at times disarmingly so) street vendors, and one learns to disregard begging children as a parentally endorsed scam. But with some patience and good humor one finds much more. The population comprises Khmers - dark-skinned ethic descendants of the ancient indigenous tribes - as well as Cambodians of Chinese and other Asian ancestry. Unlike Thailand, Lao, and Vietnam, however, the native tribes are not minorities living in remote villages in the hills, but represent a significant ethic sub-section of the population in the cities as well as the countryside.
I wonder, like in Vietnam, at the welcoming attitude of many locals I meet. Given the region's recent past, I can't help but assume that I would encounter a general disdain for a traveller such as myself, especially representing as I do a country that sponsored much of the conflict in this part of the world.
I wish I had more time to pass in Cambodia. It is so different than the rest of the landmass, in terms of landscape, commercial development, ethinicities, and probably much more that I won't encounter. It is a fascinating place to be winding down my travels, and one that I will be sure to visit again.
Just south of the city lies the largest killing fields of the Khmer Rouge, a one square kilometer patch of dry brown earth where thousands of political prisoners (read: one-fifth of the population) were removed from trucks and savagely murdered. The ground is pock-marked by giant craters that not too long ago held hundreds of dead and dying women, children, old men, and everyone in between. A four-story monument stands at the center of the compound, silently offering a gruesome reminder of the land's former function: human skulls, piled high and surrounded by shabby torn clothing once worn by their bearers. The site is at once sobering and shocking and maddening and pathetic.
Several hours northwest lies Siem Riep, a dusty but bustling town that serves as the base for exploring the ancient temple complex of Angkor Wat. The ruins are a source of great national pride, and rightly so. Giant temple walls carved with Buddha faces and ornate patterns, tall sandstone spires, and all in the middle of the jungle. This place is deserving of a separate post, so I'll leave it there.
More than any other coutry in SE Asia, I feel like Cambodia is a place that rewards persistent travelling. It is easy to get annoyed by the aggressive (at times disarmingly so) street vendors, and one learns to disregard begging children as a parentally endorsed scam. But with some patience and good humor one finds much more. The population comprises Khmers - dark-skinned ethic descendants of the ancient indigenous tribes - as well as Cambodians of Chinese and other Asian ancestry. Unlike Thailand, Lao, and Vietnam, however, the native tribes are not minorities living in remote villages in the hills, but represent a significant ethic sub-section of the population in the cities as well as the countryside.
I wonder, like in Vietnam, at the welcoming attitude of many locals I meet. Given the region's recent past, I can't help but assume that I would encounter a general disdain for a traveller such as myself, especially representing as I do a country that sponsored much of the conflict in this part of the world.
I wish I had more time to pass in Cambodia. It is so different than the rest of the landmass, in terms of landscape, commercial development, ethinicities, and probably much more that I won't encounter. It is a fascinating place to be winding down my travels, and one that I will be sure to visit again.
Saturday, March 10, 2007
Good and bad on the street in Siem Reap
The food itself was nothing special at last night's dinner, but a number of things happened to make it one of the more interesting meals I've had on my travels.
It started off not-so-promising. I wasn't feeling well and I was exploring the city for the first time after it was already dark, not my favorite way to do it. I stumbled upon a bustling little street vendor restaurant and decided to try to eat something, hoping it would settle my stomach. The restaurant was so bustling that I ended up having to share a little plastic table with an American man and his Cambodian escort. I already felt like I was going to be ill, and sitting across from them did nothing for my nausea. I buried my nose in a book and ate my fried rice, ignoring them as best I could.
They left while I was still eating, which was nice because it afforded me the opportunity to actually look up from my book and view my surroundings. At the table next to me sat two German men who were sitting with a young street child, feeding him a meal. That alone was a nice sight to see, as all too often tourists, myself included, just grow completely apathetic to the hungry faces around us. Buying a child a meal is a way to guarantee that you at least do some good and that the money doesn't end up in someone else's hands.
At the sight of one of their kind eating a nice meal, several other street children gathered around and asked for food. In a humbling act of kindness, the street child offered to share his meal with all of the other kids asking for food. Who knows the last time this kid had eaten a square meal, yet he was happy to share it with all of the others.
I was both touched and ashamed. I, who have so much, ignore the beggars routinely, while this kid was happy to share in whatever he had. As I finished my meal, I bought three additional boxes of fried rice and gave them away to young kids on the way back to my hostel. It's a start.
(pardon if my writing is a bit choppy right now, I got sick last night and have been walking around in a cloudy daze since.)
It started off not-so-promising. I wasn't feeling well and I was exploring the city for the first time after it was already dark, not my favorite way to do it. I stumbled upon a bustling little street vendor restaurant and decided to try to eat something, hoping it would settle my stomach. The restaurant was so bustling that I ended up having to share a little plastic table with an American man and his Cambodian escort. I already felt like I was going to be ill, and sitting across from them did nothing for my nausea. I buried my nose in a book and ate my fried rice, ignoring them as best I could.
They left while I was still eating, which was nice because it afforded me the opportunity to actually look up from my book and view my surroundings. At the table next to me sat two German men who were sitting with a young street child, feeding him a meal. That alone was a nice sight to see, as all too often tourists, myself included, just grow completely apathetic to the hungry faces around us. Buying a child a meal is a way to guarantee that you at least do some good and that the money doesn't end up in someone else's hands.
At the sight of one of their kind eating a nice meal, several other street children gathered around and asked for food. In a humbling act of kindness, the street child offered to share his meal with all of the other kids asking for food. Who knows the last time this kid had eaten a square meal, yet he was happy to share it with all of the others.
I was both touched and ashamed. I, who have so much, ignore the beggars routinely, while this kid was happy to share in whatever he had. As I finished my meal, I bought three additional boxes of fried rice and gave them away to young kids on the way back to my hostel. It's a start.
(pardon if my writing is a bit choppy right now, I got sick last night and have been walking around in a cloudy daze since.)
Tuesday, March 6, 2007
Cambodia So Far
Wow it's humid. In the Mekong Delta and here in Southern Cambodia sweat is measured (by me) in number of shirts saturated in a given day. One commences sweating sometime before awaking in the morning, pausing briefly under the cold water of a shower, and recommencing imediately thereafter. All day everyday it's all glisten and drip.
Glandular hyperactivity aside, Cambodia promises to be a unique travel experience. Stepping off the boat, the difference from Vietnam - itself an extremely poor country - was striking. Outside of Phnom Penh people live in thatch-roofed huts or single corrugated tin rooms, bumby dirt roads winding around gravel pits and parked bulldozers. Along the road runs a massive ditch that gaunt, dark-skinned men tiredly plough by hand. The landscape calls to mind pictures I've seen of much of Africa (Alex?), vast plains of brown grass and scrub, occasional towering lonely palm trees, a caravan of trucks kicking up dust in the distance.
History weighs heavily on this part of the world, Cambodia having formally emerged from war less than two decades ago. Signs of the poverty and struggle are obvious and everywhere, and yet upscale dance clubs like Heart of Darkness are filled nightly with Phnom Penh's wealthy young elite. Even here one recognizes foreign elements in a thorough frisking at the door and stories of gun violence in the streets.
Interesting travel awaits.
Glandular hyperactivity aside, Cambodia promises to be a unique travel experience. Stepping off the boat, the difference from Vietnam - itself an extremely poor country - was striking. Outside of Phnom Penh people live in thatch-roofed huts or single corrugated tin rooms, bumby dirt roads winding around gravel pits and parked bulldozers. Along the road runs a massive ditch that gaunt, dark-skinned men tiredly plough by hand. The landscape calls to mind pictures I've seen of much of Africa (Alex?), vast plains of brown grass and scrub, occasional towering lonely palm trees, a caravan of trucks kicking up dust in the distance.
History weighs heavily on this part of the world, Cambodia having formally emerged from war less than two decades ago. Signs of the poverty and struggle are obvious and everywhere, and yet upscale dance clubs like Heart of Darkness are filled nightly with Phnom Penh's wealthy young elite. Even here one recognizes foreign elements in a thorough frisking at the door and stories of gun violence in the streets.
Interesting travel awaits.
Friday, March 2, 2007
The Man Without A Face
I was finishing up a stroll around the city, just having eaten some tasty and cheap food and not sweating quite as profusely as usual. I was in relatively good spirits after the crushing loss of all of my photos of the last seven weeks, and was generally upbeat about the coming days of travel.
I was respectfully but frustratedly declining the repeated offers of vendors hocking their wares and services, when I caught out of the corner of my eye an older man, kneeling on the sidewalk with his cap upturned and extended. What held my attention was his face, or rather what was once a face: his skin had literally melted down to his chin, his eyes mere sockets and bulging tendons, his teeth and entire jaw protruding like a skeleton's.
I was so shocked by this man's appearance - unlike anything I had seen outside of horror films - that I continued walking a few paces before consulting my wallet. Unfortunately, I had almost all large bills (such misfortune!), but managed to find a few smaller ones, and with them in hand made my way back to the kneeling man.
Overly conscious, as usual, of my actions, I comported myself in what I thought the most respectful manner: make eye contact but don't stare. What responded to me was illegible as a facial expression, and my heart sank knowing that I would turn away and continue walking while he would remain, forever a miserable spectacle of war's atrocities.
Forty years later and napalm is still leaving its mark. Excuse me, but what a fucked up place this world can be.
I was respectfully but frustratedly declining the repeated offers of vendors hocking their wares and services, when I caught out of the corner of my eye an older man, kneeling on the sidewalk with his cap upturned and extended. What held my attention was his face, or rather what was once a face: his skin had literally melted down to his chin, his eyes mere sockets and bulging tendons, his teeth and entire jaw protruding like a skeleton's.
I was so shocked by this man's appearance - unlike anything I had seen outside of horror films - that I continued walking a few paces before consulting my wallet. Unfortunately, I had almost all large bills (such misfortune!), but managed to find a few smaller ones, and with them in hand made my way back to the kneeling man.
Overly conscious, as usual, of my actions, I comported myself in what I thought the most respectful manner: make eye contact but don't stare. What responded to me was illegible as a facial expression, and my heart sank knowing that I would turn away and continue walking while he would remain, forever a miserable spectacle of war's atrocities.
Forty years later and napalm is still leaving its mark. Excuse me, but what a fucked up place this world can be.
Thursday, March 1, 2007
Finding My Son
To start with, I should clarify that My Son (pronounced 'mee son') means beautiful mountain in Vietnamese and is not actually referring to my progeny. That out of the way, I'd like to briefly describe a tour I took to the My Son temples and towers, a legacy of the Champa people from between the 8th and 14th centuries.
Initially I had signed up for a 5 AM tour to see the sunrise, but a night of drinking rice wine before hand pretty much made that impossible, so I took the 8 AM tour instead. Like most things I've signed up for, the bus was about a half hour late and full of French and German people, and nursing a hangover, I was content to ride without speaking, iPod headphones nestled firmly in my ears.
We arrived at My Son after an hour drive and the towers and temples were actually very interesting. Apparently, the Cham people used a mysterious bricklaying technique without any normal mortar that no one has since recreated. All well and good, but I still got bored with the sites after around a half hour, as they were very similar. What can I say, I have a short attention span...
Fortunately, I found a footpath leading off one of the sites and decided to follow it. And follow it. And follow it. It began to climb and I kept going, setting times for myself to turn around in order not to miss the bus, then stubbornly continuing on because I did not want to stop before reaching something. I wasn't sure what I was hoping for, maybe a shrine or a hidden temple at the top. Regardless, I reached the top and was disappointed to find nothing but a path leading back down the other side, not even a good view. Time was running short and I didn't want to be left behind, so I decided to hightail it back from whence I came.
Fortunately, traveling down gave me a different perspective and I spied a clearing to the side of the path. Hacking my way through thick brush, I stumbled out onto an open rock face and was rewarded with an absolutely breathtaking aerial view of the valley including all of the Cham temples. It was far better than anything I had hoped for.
Tours can be disappointing, but ultimately they're like everything else during our travels. They provide opportunities that would be difficult to come by on my own, but it's still up to me to make the most of what they have to offer. I'm more than happy to endure a bus ride with a bunch of middle-aged German folk for the chance to break away on my own for a fantastic hike and a stunning view.
In other news, I'm getting on a bus in about an hour for Saigon, where I will likely meet back up with my fellow traveler. Sorry for my dereliction in posting, I'll try not to let it happen again. And I'll post photos/videos of the view from the top of the hike once I figure out how to hook my camera up to the internets.
Initially I had signed up for a 5 AM tour to see the sunrise, but a night of drinking rice wine before hand pretty much made that impossible, so I took the 8 AM tour instead. Like most things I've signed up for, the bus was about a half hour late and full of French and German people, and nursing a hangover, I was content to ride without speaking, iPod headphones nestled firmly in my ears.
We arrived at My Son after an hour drive and the towers and temples were actually very interesting. Apparently, the Cham people used a mysterious bricklaying technique without any normal mortar that no one has since recreated. All well and good, but I still got bored with the sites after around a half hour, as they were very similar. What can I say, I have a short attention span...
Fortunately, I found a footpath leading off one of the sites and decided to follow it. And follow it. And follow it. It began to climb and I kept going, setting times for myself to turn around in order not to miss the bus, then stubbornly continuing on because I did not want to stop before reaching something. I wasn't sure what I was hoping for, maybe a shrine or a hidden temple at the top. Regardless, I reached the top and was disappointed to find nothing but a path leading back down the other side, not even a good view. Time was running short and I didn't want to be left behind, so I decided to hightail it back from whence I came.
Fortunately, traveling down gave me a different perspective and I spied a clearing to the side of the path. Hacking my way through thick brush, I stumbled out onto an open rock face and was rewarded with an absolutely breathtaking aerial view of the valley including all of the Cham temples. It was far better than anything I had hoped for.
Tours can be disappointing, but ultimately they're like everything else during our travels. They provide opportunities that would be difficult to come by on my own, but it's still up to me to make the most of what they have to offer. I'm more than happy to endure a bus ride with a bunch of middle-aged German folk for the chance to break away on my own for a fantastic hike and a stunning view.
In other news, I'm getting on a bus in about an hour for Saigon, where I will likely meet back up with my fellow traveler. Sorry for my dereliction in posting, I'll try not to let it happen again. And I'll post photos/videos of the view from the top of the hike once I figure out how to hook my camera up to the internets.
Photos
As I write this I've got six more up with 12 (very slowly) pending. Enjoy.
http://www.flickr.com/photos/37912472@N00/
http://www.flickr.com/photos/37912472@N00/
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