mayday

Phnom Penh, Exit...

2010-03-09T19:27:00.000-08:00

Hit the morning traffic leaving Phnom Penh: the air not so dense.

Piles of people, animals, produce and wares: pushed, dragged, rolled into town.

Riding against the grain, I stopped, finally catching a glimpse of something green. Proper Asian cities really make you appreciate the Asian Face Mask Phenomenon.

Through Muslim villages, I raced the carts and trucks, pushing up the ever so painfully slight incline through the provinces.

Hard working women giving me a thumbs up, and wide white smiles.

Schoolboys on motorbikes followed me at a snail's pace, practicing their English. Inviting me to dinner with their families.

A race between me and a pack of kids on rusty, single speed bikes (for 6 miles).

And then all at once: Desolation.

Was it the abruptness of this that brought me to such a funk?

I haven’t said much about the drawbacks of my self imposed isolation. Of riding alone. Of the quiet that comes with a language barrier. Of not speaking English for days on end.

There have been highs and lows, and I can’t exactly call this leg a “low” per se, but looking back, I had been beaten down a few notches.

Or, at the very least, I had reduced my emotional state to that of an 8 year old’s.

It began at my check in at my lodging.

The woman who ran the place spoke English rather well!

“I like your big nose!” she exclaimed.
“I would like to borrow it!”

“THANK YOU!” I replied. “Thanks.”

I locked my bike, I changed into the shirt that Morgan had given me in Vientiene, and I walked back out the door. My legs were weak that day.

My feet didn’t know what to do with the ground.

About 15 military vehicles piled around the lodging.

No matter.

Kept walking.

Kompang Chhnang, your eyes were all over me. It was earlier than I had wanted it to be. The sun was still pushing me around, and I could feel the entire town’s eyes.

Where the hell was I, anyway? I was more dehydrated than I could keep up with.

How I ever in a million years ended up on the back of some random man’s motorbike is beyond me. My defenses were low, my map, inadequate, and my body, exhausted.

I’m just not one for personal tours.

But he got me. And the wind gave me a lift.

A chubby man in his 30s, learning English, spending half of his time as one of the only “tour guides” in the town, and by tour guide, I mean random man whose English is just good enough to weasel money out of anyone that looks the slightest bit out of place…

i.e. the white girl on a bicycle with the big nose.

I was strict with where he brought me. I was short. I was skeptical. No, no sunset tour. NO, no village tour.

I just wanted silence. And a little more wind than my bike could provide in the stifling heat.

More silence than I was already getting? Whoa, Linz...might be time to tap back into reality...

We rode to the river, where he introduced me to his buddy, a 10 year old with a canoe…and in we paddled, through a maze of a Vietnamese floating village, on the waterways to Tonle Sap…

More and more, the Vietnamese take to the waterways of Cambodia...maybe this was the change I felt in Kompang Chhanang.

Or maybe it was the fact that the above mentioned military was planning on bombing Thailand from across my "hotel."

Maybe that.

Or that fact that I was then deserted by my tubby tour guide.

When he reappeared, we fought like one of those awful couples you only see on television.

Except we were literally not speaking the same language. He made excuses and asked for forgiveness, and I threatened to walk back through the village by myself, and refused to get on the back of his motorcycle as he slowly rode next to me.

My legs were so tired, I could barely walk. Something about this town wasn't sitting well with me, but it was most likely only fatigue. All these hot tears were on my face.

We made amends.

Gripping his shoulders as we veered off, further into the village, our fragmented conversation picked up where it left off, and we both apologized.

Down dusty paths, we visited a family who made palm sugar.

The mother of the house grabbed my wrist and dipped my hand into the pot of thick, brown sugar from their trees. Big smiles as we all looked at each other, licking our fingertips.

Cycling Cambodia's Coastline

2010-03-03T04:50:00.000-08:00

The ocean dragged me in, southwest to the Cambodian coast.

These communities, beach communities: the shopkeepers, the bartenders, the dirty old fishermen untangling nets in too hot sun, kids with tricks and restless teenagers with oceans in them--the town holding secrets undetectable by the visitors upon visitors who walk the shores, and bring their plastic things, and eat and drink and buy and bicker. I know it. And you know, it never feels right to know too much about a place before even having a chance to explore.

But there were beautiful sunsets and the beaches to the left were worth every rock my bike pounded over. The trip to the shore, however, was for the ride itself: along the coast from Sihanoukville to Kampot, to Kep.
Sihanoukville: Cambodia’s very own “resort” town, named after King Sihanouk himself, and packed with tourists from the capitol, taking the weekend to lie in the sun and be pestered by fruit selling children, and women trying to convince you that your legs are hairy.

“Pedi-kee-oo-ah, very cheap, Madam! Look your leg! Hairy, hairy, Madam! You want pineapple? Maybe lay-tah?”

Lady, if I wanted you to take my leg hair off in front of a beach front worth of people, I will be sure to hunt you down, in the meantime, if you don't stop touching my legs, I might have to break yours. Thanks.

p.s. I actually had shaved my friggin legs. In fact, despite the awkward biker tan lines, I'm pretty goddamn happy about them.
What?

That's what I thought.

My stay was one day too long, but I somehow managed to share a room with a [drunk] girl from Longmeadow, Massachusetts—one who summers on Nantucket--and also, to spend time with an artist of the photography sort, named John. Dinner of grilled crocodile and barracuda is not such a bad thing, either.

But, it was time to go. Way.

Past Ream National Park, along the coast where it was mango trees for miles, and small waterways leading to the ocean. Just enough rolling hills to keep me busy, and gorgeous Khmer children, big brown eyes and beautiful skin, flagging me down for a big wave and a shout.

I’ve never been happier to be pushed around by headwind. There was wind!

Jesus, I love the ocean.

But, despite the cool air and scenery, the traffic just out of Sihanoukville was a little more than disconcerting. For once, I missed the blaring horns that signaled an oncoming vehicle. The morning rush of buses and trucks out of Sihanoukville came furiously down the road, silently swiping past me, leaving inches of space, or else sending me hurdling into the packed red dirt of the shoulder. I missed the obnoxious warning signs of Thai truckers, the polite outward swerve of the Laotians.

This may not have been such a problem, if the drop from the pavement to the dirt weren’t so dramatic. I don’t care what kind of tires or tread you’re dealing with—sudden movements with a fully loaded bike over unpredictable surfaces is serious business. Your awareness of weight distribution, of balance, had better be damn keen. Finally, the highway gave way to a fork, where I wheeled off to the right, to follow the coastline to Kampot.

Kampot: An entirely uneventful town. Plenty of places to eat, riverside, and packed with expats. "Are you and ex-patriot?" one man asked me, after relaying to me his life-altering-two-week-volunteer-work story, along with some "pointers" on purposeful travel. Hmm...a good question. I thought back to David in Phnom Penh, and his daily battles with the "how much have YOU saved the world today, because I saved it THIS MUCH" crowd in Cambodia.

Not quite sure what these people are doing here, specifically, but they seemed dedicated and earnest enough, however intensely irritating.

The real reason for stopping in Kampot, instead of charging on for a 100 mile bike to Kep, was for pepper.

Kampot is home to some of the finest pepper plantations in the world, and after being thrown off the charts by war, is finally picking up its feet, and producing both pepper and salt, as beautifully as ever.

There is nothing like fresh green peppercorn, and even freshly dried peppercorn (that's possible, right?) is hard to beat. They even have a bit of shine to them.

Which brings me to Kep...

While Kampot produces the goods, Kep, yet another French masterpiece in ruins, puts them to use in combination with their ocean front goodness.

Kep winds around the coastline, where skeletons of French villas sit on the side lines, looking lost and broken..

Sunset overlooking Rabbit Island...

Dinner of green peppercorn crab and a BeerLao...

Then back to the city before heading north...

Phnom Penh, Cambodia

2010-03-01T20:14:00.000-08:00

There is something unbelievably satisfying about crossing a border by bicycle. I think back to my many run-ins at customs. The sweat, the fear, the questions (do I have something to declare?) and finally, the stamp.

But here, I was just cruising through. This may be directly due to the fact that I was the only person crossing the border all together, and I am funny looking enough in my cycling gear that I am, yet again, more of a spectacle than I am a threat.

Everything happened at a leisurely pace, and before I knew it: Cambodia.

It was sheer desolation and dust through northeast Cambodia. To the point where it was almost eerie. I worried about finding food and water. Yet again, the Mekong was just too far off, despite its appearance on the map.

The capitol of Cambodia, smack in the center, could not come fast enough.

This was for two reasons.

One: The dust-desolation factor.
Two: David Burgess.

Rewind to my final year at school: sitting on the couch, the couch, at a certain university in Rhode Island. Plans were being made, the post college plans, the travel plans that kicked my entire life in gear. And for David, his plans could not take action fast enough.

And so: Study abroad, Vietnam.

I remember being amazed, and even a little scared for him.

Here I was, making my plans for New Zealand (not knowing that I would then spend a large portion of the next three years traversing Asia), and there was David, heading off to study in Vietnam.

Vietnam!

This, my friends, is what got the wheels turning.

All of a sudden, this was an option. People do this.

Fast forward to the life I’ve created for myself on the road, and with every move, there was always that question of, hey, maybe I should meet up with David somewhere!

Year one distraction: Japan.

Year two: Nepal.

And finally, year three, here we are, with David now a teacher in Phnom Penh, Cambodia, and me, a cycling fool in Southeast Asia.

We fittingly met up at the Tela gas station (feel free to get the reference) by his place near the Russian Market...

In this somewhat seedy neighborhood, I got down for a good week, feeling the comforts of home by way of solid company, music, and cooking, all the while digging deep into Cambodian culture with the help of a crash course given by my hosts.

David lives with Courtney, a drop dead gorgeous Fijian native of Tahitian descent.: A girl with an impeccable proper British accent, and a seemingly effortless drive to more or less, save the world.

This is a girl who started work at her first NGO at age 16, a girl who practically runs the show at her school in Cambodia, has ties with the U.N., and regularly takes trips to Phnom Penh’s dump to feed the children. All the while, she is sweet and composed, and a gracious host.

These guys really spoiled me.

Life went on rather seamlessly. While David and Courtney worked, I explored the city, while after work hours were dedicated to David and I stomping through as many of Phnom Penh’s grittiest markets as physically possible.

Dinners in; Dinners out; Angkor Beer & Mangosteen!

Even a chance to finally watch the Olympics!

Basically, I didn’t want to leave. Flashbacks of nights with Tristan and Katie in Korea.

With a final night out, David and I roared through town by motorbike, sharing ipod speakers, and jamming out to expertly picked music for late night city cruising.

I was leaving for the coast, with plans to come back to Phnom Penh before wheeling my way north to Siem Reap…but all the while thoughts and thoughts: not enough time, not enough time!

Cycling 4,000 Islands, Laos

2010-03-01T18:16:00.000-08:00

Muang Khong, or Don Khong Island, (not to be confused with Don Khon Island) is the largest of the many piles of sand scattered through the Mekong in southern Laos, many of which only make an appearance during the dry season. There is almost entirely nothing to do, or see, which for some, is the perfect excuse for a long and lazy stay.

For me? Yeah. Lying on the beach and baking in the sun is somewhat likened to a slow, hot, painful death by boredom.

There is a time and a place for everything, and although I may find enjoyment in such “activities” (?) for an hour or so, especially after the likes of a Cape Cod winter, I have my limits.

Sunshine is for running around in.

Sunshine is for frisbees and handstands.

Period.

Needless to say, I keep my beach bum time to a minimum.

Growing up on the Cod, it is work, work, work, during daylight beach hours, then hit the sand at sunset: Love is a beach bonfire.

Although, the more I think about this, the more I think I should take up surfing. I might even manage to tire myself out enough to then sit on the beach with my friends. It’s been a long time coming.

In any case, south down the Mekong I went, to the more popular, tropical island, Don Det, by way of yet another river crossing...
,
(essential life skills 101: balancing a fully loaded bicycle on a canoe)

Apparently the islands were best explored by bicycle, so off I went, and pedaled and pedaled, over rocks and sand, down the one way path encircling the island.

There are two options for your island accommodation: the sunrise side, or the sunset side. Both sides are lined with lopsided little bungalows, some more upscale than others, from mini pseudo resort huts, to tied-together-twigs next to a hole in the ground squat toilet. Either way, living arrangements become more and more secluded the further south you trek..

About midway down the path before the bridge to Don Khon Island, I found myself a place, cool and quiet under my mosquito net.

Electricity is at a minimum, usually being cut out around 10pm, however, more and more generators are finding their way to the shore these days. And, despite the fact that change is eminent, and that the Vang Vieng crowd makes up a decent portion of Don Det, it is utterly laid back here, quiet, and peaceful..

If you happen to actually take advantage of what the sunrise side has to offer, you may even catch a glimpse of village life, nearly, just nearly untouched.

Kids kicking rocks and dirt through freshly swept paths, yanking school uniforms away from untamed, wriggling, river splashing, sun brown bodies...

My company on Don Det consisted of France, by way of Sophie (whom I met in transit to Luang Prabang, and again in Pakse), Karen (!) and Roman (go on, say it with a French accent).

Although Karen wasn’t feeling well and stayed in her hammock, Sophie, Roman and I went on a bicycle adventure, to the waterfall, which ended up more like a canyon of rushing water.

Fitting perfectly with the pace of the island, we ate a lunch that took about an hour and forty five minutes to appear at our table, then pedaled on, running into island wildlife along the way.

Even the wildlife was chilled out to no end.

Hey bird of prey, why are you just sitting next to me? Don’t you want to peck my eyes out or eat fish or at least fly away and circle the sky looking all majestic? Are you ok? Do you like…want a cracker?

God, Don Det, your innocence caught me off guard.

Cycling Champasak, Laos

2010-02-24T04:33:00.000-08:00

I allowed myself a day in Pakse to regroup, have a beer, do some sprints by the Mekong River, and get over myself, before heading South.

Valentines day was spent a short way from Pakse, in Champasak, which, contrary to popular belief, isn’t a town of all, but a string of villages, a ferry ride across from Route 13, leading to ancient ruins (thought to be the pregame to Cambodia’s Angkor Wat).

With two lawyers from Portland, Oregon, and Alaska, good old heart day was spent at an Italian guys house…who, strangely enough, lives in “Champasak,” where he tinkers with his old Camero (!?), plants things in his garden, and cooks up enormous portions of Italian food from his family’s recipes, which he then serves to people in his backyard. Dope.

Also, my lawyer friends were late, so the Italian dude thought I was being stood up on Valentines Day, which then allowed me free wine and appetizers! Game on!

Once they showed, however, the lawyers were hilarious and enlightening company. So great to be with equally Asia-travel-obsessed-Americans. They are difficult to come by, let me tell you.

The Mekong River just wasn’t getting old, and the views were gettin’ prettier by the day.

And while the ruins themselves weren’t as spectacular as I had imagined, the village life on and off the island, was fantastic.

Crossing the river, once again to get back on my path, it was south to 4,000 Islands, where, despite the fact that the river was two seconds to my right at all times, the route was unbearably dry.

Burning fields, yet again.

Tombstones marking my progress.

And food? Nowhere in sight.

But at least there was a monkey farm.

I had missed my chance of fueling up at a crossroad about 30k prior, where toothless women waved fistfuls of flattened, and grilled up rats on sticks.

Oh, the regret.

Luckily, before keeling over, I found a woman about to serve up some noodles to a few of the men in town, in a village called Napheng.

It was there that I was treated like a somehow tame, rare, wild animal.

In spandex.

The mother of the situation, shaking her head and wagging her finger at the boys…

(who were actually grown men, especially when you count the grandpa…but you really couldn’t tell by the way they clapped their hands together with glee at the sight of me, fidgeting in their chairs)

“Yes, we know she’s alone, and cute in that she’s-so-ugly-she’s-cute kind of way, but we have to let her go back to the wild, kids—it’s just not right to keep her here!”

“But Mo-Oom, just look at her, can’t we keep her?” (ruffling my hair, tugging my shirt, clicking the gears of my bicycle)

“I think she’s hungry! Let’s see if she’ll eat a CHILI! Here, put it near her mouth and see if she’ll eat it!”

I ate the chili.

A round of applause, and I was sent on my way, scooted out to the wild, from whence I came.

Approaching my turn off, I could literally smell the water. Relief. A canoe crossing the river yet again, to the quiet of Muang Khong to spend the remainder of the day pedaling and people watching...

Cycling the Bolevan Plateau, Laos

2010-02-24T03:44:00.000-08:00

Seeing the days elevation on the map, and linking this with the whole idea of “Cycling the Bolevan Plateau,” I had decided that I would obviously be cycling up and on to the plateau, stretching across miles of a flat, lego-like rock formation in the plains. Feeling the cool breeze in the heights. Seeing the barren stretches of land. Standing cliffside with hands on hips. Wiping my brow before posing for a photo, hair whipping around my face.

Well.

I got some of it right.

I climbed. Yes.

Even posed for a photo. This is me at hour number six, defeated, slumped over the headstone like mile markers of Route 16.

This may have been the most gradual “climb” of all time.

And there was the plateau: Immediately to my left, for three whole days.

Laughing at me.

No, no. There was no breeze. There was no breeze.

There was no breeze, and it felt as if the air was, in fact, suffocating me, instead. Not blowing past me, but pressing down on me. It is an absolute trick, that Southeast Asia plays, by simultaneously being dry enough that the fields around you are literally in flames, and yet the humidity is of such magnitude that I may as well have been riding my bike through hot jello.

No, I did not, in fact, go anywhere near the plateau. The route circled it, planting me at least 1 kilometer away at all times.

But despite the weather, the trip was sweet! I’m gonna go ahead and change the tone here, cuz really, yeah, ok, so it was hot, and there wasn’t much air circulation going on, but the route was beautiful! And if not aesthetically pleasing at times, it was at least culturally fascinating.

Day one rode through a village of blacksmiths, hand making tools, and blades, in the already unbearable heat. From there, I hit “Banana Junction,” fittingly named, and filled with vendors selling crazy tropical fruit that is often difficult to come by.

Jackfruit, canistelle, soursop, sweetsop, star apple, durian, at least 4 varieties of bananas, including the red kind! Yes!

To be honest, I had no idea what the shit half of it was, until I randomly ran into an actual botanist, who gave me the names of many of the above stated fruits.

Education score!

But whatever, pff…who needs names!?

Labels are for judging.

I think it was the best mystery lunch I’d had the whole goddamn trip.

And there have been a lot of those.

But they’re usually involving meat.

Which is generally, slightly more terrifying.

(More on the cycling Botanist and his amazing fake wife, Zoe, later)

And here is where I will officially take back all of the negative statements above, regarding the weather “on” the plateau, since it is only in these conditions, where the very nectar of life is born and bred: Coffee.

Everywhere.

Some of the best Arabica goin’ is reared up in Laos, and shipped off to the likes of Europe and the States (which is why none of it is coming home with me directly from the fields…they only leave the dregs for the Laotians).

There were waterfalls the whole way, culminating in the serene Tad Lo waterfall, one of the main attractions in the region; a place where travelers wind up mistakenly staying for twice as long as they had planned.

Although I have to say, the road to Tad Lo was a leeeetle beet trying for my road tires.

New roads are going in like mad, (to make way for the loggers that are busy deforesting the entire country, obviously), plowing through villages that were, even within the last ten years, extremely traditional (traditionally).

One of these things is not like the other, one of these…things….oh god.

Examples of the rapidfire change, swiping Southeast Asia…

At a market between Paksong and Tad Lo, I ran into two men from Holland, on holiday, in search of traditional Laos, by way of their excellent tour guide, Ban, and their faithful driver. We discussed these very things, noting that their “search” hadn’t been as culturally rich as they had hoped, due to the lightning like development that’s going on, in even the most remote of villages.

But Tad Lo, was, without a doubt, beautiful.

Had I not BEEN ROBBED AGAIN…I probably would have stayed a couple days, soaking up the BEAUTIFUL TRADITIONAL LIFE AND GORGEOUS WATERFALLS.

Yup.

That’s right.

Robbery numero dos.

Fast asleep in my bungalow, a local creep decided it was great idea to sneak in, robbing me of all of my cash, the cash in the pouch directly next to my face on my pillow, as well as my iphone (that was not only my last source of music, but my alarm clock, and note taking device).

I woke up late that morning. And cried at my picnic table for an hour, while my guesthouse owner lady, ran around with arms flailing, yelling at her neighbors to get someone to help me.

Clearly, she and her chickens could not.

It was not so much the money, or the phone, that was so upsetting, as it was the violation. Again.

Finally, after a Puerto Rican man tried to comfort me by telling me how he was shot in Nicuragua, Ban, the tour guide with the men from Holland showed up! Apparently, he was the only one in town that could translate, and get me out of there.

Without cash, I could not eat or drink, and without being able to eat or drink, I could not ride my bike for 100k, back to Pakse, through burning fields. Team Holland was kind enough to give me a lift back to Pakse, and in turn, a full day on their personalized tour through the Bolevan’s remaining tribal villages.

Education score, round two!

Not only that, but these men were excellent company, and more than generous with me. All in all, I may have had a rotten morning, but the day was one of the more memorable ones going.

We even found baby pineapples! Dude! So that’s how they do it!

Cycle Cycle Cycle to Vientiane, Laos

2010-02-24T03:25:00.000-08:00

Vientiane: French.

Vientiane: Effing expensive.

Vientiane: Food. Mmm….

I think I officially discovered my favorite street vendor in Southeast Asia.

This lady was crackin out the street snacks, and her spin on it was my jam, twice a day if I could hack it.

From what I can gather, she had a miso like paste going on, probably mixed with a bit of tamarind, roasted and toasted garlic, starfruit, lime, and fire roasted peanuts, wrapped in soft lettuce…..

Dearest Sweet Lettuce Wrap Vendor Lady,

I know you were too embarrassed for me to take a photo of you, but I would like to tell you that it is my deepest regret that I do not have a picture of you to frame and cherish forever; nor did I have the language skills to pick apart your recipe with you, so as to recreate your glorious lettuce snack on a daily basis from now until the end of time. I hope I did not make you too uneasy, by standing in front of your cart for an uncomfortable amount of time, watching you work, and trying to mentally break down what is in your miso-like paste, simply by staring really, really hard into your silver bowl of goodness. Despite all of this, how can I ever repay you?

With love and gratitude,
L

Vientiane was one big regroup for me. Chim was carefully handed to one of the best bicycle shops in Southeast Asia (or so they say) for a good old tune up, while I got my own tune up, in the form of friends and good food.

Morgan, Eriola and I spent three days together in the capital city, where we sat, riverside, talking, talking, talking, brainstorming, and generally sharing life stories until we pretty much ran out of breath.

For someone who lives alone, travels alone, works with babies, and decides to do things like ride a bicycle for 8 hours a day for three months straight, this kind of communication fest is a revelation.

Feeling comforted, and supported, mentally stimulated, and overall digging the idea of safety in numbers, these three days in an otherwise so-so city, was incredible.

Despite my solitude style, I am simultaneously blessed by the most exquisite company, friends, and family. Not something to be taken for granted.

Our last morning together was spent visiting the COPE centre, which is a facility dedicated to providing aid, work, medical care, and jobs to those affected by the thousands of landmines that were left undetonated by the US Government. More bombs were dropped in Laos than the amount of bombs dropped in WWI and WWII all together…and yet, how many of my friends, peers, family, could not even locate Laos on a map if their lives depended on it?

In a country where almost every town and village is remote, in terms of its distance to well equipped medical facilities, survival rates are low in terms of run ins with UXO’s .

It’s largely children who end up scouring the ground for bits of scrap metal to sell, and unable to identify a bomb, or else stumbling upon them accidentally, are killed, or severely injured, many losing limbs. Even if there is enough time to rush a person to the hospital, chances are slim that there are adequate blood or oxygen supplies to treat them.

For survivors, COPE works to provide artificial limbs and rehabilitation solutions, while spreading the word of the dangers of UXO’s. It is an incredible facility, and an absolute highlight in visiting Vientiane all together.

Eriola, Morgan and I, after mapping out our game plans on the most painfully slow internet connection OF ALL TIME….departed.

I was so sad to see them go, but am positive that this is only the beginning of years of run ins and reunions, in god knows which states and countries.

Off the map, Laos

2010-02-21T02:47:00.000-08:00

In my haste to get out of town, I may or may not have gone off the deep end, in my trek off the beaten path.

It’s up for debate.

First of all, the recommendation was to a destination that I could not find on a single map. I would ask the locals, and they would all stare, and shrug their shoulders.

But one guy, this wrinkled up truck driver, with his few words of English, knew where I meant to be going. Cranking butts the whole way, his truck would chug up next to me, and with an out stretched arm, “LEPT LEPT” [“left, left”] he’d croak.

And so, lept.

I ran into him over, and over, at points of question and crossroads. He had chickens in the back of his truck. Then, replacing the chickens, at least thirteen men. By the fifth, and final time he directed me to my destination, I think the truck was packing pineapples.

But, there was an end in sight.

The man pointed up, up, and there was my hill.

An hour of switchback climbing, straight up, up and over…

The original recommendation, particularly for my accommodation that night, came from a portly German man, who had settled into Laos, particularly Vang Vieng, at least 20 years ago.

“Zees vass my favoreet place—you stay viss my friend! I call him, I call him, vait-vait-vait”

Down I went, on the other side of the hill, and sure enough, there was his “friend” flagging me down, and showing me to my room.

In the daylight, I laughed to myself, reminiscing of our times sleeping in a hallway, or the hostel where Lauren woke up covered, head to toe, in bedbug bites, the same place where Indian men sat outside our door, waiting for us to run to the toilet (which we promptly refrained from doing all together). Those places.

I thought of the time I awoke to the sound of, what seemed to be, gunfire, in traveler infested Goa, India. It was hours past the state enforced curfew, and in my 3:00am half awake state, I was positive that any moment, our hostel would be raided. The dogs were howling, the booms and cracks getting louder, and louder.

Turns out, they were fireworks. And I wasn’t the only one who didn’t sleep that night, questioning whether it was sensible to hide under the bed, or run into the jungle. The bloodshot, tired eyes of the travelers wasn't entirely due to Indian hashish that day.

And yet, this situation seemed harmless enough.

The view, at least, was everything he had described it to be.

Sure, the place itself was a shack. Sure, I could see through gaping three inch spaces between the wooden slats that suspended the place over the water on stilts. Sure, I may have inhaled a few paint chips, here and there. But, I mean, c’mon, I can handle it—look at this view! And the price! 15,000 kip! C'maaan!

I’ll take it!

I didn’t sleep for a second.

The sun dropped below the river, and suddenly, things weren’t as quaint and rustic in a seaside-y kind of way as they were reminiscent of a high budget set for a slasher film.

I padlocked myself in the room and stayed up 90% of the night, just listening for footsteps.

It wasn’t until the sun had officially come up that I realized, possibly, that robbery had tapped open my entire personal reserve of paranoia. Yeah. Should probably work on reeling that in.

Or, at least, get on my bike and pedal as fast as humanly possible to the next town.

Vang Vieng, Laos

2010-02-21T02:09:00.000-08:00

Breakfast of Champions: the Baguette.

Figured I had to, at least once, go French, in Asia.

With France somehow weaving its way around the exterior of the culture, touching bits of architecture and food items with its magical rustic European wand, it’s almost appropriate in Laos, to indulge in this.

The day to Vang Vieng flattened out, as the mountains curled up around me, leaving just enough space for rice paddies to line my path.

Also, looking forward to playing catch up with emails, and to jump on the backpacker trail for a second, Vang Vieng didn’t look so bad, from far away.

From far away.

From far away, I could already spot them.

Backpacker zombies.

It’s true. They were there. And you could see them from a mile away.

There are dinosaurs in Thailand, and Australian Backpacker Zombies in Vang Vieng, Laos.

They are almost always one of the two: under nourished completely, with the exception of the nutritional content of BeerLao, LaoLao Whiskey, and the odd Thai Redbull; or, um, shall we say, over nourished.

Both, despite size, are underdressed.

A Laos woman, leaving the rice paddies from hours of backbreaking work, and coming up on the river, tilting her conical hat back to see more clearly: At least 100 of them in front of her, sliding all over each other, half naked, and drunk, in the broad, broad, screeching white light of daylight, dancing to a pounding repetitive beat on poor sound systems. It’s as if the “last call” lights are on permanently, and no one has noticed.

Meanwhile, 9 year old kids man a bamboo trapeze over the river, where the zombies fling themselves into the water, next to toothless Laotian women, washing lettuce in the very same piss filled water—lettuce to then stuff into the baguettes and serve to them for three times the normal rate.

This, my friends, is the river Tubing of Vang Vieng. Grab a tube, and float from bar to bar down the river, praying that no passing trapeze swinger will land on you, as you belligerently paddle your way downstream, to the next stop (the next one has freeeee French fries!)

Carted back to town by tuk tuk, the drivers then dump them to the streets, where somehow, someway, the sizzle of television waves, draws them to the nearest couch, where “Friends” plays on repeat, 24 hours straight. The zombies lie motionless, or else, chew their hamburgers and chips in a trance.

But, friends, it has to be done.

I flew off that trapeze, water up my nose, and screamed like 5 year old, kicking my legs, midair; I pounded a tallboy BeerLao, and three consecutive shots of whiskey, then ran into 5 traveler friends from previous cities, on the same trail as me--wet, beer soaked hugs all around.

And that was enough.

Good times.

Carted back to town, I met back up with Eriola and Morgan, where we shared an Indian feast at the only visible chain of restaurants in the nation: Nazim.

And then, as quickly as possible, I got the hell out of that town.

Cycling Laos

2010-02-19T04:49:00.000-08:00

Four out of Five cyclists I met did not complete the day, departing Luang Prabang.

That fifth guy? I read about him.

I thought hard about this: Linzy Mahoney, the cycling non-cyclist.

Each that I had met, had hitched rides, or else, set up camp mid-way-to-nowhere.

But, the night before I left, my cooking class ended up packed with German bikers. My cooking partner? She had three broken ribs, and had just finished cycling the Himalayas in northern India and Nepal. The boys scoffed at my apprehension. A solid, German, “Hmpf” at my daily mileage. Sorry, my 80-150 kilometers a day isn’t good enough for you.

So that settled it.

I was leaving at 6:40 am, as soon as the sun showed its stupid, yellow face.

My German cycling-cooking friends ended up being a real comfort though, once we picked up the conversation, giving me recommendations for bicycle shops in Vientiane, and checking out my bike to make sure I was in working order--But, it’s just my nature to hear a challenge in just about anything.

Although I’m far more likely to keep all things competitive confined to competition with myself, my missions, my self imposed challenges--they are less like a war, and more like a game.

I am a kid all over again, and often.

Morning came: I bought an entire bunch of bananas, filled two huge water bottles, and set my pace.

But, do you think I could get away with maintaining what is comfortable?

No, not on this trip.

I was not alone.

And whatever’s lookin’ down on me wasn’t going to let me pass without another friggin test.

So I like to ride solo, huh? So I want to go it alone, huh? So I want to take one of the hardest rides in the region by myself justincaseIfailormybuttgetstoosoreorI’mjustreallytiredandkindawannaquitorsomething, huh?

Well, just as I started to gear myself up: There, coming around the bend, his long, blonde rat-tail flying in the wind, was Julian, the Austrian.

My official competitor through the hills of Northern Laos.

Wheeling around the bend, with camera in hand, I watched him wave to the kids, hands off the handlebars, sitting up straight, snapping away—a goddamn unicyclist for all I could see (since I haven’t seen any cyclists in general, it coulda been anything).

He was everything I was not. For one, he could get away with cycling without a shirt on. Skin, dark brown from the sun, I stared hard, thinking of my long sleeves and my need to preserve myself in all of my feminine glory in these gender confining cultures.

I’ve had half a mind to chop off my goddamn hair, and duct tape my knockers down lately. Really.

Helmetless, shirtless, mountain bike riding, with an entire backpacker’s backpack, strapped sideways to a back rack with rope.

Julian.

My head whipped around to get a better look, but he was gone, down the only downhill we would have that day.

Forward from Luang Prabang, is a deceivingly short-ish ride of 80km to Kiou Ka Cham. Taken backwards (as most of the riders I encountered were doing, as we waved at each other in passing), the day can be extended to 130km and only involves one giant climb near the end of the day, 600 meters for about 20km.

For us heading south. It was different.

Up 1000, and all too quickly, down 700, then back up again, painfully retracing all of the hard work you had just accomplished, to 1400 meters to the top (or thereabouts).

Nearly 70 kilometres of the 80 are straight up hill. Straight.

This is a different kind of story, when we are talking two climbs over a long period of time. Who knew a shortage of distance would be so painful.

There is no way to avoid the mid day heat. You will be climbing when it hits, because all you are doing, is climbing. And you better bring a snack, or else, have fun using your bicycle as a hunting device. I’m sure the mountain lizards will taste great over that toasty fire you’ve built yourself out of dried bamboo.

Julian and I locked eyes, as he sat (in some random villager’s home) eating a steaming bowl of rice noodles. I whipped my bike around, jumped off in a puff of dust and stood in the rustling bamboo doorway.

“Hark!” we seemed to say to each other, arms outstretched “Kindred solo-bicycling fool! Quick, let us unravel our tales of woe, over these hearty noodles and spring onion!”

Pulling up a chair, we both broke out in wide grins.

“So?”

“How’s the ride goin?”

“I am finish,” he said. “I think I sleep, maybe here at some guest house.”

“Really? Whoa, there’s a place to stay here!?”

(random villager shakes his head)

No, there was nowhere to stop. Julian, was not, in fact, finish. We were only halfway there.

For the rest of that day, til the sun finally fell behind the cliffs, we climbed, Julian passing me, only to stop for a rest after his sprints, where I would catch up, slow, but steady, passing him for a short while at a time.

I pushed my bike for the last, relentless, 5 kilometers uphill, and rolled into town (actually, I passed it, not seeing a single thing resembling accommodation) at around 5:30pm.

Just in time for sunset.

Jules and I shared dinner together, and swapped tales and ideas. He’s been living at home in Austria, working in a factory, when he finally decided it was time to go. Julian just wants to play football.

Early, early the next day, the view from the village was telling of what kind of day was ahead.

Uphill, yes, but the best kind: the ones with gorgeous downhill dives, and short pushes to the cliffs of the cliffs...

I was sad to leave my competitor behind—company had been difficult to find on these roads.

But, just as those thoughts crossed my mind, a group of Thai men adopted me at lunch time, berating me with questions, food, and oranges, until I was passed on to a group of German tourists, for similar questioning and photo snapping.

The day ended up being filled with passing cyclists (and by filled, I mean four people, in pairs). A couple from Germany, and two hotties from Cyprus who instantly became hotter by telling me how they had cycled here from home, through Africa and the Middle East.

From there on out, it was just me and the village kids, as I plunged downhill, hands going numb from constant braking, and the rattle of the potholed roads.

I never thought I would find such certainty in conventional backpacking…not until faced with the uncertainty of the pull-up-to-a-village-because-it-was-actually-big-enough-to-be-marked-on-a-map-and-therefore-might-have-food method of travel. It’s a funny thing to work all day, pushing forward in the heat, only to not know where you are actually going, really.

But day two of my Luang Prabang to Vientiane leg, was a gem.

Hot Springs.

Not a village to be had, but a police check point to help me get over my night time jitters, and my bungalow, overlooking the stacked up limestone mountains that I had passed that day, truly unlike anything I’d ever come across.

(and probably the best damn soup I’ve had the whole trip).

Luang Prabang, Laos

2010-02-13T05:26:00.000-08:00

Following the Mekong, I’d made my way from the border to Luang Prabang.

And Luang Prabang was love.

Had I the time, I would have settled in to a guest house, and signed my life away to hunting down recipes and learning silk weaving. The town itself, sits on the Mekong river, with French villas lining the streets, pouring out generous cups of coffee, and giant baguettes. Simultaneously, Laos cuisine is abundant, with fresh samplings of fish, courtesy of the river, and killer twilight food stalls, pouring out fresh spring rolls, sautéed bamboo shoots with ginger, and steaming noodles, waiting to be doused with chili and basil.

The night market is extensive, if not a bit repetitive, but is worth a late night stroll. Thinking of the blaring noise and shuffle of Korean markets, of Indian markets, it is difficult to wrap my head around the calm that is a Southeast Asian market. The vendors ask nothing of you, but a simple glance. No yelling. No pushing. Sometimes, it is a challenge to even get their attention.

But as my friends and family know, shopping is not my strong point. I can look for days and days, and come home empty handed.

And so, back to the bicycle.

30km out of town were the Tat Kuang Si waterfalls, and although I’m as cautious with waterfall excursions as I am with temples, the reports were coming in positive (and I needed an excuse to stop walking up and down the same [beautiful] streets, staring at the same [beautiful] silver jewelry and silks).

Consensus? Totally worth it! Hey! Weird!

Packs of kids swingin' from trees and into the blue...

I even took some time aside for the temples, caught beautiful sunsets, and jumped in on a Laos cooking course before heading out of town, south, toward the capital…

Although, what truly grabbed me in Luang Prabang, aside from the obvious, were the people.

Just when I was feeling worn down again, was I completely lifted up by familiarity. It’s true, there are very few American travelers, and as much as I love me a good Brit, I actually forget what a comfort it is, to hear tones of home. A couple from California stopped by my guesthouse, and it was enough to make me cry.

I guess I didn’t even realize how much I needed a good bear hug. From there, I went to grab dinner, and ended up sitting with a fellow cyclist, who proceeded to be my personal fortune teller, lifting me further away from all them hollow feelings of homesickness.

And finally, there was Morgan and Eriola.

Cycling back to my guesthouse, pretending the dark wasn’t punching me in the chest, I stumbled on these two girls, who asked where I got the bike.

Instant friends.

My favorite kind.

My face can’t smile hard enough, thinking of these sort of friends: the Lindsay Bryan’s, the Lauren Yauk’s, the Joe Vigorito’s, the Michael Mussman’s, the people you barely had to utter a word to, to seal the friendship. When thrown out of your element, somehow similar beings just plain gravitate toward each other, whether it’s in that first year of school, or your first hostel in Berlin.

Morgan and Eriola and I made plans, minutes after meeting right then on the street, to meet up in Vang Vieng (and Vientiane).

That is, if I was going to survive the next two days of mountains…

Killing Guidebooks

2010-02-13T01:59:00.000-08:00

The problem with research in terms of travel, lies in the fact that your mind has this habit of making things up. “Hmm,” you say to yourself, as you stand in front of a stream, trickling, like an overturned juice box over playground pebbles, “I kind of imagined this waterfall to be…bigger.”

Whether you’ve misinterpreted, misread, or yeah…just made things up entirely, the reading, the bookmarks, the questions, the research, it can all come crashing down on you.

The disappointment can be, not only disheartening, but costly. Aren’t you glad you hired that driver to bring you all the way to that “molten lava” i.e. “a black rock next to some sticks on the side of the highway?”

This is the way many an excursion has ended for me, personally, which may or may not have something to do with my all too vivid imagination, teamed with my fight against “Over Researching,” in order to leave at least a glimmer of an element of surprise to my wanderings.

Led by a boy with a stick, no older than 13, a boy with peach fuzz dreams of a real, live, moustache, we would “trek” into the forest.

“Sometime, tiger,” he would say, as we strained to listen over the sound of traffic and bellowing horns from the highway, 20 feet away.

“Now, we go back”
“Well, I mean, we just got here, can we just stay by the waterfall for a minute and relax?”
“Now, we go back.”
“Look, kid, I know you can’t control the whole tiger situation, but we’ve paid you to bring us out here, I think we’ll just sit for a minute”
“Now, we go back”
“Dude.”
“Now, we.”
“OKAY. GOD. FINE. LET’S GO.”

Should have asked around before signing up for the tiger trek. Should have seen some pictures or something. But then again, the opposite extreme poses a problem of equal disappointment. For years, you pour over pictures of the jagged peaks of [insert famous mountain range] only to finally stand before them, and be utterly underwhelmed.

Over Photo Viewing: Subcategory of Over Researching.

But then, there are these places, these things that photographs and travel reviews cannot capture, no matter how little or how much you have researched prior to arrival. Whether it is the way you gasped for air as you stood in front of the Taj Mahal, or the rush of wind that bit your face, as you jumped out of the airplane for your first solo skydive, it is the experience itself, that cannot ever be recounted to its fullest potential—by you, by anyone. It is absolutely untouchable, and to be honest, personal.

Which, um, brings me to my “review” of The Gibbon Experience, in northern Laos.

But you don’t have to look if you don’t want to…..

The Gibbon Experience, Laos

2010-02-13T00:17:00.000-08:00

I pushed and dragged my bike up the hill, away from the river, away from the mayhem that was the Laos border crossing on the Mekong. Passports flying everywhere, stamps, and the good old USD.

So strange to see your own currency again.

Hey there Mr. Andrew Jackson, I forgot all about you! I’ve been busy playing with monopoly money!

Dusty, and broken looking: Houay Xai (spelled any number of ways you please).

Greeted by cobra filled liquor bottles, and rust filled everything, one once again came to grips with the sight of poverty. India swept over me for at least a full minute.

Apparently, a stroll to the left was to bring me to the office of The Gibbon Experience, which was what had pressed me to Northern Laos in a timely fashion, to meet up with my one and only booking for this trip, on January 26th.

Thoughts of their warm, elegant website came to mind as I wheeled down the road…and not a second later, there I was:

Hmm.

Well. Seven personal recommendations can’t be wrong, right?

Research for Southeast Asia for me went as follows:

1) Look at the map: Where is the ocean? Where are the mountains? Rivers? Check.

2) Configure cycling feasibility: which major highways are too major? Which minor roads are too minor (i.e. rock, dust, holes, holes of rocks and dust).

3) Email all trusted travel friends in and around the region and tally up the results.

Emails came flying back, and almost all of them had one thing in common: The Gibbon Experience.

No, not the one in Thailand: the one in Laos, in the Bokeo Reserve.

So: departure time 8:00am, the neatly dressed Laotian woman told me.

8:00am, 8 people per day, three days.

The truck pulled up bright and early, and 8 sleepy eyed travelers, two Dutch, four Australian, one Philipino-American, and me, the quintessential mutt-American (i.e. Italian-Lebanese-Irish-Polish-American) went hurtling down the road.

(and over the river—literally—and through the woods).

Two hours later, the truck dragged into a village of bamboo huts, at least 32 children, and our “guides,” two Hmong boys, Pochua and Piyja. Without much fanfare (partially due to the enormous language barrier between ourselves and our guides), we began our first of many treks, into the bamboo jungle of the Bokeo Reserve.

I was psyched. The trail was almost non-existent, with thick bamboo stalks draped over us, and ferns brushing our ankles, as we pushed our way through. Baguettes (the strangely common place bread of choice for French colonized Laos) were distributed early on, before we moved deeper into the reserve to a waterfall for a dip.

And then, the zip line.

The zip line!

Just you wait til I have enough internet juice to upload my videos!

Zipping from treehouse to treehouse over the canopy (our official resting places each night) we explored the jungle between, by way of our machete wielding 17 year old Piyja. The paths were almost absolutely uncut, at points, and with the dense, wet, bamboo, cracking and shifting, new routes were established on an hourly basis. This was trekking at its finest. These boys knew the forest like the backs of their hands.

But not so far off, the rumbling started. Mid day, and the sky pitch black. Our guides exchanging looks and rattling on in Laos. Within minutes, the sky was falling. Pushing us into a huddled group, we threw up our hoods if we had them, and were pelted, pelted, pelted by rain.

Until the rain turned to hail.

The size of golf balls.

The ten of us, bunched together, as we heard trees, six stories high, snapping under the force of the wind, we shook and giggled through the sounds of ice hitting our heads with a hollow pop.

Only appropriate to laugh when you could be smashed by a tree at any moment, right?

And like that, it was gone. Pochua gave a clear sigh of relief, and we all exchanged looks….wtf.

A tree crashed on the zip line, meaning a trek down to the jungle floor and a full on crawl back up, once again, through the river, feet stomping through, absolutely soaked to the core.

Our final zip to our resting place for the night, a full on drop from the perch, I prayed my straps were tight enough, that my clips were secure, that the old motorbike tire of a “brake” was enough to stop me before slamming into a tree on the other end. The wind would whip by, and if it weren’t for the hum of the line as you sailed, you would think you were flying.

Over snacks of jujubes, tamarind pods, apples, and baguettes (that had clearly been sat on all afternoon) we exchanged “how we got here-where we came from” stories, before dinner was zip line delivered in stacked tiffins and traditional woven rice holders.

The two blonde and beautiful Dutch girls, Susanne and Judith, spoke of growing up around Amsterdam, while Team Australia (although, also strongly linked to both African and Jewish descent), were a group of boys, all around 19 and 20, travelling after their first year of Uni, and then our beloved Alex, the Philipino born, San Francsico living, Phd holding, joy of a man, with amazing spectacles, and a smile that even the Thai people would have trouble contesting.

The guide boys explained to me how to turn on the stove for tea, where the candles were, and how to set up the mosquito nets (apparently, I was dubbed mother hen), and off they went, leaving us campers to our own devices, in the middle of the jungle, without so much as a wave goodbye.

And just like that, we hunkered down for our first night alone in the jungle. No phones, no first aid kits, just a treehouse in the middle of the middle of nowhere, with a toilet that was home to the best view of the whole lot, at least six resident rats, and a lizard the size of my forearm.

Yes, the name of this trip is the Gibbon Experience, and certainly, we were engulfed in wildlife, unimaginable, from giant Hornbills, to the Slow Loris, but in all honesty, the reality of a wildlife trek is that your trekking is the very thing that will drive away all things wild before you even catch a glimpse. It is best, instead, to keep your ears open (as we did, actually, hearing the Gibbons calling out).

This is of no fault of the trekking company, but solely the fault of being a stinky human with clumsy feet. Gibbon sightings do, however, occur every week on this trek, since apparently, there are early morning feedings that bring them to a certain, accessible area. Day three of our trek was dedicated to creeping around the jungle on tiptoe, dodging twig-snapping steps, and blinking our eyes in the 6:30am sun.

Two more full days of trekking, zipping, steamed rice and vegetables for breakfast-lunch-and-dinner, before moving into the dried up paddies themselves, and somehow back to the village, and back to our truck for a rumbling drive back to the border town...

Crossing Rivers: Laos

2010-02-12T02:09:00.001-08:00

Once again, public transport had its way of raising my blood pressure.

Chim, on the other hand, was a champ, and packed up neatly underneath the bus, as I fretted in my seat just above.

The bus crawled through Northern Thailand to its border crossing town, Chiang Khong, where we were basically dumped to the streetside, backpacks tumbling, into the night.

The night.

The night is different for me these days. I’m not a very fearful person—otherwise, I most likely wouldn’t find myself here in the first place—so this whole “fear” thing…I don't wear it well. It both clings to me and repels, like wearing that paper hospital gown in a cold room.

The bus pulled up, and it was dark, and my heart was racing. I hadn’t conversed with any of the other travelers on the bus, but frantically began, whilst trying to collect the pieces of my bicycle, along with my bags upon bags. Please, somebody, please come with me to whichever guesthouse I’m landing at. Please, somebody wait for me to get my wheels on my bike.

Just then a truck pulled up, and a silver haired man with a southern drawl, told us to all pile in—he was goin’ take us to his guest house down by the river side, where we could all have a nice old room and some home cooked food for a good price.

Relief.

Every single foreigner hopped in, and off we went.

Somehow I couldn’t settle down that night, travelers wanted to talk, the guesthouse owners were beyond the friendliest I have ever encountered, but I felt scattered, and even a bit frantic. Couldn’t hear a word anyone was saying to me. Chiang Mai had been a great relief, and distraction, but everything was catching up to me.

I ordered something to eat and stared out for my first good look at the Mekong River, then went straight to bed.

Sleep is an incredible thing.

Morning on the Mekong, and Chim’s first boat ride, crossing the border to Huoay Xay, Laos...

Chiang Mai: hitting 800km (or thereabouts)

2010-02-07T18:54:00.000-08:00

It was officially decided that I was now going to kick this trip in the ass.

While four Thai men are now off gallivanting around with my dirty cycling clothing, I was on my way to Chiang Mai, with more adrenaline than I knew what to do with.

Record timing.

Take that.

And being well past beer-thirty when I arrived, I wasted no time in making a group of friends to crack a Chang Beer, and sip some Sang Som Thai Whiskey with.

Back to backpacker land! Woot!

There was Aileen and Pedro, and Jelle and Gavin and Giselle, and Jasmine and on and on! Australians and Canadians and Mexicans, and Dutch people comin’ outta everywheres! Happiness!

Although, I have to admit, I can only kick it on the daytime drinking schedule for so long, so I hit the coffee plantations for some mountain biking!

(and reserved the beer fest for nightfall).

Figured, if I’m going to call this a cycling trip, I better tap all resources possible. Plus, I’ve been dying to figure out what Ari has been up to all this time in the Santa Monica Mountains, that crazy bastard.

Turns out, mountain biking kicks ass, and kicked my ass. Entirely different muscles, entirely different technique. I had one solid wipe out, but enjoyed every minute of it. Our guide was great, and the 11 year old that tagged along as our sub-guide, was one hell of a kid.

Apparently his mom decided he was playing too many video games, and so sent him to “work” for the weekends.

Other than mountain biking, I attempted to take it easy, and bring in some comfort…

The old city portion of Chiang Mai is closed off by a moat, making the outer rim a perfect square. Beautiful temples peek out from golden gates, and old ruins lie about, baking in the sun. I biked around, hitting markets, and street stalls, and temples, and even took a full day cooking course.

Somehow an incredible comfort: prepping food, and smelling fresh herbs in a kitchen.

By the time I was leaving, the crew I had acquired had also moved on, although I felt a bit sad leaving my family run guesthouse.

Even their screaming children

Lampang, Thailand

2010-02-04T19:38:00.001-08:00

Oh, the suspense!

The follow up story, with no preceding story!

Basically, the police force of Uttaradit gave me a lift to my next destination: Lampang.

Not only that, but they hooked me up with a real, live hotel that night! No, really, like, the real thing. Like, a restaurant. Like, a karaoke bar. Like, an elevator (with very serious emergency postings). Like, actual hot water. And BBC World News on the television. A television.

It was weird.

I felt like I was in an alternate universe. Not only was I more than a little spun out over the course of events that had occurred during the past 8 hours, but I was somehow traveling in Asia, but with western comforts everywhere.

Props for the attempted “American Breakfast.”

Nothing says “home” like bologna and hotdogs before 8am.

Although, I must say, all them comforts came in pretty handy since it was rather alienating, without a single English speaking person to hear me out, on, hands down, one of the most terrifying days of my life.

The day, however, did present me with a unique opportunity…….an excuse to shop for clothing in Asia…….I thought back to my days of t-shirt hunting in Japan and Korea, and all of a sudden, my clothes-less situation didn’t seem all that bad. Now was my chance to get whatever shirt I wanted…

Lampang itself is a bit of a blur, but was beautiful, from what I did manage to gather. Did a fair amount of thinking by the river…

…and then….I was officially, unequivocally, trumped.

Meet Maria and Jim.

You know, the ones who are longboarding/rollerblading their way through Thailand. (AND got themselves entirely sponsored!)

Why didn’t I think of that?

Damnit.

Uttara-damnit, Thailand

2010-02-04T03:33:00.000-08:00

Packing: A painstaking process, no matter how little, or how much actually makes its way into your bag.

Whether it is one t-shirt, or five, it is the perfect t-shirt(s). It is THE pair of shoes. And when it is going on your back (or the back of your bike), each gram does, somehow, matter. Of course, you have to reckon with the fact that you will most likely acquire more through your travels, whether it is a stack of town maps, or a new perfect t-shirt. Are you going trekking? How quickly will these clothes dry, once you’ve walked back to your hostel in monsoon rain at 2am? God forbid you know what the weather is going to do. You have trouble enough knowing what day of the week it is. Don’t even get me started on the underwear count.

Prior to leaving for this trip, I made a master list of everything I would bring. Modifications to my normal check list were made, due to that whole cycling thing. I needed space for tools and spare parts, and a wardrobe that would function much differently than the normal traveler’s rags. (i.e. hilariously padded pants, and a helmet…although, come to think of it, the helmet probably could have come in handy over these past few years…or, at least on the bus rides in India).

This trip. This trip was different. The bike. The bike, alone.

And there I was, leaving Uttaradit, Thailand, January 18th, 2010.

Click, went my key on the hotel counter, and out the door I went. All packed, with my many bags, filled with my belongings, painstakingly chosen, and accounted for.

Destination: Lampang. A day entirely filled with hills. 140km of hills, and, apparently, road construction. A day for an early start.

The sun was just about to make an appearance when I made my way up my first hill of the day, up and over a bridge, and into the rice paddies.

For the sake of my family, and friends, who worry endlessly (perhaps, for once, justified), I will spare the details of this story, until I make my way home.

For now, we will address the fact that I now stand with exactly ½ of what I originally left with, when I walked out of my hotel in Uttaradit that morning.

I was robbed.

Robbed of the t-shirt, the shoes-socks-underwear-sandals-trekking pants, and on, and on.

Gone.

Gone within minutes.

Which, for now, brings me to the point.

Here I am, days and days later, typing away on my laptop (I still have my laptop) and I am without almost all of the items I so carefully chose for this trip---and yet, I am functioning fine.

After all this time of travel, this was my final exam.

What, of all of the items on my master list, did I really need in the end? What did I bring, and what actually needed replacing for me to function on the road.

I am officially looking at this situation as a giant test.

Sukhothai, Thailand

2010-02-01T01:30:00.001-08:00

Rest day!

Definitely meandered into town, slowly, slowly, picked a place to stay by the river.

Foreigners!

Perfect timing, kicking away the lonely bits of solo travel.

Made it just in time to shower and change into fresh clothes, before jumping back to Chim for the 10k cruise to the Sukhothai Historical Park.

Absolutely beautiful. Even caught the eclipse of the sun through a security guard’s aviator sunglasses, before cycling/strolling the ruins of the first capital of Thailand.

One and a half days of history and fruit for lunch and dinner: Jackfruit.

By the time I left, I could feel Chiang Mai only a few days away.

Pitch black, headlamp strapped, click of the key to my guesthouse, and out the door to highway 11. Stopped once for my almonds, but anxious to get moving, I pedaled hard, only to begin to question whether I was on the right track. Meters down the road, a hoard of bicycles lined up next to a truck. Bicycles! Bicycles always seem friendly!

And here, is where I spent the next 45 minutes of my life, eating breakfast with the Sukhothai Garbage Crew.

Pulling out my map, I attempted to signal to where we were, to circle the number on the highway desired. I held up fingers, and motioned left and right, but all I got were laughs. The map was snatched away and turned upward and downward. Laughter burst from the men and women, and seconds later, they had grabbed an extra bowl from the back of their truck, and slapped some chicken and rice soup for me.

“Soup! SOUP!” they said.
“OVALTINE, OVALTINE,” and a glass of chocolate milk was thrown into my hands.

Then, we played with the camera.

This. Is. Why. I. Travel.

Highway 117 to Phitsanulok, Thailand

2010-01-31T05:58:00.000-08:00

Rhythm had set.

Headlamp on, and out the door, key on the guesthouse counter.

Click.

Turn right at the dragon gates, back to the highway.

Country side route 311 had turned to a larger, faster route 1, about halfway to Nakhon Sawan.

From Nakhon Sawan to Phitsanulok, it was a straight shot up Route 117.

Today was an excellent day.

Orange flowers stamped on the road.

Today I had lunch with a Thai woman and her three year old daughter at their food stand. Glasses of water for each of us, and around the corner we went for a photo op with their beautiful golden Ganesh.

Thanks! Would have totally missed it. Wicked discreet.

She was sweet. Yet, eyebrows furrowed, her little girl stared hard at me, refusing to eat her noodles.
Some things are universal. Cheers to homesickness giving me a smack.

But finally, after a long 140km day, I rolled into Phitsanulok, and stopped at the first thing that resembled accommodation. Luckily, it was affordable, and comfortable, with a tall, striking, young Thai girl, probably a couple years older than me, running the show.

Note to self: stopping in towns with small airports, almost guarantees accommodation.

Since I had basically bypassed the city itself, having enjoyed the solitude of the small towns I passed, I basically stayed directly on the highway. My usual run to a market, for my pre-dinner, dinner, was put to a halt. Before even beginning to ask where to go, the family who ran the hotel, phoned to their daughter who was at the market already, and within minutes, a moped pulled up with fresh noodles and steamed vegetables in a little bag for me. Dinner-Dinner was a minute’s bike next door, to a restaurant with an enormous statue of a shrimp, taller than my hotel all together,

Almost the entire staff crowded around me to watch me order and eat. Four men at the table ahead of me, signaled that they had seen me on the road, cycling into town.

Thumbs up from everyone all around.

Tucked in that night, I curled up and thought of my short ride to Sukhothai in the morning.

Would definitely sleep in til 7 tomorrow, then kick it into town to cruise through the old capital after the midday heat…

Scooby Snacks: Nakhon Sawan, Thailand

2010-01-28T20:24:00.000-08:00

It is only bloody unbelievably hot at exactly 12:00, noon. And usually, at that point, I am on the home stretch to my destination, and have eaten about three breakfasts.

Food while on the road is a marking of mileage.

It is often a mystery as to what it is you are actually about to consume.

While some food, is not as it seems...

[these are not apples]

[those are not pears]

Other food, is more straight forward...

Eating in Asia: A sport.

Rolling up to Nakhon Sawan, I was starving, exhausted, and without a place to sleep.

The problem with buying a map for such a trip, is that there are no maps.

Once again, through archways of the city, I went, and stopped: stuck. From the looks of it, this was a conglomeration of highways leading to an airport. There could be rows and rows of streets and alleys, but where would they be hiding accommodation?

A family sat at their shop, fanning themselves from the midday heat.

Fumbling through my bags, I’m all of a sudden aware of how my clothes stick to me, my curls in a knot, hands weak; the weight of my front bags pulls my handlebars backwards as I try to balance my bike on its sad kickstand. Finally, I walk up to the family, pointing to the Thai word for “guesthouse.” Hopefully the giant question mark is visible all over my face.

A family discussion.

Before I know it, I’m waved on with a teenage boy. Jumping on his moped with a smile, he jumps off to the main drag, with me, shifting gears furiously, and whipping as fast as I can behind him . Off we go, over a bridge and right at our first archway of red dragons.

Two hotels, across from each other.

The boy motions for me to wait as he checks the price, and within minutes, I’m helped into the lobby of a hotel, overlooking the river. Before I know it, the boy is gone, with a big wave goodbye.

I sit in my room, head and body sizzling from a long day on the road. Apparently, I’m still adjusting. The boy who helped me with my bags up three flights of stairs turned on the TV to Thai Scooby Doo. And after a screaming cold shower, and a change of clothes, I sat in front of Scoobs, with a smile plastered across my face, and zoned for an undetermined amount of time.

Losing track of time all together, I start to feel off, but can’t quite pinpoint it. These days, I’m a bit more savvy to my own red flags for dehydration and hunger, but for me, at times, after a long day, my body and mind can’t quite speak the same language. Finally, I pulled myself from Scooby Doo and found my way to the street for food.

Just as the sun was beginning to set, the streets stalls assembled like magic. Fresh, steaming noodles and vegetables, toasted peanuts, chillies, and sweet thai basil; grilled chicken over hot coals, fresh spring rolls wrapped in rice paper, and green papaya salad, freshly mixed and rhythmically pounded in its deep mortar. Picking and choosing, I skipped back to my room with a little bag, packed tight.

Thought of my next full day to Phitsanulok, thought of how early I’d be up. Just getting dark, I ran across the street to the convenience store to pick up food for the next day.

Almonds, and tea steeped hard boiled eggs (so good, I promise).

The almonds were gone before I could even turn off Scooby Doo.

[the shame of eating breakfast for a late night snack]

Roadkill & Roadsigns

2010-01-23T18:41:00.000-08:00

Tamarind pods, strewn across the streets like parade candy.

Kids off to school, bright and early, four young girls, filed on a moped, waving little hands and short, silk hair, whisped across morning faces.

The road is so peaceful in the early morning. It is, hands down, my favorite time.

The morning routine is a precious one. And each morning, I watch these communities wake up and stretch. Coals are lit, hair is tended to, chickens fed, hats tied under chins.

Somehow, my sanity is remaining in tact.

Although there is monotony in the sense of repetitive pedaling, the road itself is anything but monotonous.

The landscape is one thing.
The people, another.
The road itself: a full lane for myself and the scooters.
Food stalls for miles, of food and produce, unimaginable.

But, most importantly: Roadside attractions.

Yes.

New Zealand may have the biggest sweater in the world...

But Thailand?

Thailand has dinosaurs.

It’s true.

Although, I am going to say right now, if ever on this page, I begin to post pictures of the roadkill I see on a daily basis, [dogs,cats,bats,birds,rats,snakes] please, come find me, and bring me home.

I’ll officially have lost it.

That being said, there was a moment, very early on, where a roadkill picture would have been justified.

I saw a dinosaur.

There was a time where I mistook a crane for a pterodactyl, but this.

This.

Was different.

Flat as a pancake, under my wheels, and at least five feet long.

Before I knew it, following the river, I saw a lochness like head, bob out of the water….

But this was only the beginning.

The real proof came in the town’s dedication to the beasts of lore.

Amidst religious shrines, a manicured lawn, and the king himself….

Thailand Before Time

Okay, really. Thailand is home to these giant water monitor lizards, who live in the riverways and swim about, sometimes popping out on the shore (to be run over by trucks). Pretty cool though.

But, this whole giant-plastic-dino situation really killed it. I mean, I'd been cruising for hours at this point. I'd seen just about all my imagination could handle.

I'd seen the King in many a form.

That guy.

He does so many things.

[But, road signs, and kings aside, the worst of all roadkill...]

Cycling Thailand: Act I

2010-01-22T00:06:00.000-08:00

The sun burnt a hole in the sky behind me, and six white cranes, swooped low, over my head, diving into the rice paddies.

The routine I’ve been dying to get my hands on. Answering all of my questions.

When to stop; how to pace myself; where I fit in, in the hierarchy of the roads; how I’m treated by locals; what there is to eat and drink; how much should I eat and drink; and how in the world will I find a place to sleep in towns without maps, in a country, whose people, literally, cannot read maps.

I arrived in Singburi by 1pm. Cruising through the center of town, through an open air market, I saw that I was in fact, probably the only foreigner in this town.

That is, until I came to a junction, and spotted a particularly pasty colored, tub of a man on a rusty mountain bike, cruising ahead of me, feet off the pedals, legs splayed out.

Hello!

You are not Asian, and therefore, we are friends!

Hmm…

The missing teeth should have given me a signal of sorts.

Through jumbled language barriers of German, Thai, and English, we had somewhat of a conversation. Where is a hotel, is what I asked, and the answer I received, gave me that swarm of tingling, hot anxiety all over my face and fingers.

What is this? Other hotels no good? Good as in? Wait, what? What is going on here? Not safe, like, I’ll be sold into a slave ring, not safe? Or, just a bit dodgy? A hotel for one thousand baht?!?

Dude.

What town did I roll up to here.

I walked away.

The fatigue of my first days on the road hit me hard.

The sun. 97 degrees and humid. I think I melted a little.

Finally, I walked by a window, and there, unmistakably, was another foreigner.

The cowboy hat will give you away every time, there, Steve.

I must have walked by the window about three or four times, somehow unable to gather the strength to chain up my bike and walk up five steps and into the shop where he sat. No, that does not make sense. But finally, he came out. And there, was my first fellow foreign friend on the road.

Little did I know, when I was talking to the toothless wonder that was my fat German friend, we were literally standing on the corner of a hotel.

Luckily, I had Steve to show me what was up. A teacher in the town of Singburi, Steve has recently finished studying law, and was taking time away from the states to gain some clarity, flex the traveling muscles, and teach some English in the middle of nowhere Thailand.

Trust is an interesting thing. You truly do know, straight off. I never questioned Steve, whereas, the man I had just met, prior, made me want to get on the next plane home.

Travel 101: Trust your instincts.

He showed me the hotel, where he had initially lived when he first moved to town. Clean, comfortable, a double bed all to myself, and a beautiful whirring fan over my head.

I showered, and changed, and met him and a fellow teacher for dinner.

Into town, speeding off on mopeds, we landed at a do-it-yourself, hot-pot-grill joint.

Grill in the center of the table, broth, rimming the outside. Grill your meat and vegetables, let the drippings run off into the broth, throw the noodles in, and grab fifty bowls of spicy, fresh crushed dipping sauces.

I couldn’t have felt better. Exhausted, but warm from a cold beer, and happy to have made contact with “locals” in this hidden town in Thailand. Hearing all about their students, their travels, and lives outside of the decision to abandon it all to live on next to nothing, I was inspired, and proud.

I slept so soundly..

Escape Route: Bangkok to Ayutthaya

2010-01-21T20:21:00.001-08:00

I was itching to get out.

I hopped a train to get us out of the city.

Somewhere in between monks and the disabled, also sits the cyclist.

And so sandwiched between orange robed men, and their toothless friends, I thankfully, thankfully sat within view of my bike.

Let’s say I hop off and they don’t throw me my bike in time? Let’s say they sat me far enough away that I had to run back to the last carriage, in hopes of finding my bike amidst sacks of rice, before the train pulls away again...but I don’t make it.
[I made it].

I am 99% sure that 90% of all travel induced stress, is surrounding the obstacle that is transportation.

Whether you’re navigating a train schedule, haggling a taxi rate or just trying to find the goddamn bus stand in the first place--it’s almost always enough to at least raise your blood pressure a simple notch.

Yet another reason to ditch public transportation, all together.

My carbon footprint on this earth is large enough due to flights alone. It is the least I can do, with a lifestyle such as my own, to be conscious of how else I expend the world’s resources.

No need to start the battle of what this global warming business is: if you’ve traveled through Asia, you know the meaning of pollution.

It is enough to say, I want clean air to breathe. I want to be able to breathe. I want to walk in India, without wading, knee deep, in plastic.

Being thrown out of your element, as travel does, you can become so keenly aware of what your routine once was. Your habits are brought straight to the surface, and with the communal living that comes with being a hostel dweller, it is for all to see.

You’re not buying in bulk. The awareness of how many times you end up at the register at a convenience store, buying a bottle of water, may finally stand out.

Just how many bottles are we talking, here?

Yes, this trip in particular is a giant leap for me, in terms of ecotourism; however, there have been steps along the way that I have taken, and will continue to take…hopefully even passing the word around to the rest of the travelling community.

If we’re talking about sterile water, we’re talking about the one and only, Steripen.

I will talk this talk, and pitch this contraption until I am blue in the face. A handheld UV filter. A beautiful little ray of light that allowed us to drink from the most terrifying of water sources in India and Nepal, whether it was in the heart of Delhi’s backpacker’s ghetto, or the highest point of our trek through the Himalayas.

Life saver [quite possibly, literally].

And then, there is my solar charger. I personally cannot get away from the fact that my life is inextricably linked to electronics these days. Music is my lifeline, and therefore, so is my ipod. Writing is my craft, communicating, my job, therefore, there is my laptop. And finally, education: I eat books for breakfast, and so: the Kindle.

(Judge me).

In any case, I pick my battles, but attempt to choose wisely.

My solar charger is strapped to my bike bags these days, soaking up the sun, and charging all sorts of things as I pedal along.

Aside from this, my not-so-secret Diet Coke addiction (go on, keep judging) is an uphill battle out here. Stupid cans. I don’t need these stupid cans!

The switch is to fresh coconuts, cracked from morning through night, on the side roads in the country side. The switch is to fresh squeezed pomegranate juice. (Get over yourself, Linzy).

Overall, there is always something more to do. I am not perfect, but I will continue to strive for a more clean way to travel.

So here I am, and I’m going to cycle myself silly.

Success:

Ayutthaya, Thailand:

2010-01-18T09:07:00.001-08:00

damn.

Cheers

2010-01-16T06:21:00.000-08:00

Giant, peaceful Buddha’s during the day.

Tiny, ass kicking Thai boxers at night.

Cheers, Bangkok.

Bangkok: The Beginning

2010-01-16T06:00:00.000-08:00

I pushed, pulled, and pedaled my way down one of the many main drags of Bangkok, in the pouring rain, finally smiling, and finally, throwing myself at a hostel in Sukhumvit: Soi 1 Guesthouse.

Oh, Soi 1 Guesthouse: Thank you.

Thank you for being so central for exploration of the entire city, and not just the bit they want you to see.

Thank you for still being packed with bewildered travelers, such as myself, from the world over.

Thank you for stowing away my bike safely, every night. And for lockers, for safe keeping.

Thank you for your bunk beds, which somehow will always make me feel at home [and by home, I mean, away].

And thank you, for letting me sleep off my jet lag, and get my head on straight.

I was in good company, and was beginning to take hold of the situation at hand.

My bike was not only here, it was in working order.

And within the next two days, I began chipping away at breaking myself into all things Thai:

Noodles for breakfast.

Noodles for breakfast. Sitting on a blue plastic stool on the street corner. With a prostitute.

Yup.

You got it.

Turns out, Sukhumvit is neighbors with Bangkok’s famous red light district.

Breakfast was met with an invitation to sit with a large lipped, large hipped, teeny tiny Thai woman with big old sunglasses. Turns out (since I now know her life story) her “husband-boyfriend” is about 60, and lives in his own place downtown. But she lives here. And has noodles for breakfast every morning.

I was happy to have someone there to show me the ropes [of ordering noodles].

From there on out, I was on a mission to conquer Bangkok by bicycle.

Blasting my way through the streets, leaving my many bags behind, I kicked it through the back alleys, from Sukhumvit, to Siam, through the maze that is Chinatown, and to the breathtaking, gold, and mirror laden temples by the river.

Beautiful.

Bangkok: Arrival

2010-01-16T02:28:00.000-08:00

So, I made it.

January 7th, 11:45pm.

And waiting for me, sitting all alone in a crumpled up box, was my beautiful bicycle: Chim.

Yes, my blue bird has officially been named. But, more on that later…

In pieces, in a box, but there:

All I could have hoped for:

And off we went, whisked off in a bright pink Thai taxi to the YHA Bangkok Airport Hostel, overlooking the river, bordering the airport itself, and the fastest way to a nice clean bed…

The hostel was perfect. Certainly a hostel, but clean, by those standards, and my room had a big old overhead fan with a mesmerizing [somehow not annoying?] clicking noise as it spun...

Thankfully, nostalgia for travel helped me enjoy my free "breakfast" of white bread with mystery meat and mayo.

Ok, so maybe I enjoyed it from far away.

Let's say I appreciated the fact that it existed, and moved on to the free oranges...

Certainly, it meant that I was back in the game.

Time for the chemical burn that is Asian instant coffee...Mmmm...

Why, Asia? Why?

I drank the instant coffee.

Time to hit the city.

Packed up tightly into yet another taxi, we battled the billions of traffic lanes into the chaos that is Bangkok...

Bangkok: another fine example of city growth at an incomprehensible pace. Streets seem to pile on top of one another, making an absolute maze of a city.

[as mentioned before. the compass. bring. the compass]

Dropped off at hands-down-the-best-bike-shop-in-bangkok, I strolled into Cannasia, in Sukhumvit, where I was greeted by the most peppy, best English speaking, slap your knee and maybe even your face, hilarious, Thai woman I have yet to meet.

She runs the show at this Cannondale bike shop, and has the tales and battle wounds to prove herself silly. From being smashed by a truck in Malaysia, to taking in 18 street cats and 6 dogs, half of which she feeds by hand, outside of her shop, this lady does not mess around. She has even met the famed Mr Pumpy, himself.

And she knows bikes.

I had thrown my bike together but was missing a piece to my seat post. Not only did she double check with me that everything was in working order, but we sat and had a chat for at least another hour and a half.

I was ready to hit the streets and find my next place to stay....

.....Aaaaaaaaaaaand......

Then it started to pour.

I mean, pour.

Just as I was leaving.

Alone, in the streets of Bangkok. Pouring, pouring rain. Back to minority status, and this time, with a bicycle, bags, upon bags, upon bags. Where was my backpack? My travel safety net was split into so many bags for this bicycle.

Everything felt so heavy..

Ok, so I'm just gonna say that at this point, the jet lag was kicking into gear, and this wave of anxiety passed over me, right to my toes.

What.

The hell.

Am I doing.

The Route

2010-01-16T00:12:00.000-08:00

The joy of taking a bicycle as your primary means of transportation: freedom.

The joy of traveling solo: freedom.

Freedom to change course on a whim, to stop when you please, eat when you’re hungry, sleep when you’re tired, and take as many silly photos as you damn well wish, embracing the temporary loss of sanity that comes with 6-8 hour days of repetitive motion.

That being said, it’s with great hesitation that I post my “route,” however, as a compulsive planner-list-maker-note-taker, I cannot conceal the fact that I have traced my maps with a neon yellow highlighter (three months ago).

My trip begins in Bangkok, Thailand, after an all too brief layover in Japan.

And one day of adjustment later, (granted, my bike arrives safely) into the depths of the city I’ll go; trapped, in fact, within the bounds of Bangkok, since the freeways bringing you in and out of the city are absolute suicide by bicycle..

Zipping through the city for a few days, I’ll then hop a train outside of the city bounds and begin my journey north to Chiang Mai.

Around 800km later, I’ll officially have ditched the flat terrain and endless rice paddies for the mountains (and thankfully, their valleys).

Hopping a ferry across the border into Laos, my little blue bird of a bicycle will take a break, while I trek for three days through the Bokeo Nature Reserve, to (literally) zip line through the forest, sleep in tree-houses, and hopefully spy on some Gibbon monkeys while I’m at it.

From there, it’s a two day slow boat ride down the Mekong River to Luang Prabang. My journey through Laos from here on out will mainly be following the Mekong, until I’m just about parallel to Vietnam’s midway point. Crossing the border will bring me to Vietnam’s famed coastline, and Highway 1.

Down the coast I’ll go, to meet up with the Mekong Delta region, where I’ll cross into Cambodia, and swing up to Phnom Penh, and on to the temples of Angkor Wat.

After I’m as templed-out as can be, I’ll swing back up to Bangkok, hopefully breezing through Thai customs, to have myself a cold beer before my flight back stateside!

There.

Now, that wasn’t so bad, was it?

Not so bad, no...that is, until I change it.

View Cyclasia! in a larger map

101

2010-01-12T00:49:00.000-08:00

Tips and notes on cycling a major city in Asia….

1. Close your eyes; move your legs. The only way to get through the traffic, which is simultaneously flowing with you and coming directly at you, is to trust in the sixth sense that drivers across Asia seem to possess, and GO. Trust yourself, don’t think too hard, and keep moving. Just as we learned as pedestrians in India, the only way to cross the street, is to Just. Start. Walking. Seven lanes of traffic, or otherwise.

2. Traffic jams do not apply to you. Cruise with the motorcyclists and guys pushing carts of grilled squid and green papaya. Even walking your bike will get you further, faster, through 6 miles of gridlock through Chinatown.

3. Riddle me this? Contrary to popular belief, a yellow light is the green light, for those with a red light.

4. The “touring” while “touring” through a major city in Asia unfortunately is not an option. Despite the many shiny temples, and tantalizing grilled street food, pulling your focus in every direction, you must, in fact, embrace the Buddhist way, by blurring your senses and becoming one with the bike, as if in mediation (or, I mean, like I said before, just close your eyes).

5. Although the map tells you that the main road continues throughout the entirety of the city, plan on it turning into a one way (once again, in the opposite direction of which you’re travelling) and plan on this “main road” picking up a mile or so to the left of where you thought you should be heading.

6. Strangling your handlebars will not help you.

Psycho-Cycl-Asia

2010-01-09T04:23:00.000-08:00

I am an insult to cyclists, worldwide.

Here I go again, having an excess of an ambition, and an insufficient amount of experience.

Here I am, on the plane to Thailand, where I’ll hop off, and [hopefully] be greeted by my beloved bicycle that [hopefully] has made the last leg of this journey—from Boston to Los Angeles, to Tokyo, and finally, to Bangkok.

Yes, there has been plenty of research involved for this three month cycling journey through Southeast Asia: I’ve been packing and unpacking, then packing again, for months; there have been long rides down the Pacific Coast, and I’ve officially traded my second home of a backpack for bicycle panniers.

Yet, I can already see the hardcore cyclist’s fists shaking in my direction. At 3:00am this morning, prior to my 11:40am flight, I changed my tires on my bike for the first time by myself. The week before I went home for the holidays, [where 18 inches of snow had its way of putting a damper on any extra training I had planned] I clipped in with cycling shoes for the first time, anticipating my tipped cow-like demise.

Travel has a way of bringing utter resignation to otherwise important decisions, and levels of preparedness: it is a form of helplessness that comes with throwing yourself into a foreign country, with language and cultural barriers, enough to bring you straight back to infancy. Certainly, there have been times where all I want to do is scream or cry, and every word I utter comes off as gibberish to those around me. There is only so much you can worry about, prepare for, or even have the depth of imagination to begin to comprehend.

But, unlike a baby, I signed up for this.

The idea settled in, somewhere after a multi-day trek in Nepal, that ended with my being shuffled through the rest of the country and into India, by bus, from tourist trap to tourist trap. I could hear my hard earned trekking muscles disintegrating with each bump of the bus, with each handful of curried potatoes and gleaming white rice.

Travel with a purpose, travel with a goal.

I think it’s truly the only way for me.

I want to feel stronger, and wiser, with each step I take.

Or, in this case, with each pedal stroke.

Here goes nothing..

Rant

2010-01-06T07:03:00.000-08:00

It’s been eight months since India.

Spring on our sandy peninsula…

Home...
A California summer, and the welcoming of the newest family member! New friends. The kind that make me blush to think about. And more, and more time with Blythe and Loren and Ari...

When I wrote this, I was on a plane from Boston to LA, en route to Bangkok, Thailand, where I’ll be cycling through Southeast Asia for almost three months. Right now, I'm waiting to leave for LAX to Narita, Japan to Suvarnabhumi International Airport, Bangkok, Thailand.

How has it already been a year since we began? January departure, yet again.

Packing, [scrambling in a blizzard] this holiday season, for the third holiday season in a row, I repeat the same process.

Research, research, packpackpack, unpack, read, write, listen, packpackpack, stare at aisles and aisles of gear I’ll never end up buying, call up the banks to tell them I’m leaving the country, transfer money a thousand different ways. Sit with friends for hours on end, one at a time. Beer and home cooked meals. More beer. Snow storm delays, and warm fires in my living room. Drives to the ocean, the sand like cracked cement, covered in ice and snow. The wind, enough to make you cry, and stars, every night. Late nights. Walking up the stairs to my room with my shoes still on at 3;00am. Endless pots of coffee in familiar mugs.

How is it, that it never gets easier to leave?

India hasn’t left me yet.

Called Lauren a few nights ago (reminiscent of our final phone calls to each other before meeting for departure to Delhi) and asked her if she felt the same.

The same, as in, 'I will never be the same,' since India.

A day doesn’t pass where I don’t think about it.

It?

Oh, I don’t know.

The smell? The chaos. The deep seated passion, teamed with utterly bewildering survival tactics. The feeling of entering a demolition site. Earthquake victims in dazed denial. But then, the colors. A technicolor sunset, bleeding into every drop of clothing, into every flower petal, and doorway, seeping through the decaying buildings, and spilling into the streets, to the very last beggar child’s head scarf.

I will never grasp it all at once.

I suppose this is where repulsion versus addiction comes in.

No, I’ll probably never be the same.

But that’s just it, isn’t it? Isn’t this why I can’t begin to stop in the first place?

The questions always come in from one person or another. Why? Why do you do this? When will you stop? Why don’t you just stay home, where it’s safe?

Immediately my heart pounds and there’s a clamp around my chest.

What do you want me to say to you. I need this. I live for it, because, with this, I actually LIVE. I experience, and I feel in a way I never would in the comforts of my home.

And safety? I could be hit by a bus tomorrow on my own street corner. What do you want me to say here? Since when is America so safe?

I’ve said this to close friends, and here we go: If I were to glorify the theatre, the performing arts, where I’ve dedicated the largest portion of my life, I would say that it was for this: it was the study of human behavior.

It was my only way to experience a world outside of my own. To take another’s experience, break it down, and build it back up again with my own body, and voice. To see through another’s eyes, to move in a way that ached with unfamiliarity. It was there that I began my craving for history, anthropology, philosophy, for an appreciation of music and tones that initially hurt to hear. To take someone whom I would loathe if I were to happen upon them in the street, and to force myself to the furthest degree of empathy for that person: through throwing myself in their shoes, and living their life. Even if only in a few words. A gesture.

I just want to live. Fully. To eat, sleep, breathe, the spectrum of the human experience.

Travel does just this. Perhaps, in a healthier fashion. The life of an actor seems quite toxic to me, these days, although more and more, I miss the arts.

No matter how judgmental, or infuriated I can become while in the experience, there is that moment of stepping out of my element, and into another, where I feel most alive.

For a young, and privileged (by any global standard) American girl, I have seen my fair share of death. Certainly enough to crave life in this way.

Every day I think of India.

Every day I think of my friends and family members, whose lives were cut far too short.

We miss you.

So no. No, I don’t think I’ll “stop” any time soon.

Exit

2010-01-05T18:40:00.000-08:00

Imagine:

You’re there to see a specialist at a private hospital, in a major city.

You check in at the front desk.

Blank stares.

The entire room shifts their gaze in your direction.

A man approaches you, after whispers behind the desk.

The designated white chick chaperone.

Although you are clearly breathing as if a vice were cranked around your airways, the chaperone ushers you up three flights of stairs.

Twice.

But then, what is there to do, when the elevator is out of service?
Yes, the power has gone out at the hospital today.

No, there is no sign of a generator.

Pushed through a set of doors, you sit in a chair, next to a 15 year old boy having a seizure on a gurney in the middle of the room. His father cries a little bit, and everyone else turns their heads.

Paper work, and finally, you’re in line.

Seven or so people, stand, backs and upper arms pressed against both the door, and each other.

You wait.

You wait.

Finally, the door cracks open. A young woman in a red, silk sari, squeezes out, behind her husband.

Within seconds, the crowd of seven, waiting at the door, charges at the gap. Pushed into the office, you find yourself standing around said specialist’s desk.

Let the appointments commence!

If only you spoke Hindu.

What other time in your life would you find yourself crammed into a doctor’s office, listening to each and every person’s diagnosis?

And after a series of tests, a slew of paper work, and at least two more flights of stairs, it’s time for an x-ray.

The x-ray tech stares in disbelief from across the dark room.

“TAKE OFF YOUR SHIRT,” he barks.

“what?”

TAKE OFF YOUR SHIRT!takeoffyourshirttakeoffyourshirtTAKEOFFYOURSHIRT!

OK!
Ok.

Pushed against a wall for the x-ray, face, shoved to the side of the wall, he pulls down your bra strap and runs to snap some pictures of your chest cavity.

The poor man. Most likely had never seen a western woman up close. Let alone in a situation that demanded her to take off her shirt.

The underwire of my bra lines the x-ray results. My nose ring, a perfect circle in the middle of my skull.

Had it not been humiliating, it might have been hilarious.

And that was that.

A laundry list of prescriptions to pick up.

Laughter from behind the desk.

Scammed, even in a private hospital.

………….

I sat outside on the street and cried. Yup. Cried.

One of my chaperone’s, a young intern, asked me what was the matter. I showed him the list of medications, and the bill. He apologized, and sped off on his motorcycle.

A shared rickshaw ride home, back to Lauren, back to our hostel...

And Mark! Whom we somehow had reconnected with since the tea plantations of Munnar. Refreshing familiar faces, and a beautiful view of the river from our rooftop restaurant.

We stayed in Varanasi until my meds kicked in.

Oxygen tasted like candy.

We were moving toward our final three days toward home.

A final stop at the Kama Sutra Temples of Kujaraho…

A quiet, desperate town. Desperate for more train traffic. A brand new train station, with a whole lot of nothing coming in. Good things to come, for a place that is breathtakingly fascinating.

A country so sexually repressed [see x-ray experience, above] and yet here, chipped away into tons of stone, is evidence of complete celebration of sexuality. Temples, upon temples of beautiful bodies, perfectly entwined.

India, the enigma, shrugs its shoulders at us, even on the final days of our stay…

The Push

2009-12-08T21:10:00.000-08:00

Note to self: next time, accept the offer to white water raft between the Himalayas with two [gorgeous] Brits.

Why did we leave Nepal, again? Anyone? No? No answer?

Well.

Well, we were on our way back to India.

The last two weeks had crept up, and we were about to bus our lives away through Nepali border patrol and into our beloved India.

A fitting way to end the trip: A reintegration to the most Indian of Indian destinations: the holiest of holies, Varanasi; and Khujaraho, home to the Kama Sutra temples.

Driving through miles and miles of burning fields, smoke fumigating our bus, the ash settled into my unhappy lungs.

Nearly 100 lbs at this point, and despite 17 days of Himalayan trekking, void of all muscle, my body had forgotten how to put up a fight.

We landed in Varanasi, and I slowly trailed behind Lauren and our Tuk Tuk driver, who thankfully showed us our way to our hostel before I kicked it to the hospital.

A maze of a city, Varanasi’s alleys weave, dip, and dive; stairways twisting up and around, bright paint on stone walls, chipping off creaking doors, cows, old and fat, and orange and magenta flower petals littered through narrow walkways.

And then, the river. The river river. The holy river.

The burning fields that led us to Varanasi, merely a foreshadowing of the burning ghats of the river Ganges.

The smoke of the dead, drifting on wooden rafts, draped in cloth.

This is the city of re-birth.

We came in the off season, in the way of tourists, bringing a calm to a city that is usually described as frantic, and utterly charged--vibrating with life, birth, death, water and fire. The elements were all in place, but the exploitation of itself, which comes with being a tourist destination, was subdued.

One could simply sit on the ghats, and soak in as much as any westerner could possibly muster.

A pulling under my ribs: Varanasi grabbed you from the inside out. Not bad, not good. It just pulled.

Phase Six: Revival

2009-10-26T20:43:00.000-07:00

Silver rivers of rock. Green grass. Walls of stone like Utah.

The Annapurnas, slowly falling behind us, ruining, spoiling, belittling all mountains yet to come.

I’m sorry. I’m just not so sure much else will compare.

Lower altitude made my lungs happy, made my body able to put up a solid fight.

Day three of our decent, and finally, finally, finallyfinallyfinally the hospital. We had parted ways with out family and sadly moved on.

Of course, it even rained a bit, you know, for the sake of dramatic effect.

Weak, skinny legs, buckling. Clean bent my trekking pole.

Oh yeah, the hospital.

Stubborn, proud, bored with the monotony of the entire subject, and yes, scared (of the brown stains on the green hospital cots), I cried my way through almost the entirety of the process.

Yup.

Tears.

Baby-child-can’t-catch-your-breath tears.

“Here, we’ll just stick you with this I.V.”

No you won’t.

No, friend, no, no needles in the Himalayas. I will hydrate all by myself, thank you.

“Here, take this bottle, the size YOUR THUMB, take it to the bathroom, and put some of your SHIT in it, so that we can test it.”

This, my friends…

Was the bathroom.

Don’t worry.

I washed my hands when I was done.

We left the hospital.

I ate an entire plate of momos for the first time in days.

The cold turned cool, and spring was waking everything up.

Seabuckthorn, and rhododendrons five stories high.

Easter in Tatopani. A place a little reminiscent of Jurrasic Park. Hot springs.

How can I begin to tell you how incredible it felt to eat?

More reflective than not, it was a quiet ending. Endurance sport has a way of turning off the brain, to an entirely white slate, to a soft humming noise, and just as quickly turning to a rapid fire, literal brain storm. Lauren and I would take turns with outbursts.

Golden, dusty roads.

(yes, roads)

We were certainly on our way out. Indian pilgrims barreled down the roads in jeeps, near the tail end.

The dirt and dust kicking up in our face was a reminder that we were going back. That we would land in Pokhara. A place with markets, and guesthouses, and shops selling rip off North Face apparel.

And bars. Infamous, end-of-a-21-day-trek bars. Skinny and oxygen deprived trekkers, wasted by drink one.

The actual trail’s end was sad and confusing. How can you just go back? I don’t remember how to haggle for a rickshaw. My body does not know the meaning of hot water. I can’t speak to more than one person at a time! My brain! My blistered feet! Frostbite on my left pinky. Dude, ouch. Really. My brain alone. Ouch.

But the anxiety was there, knowing I could contact my family. I had no category in my head to comprehend not being able to check in with my family. So much can happen in one day, let alone three weeks. I was scared to call. You have such wild dreams when you’re missing out on oxygen up there, you can start to worry. I dreamt that our Tory, our family dog, had finally died. Our 14 year old, big and bumbling German Shepard.

I called my house for the first time in three weeks, and my mom was crying. There it was. The night I dreamt it was the day she died. My poor girl.

Of course, having put on makeup for the first time in for-friggin-ever, it was instantaneously all over my face.

Bawling like a child all over again. (and again, poor Lauren…)

Tory.

And before I even knew it, we were drunk for three days straight.

Oops?
Bit and pieces of our crew turned up. Lauren, Tom, Roland and I causing a raucous all over Pokhora. Happy, happy, reintegration! Time away, and my body caving in on me, I was officially worn out, ready to connect with friends and family again. Luckily, our new friends were such excellent company.

And finally, departure, and a bus to Kathmandu.

Everything, everything, coming to a close.

We were going back to India. One last push.

Varanasi. Khujaraho. Delhi.

New.

York.

City.

Phase Five: Break Down to Get Down

2009-09-29T21:59:00.000-07:00

Broken.

Felt a little broken.

Elated. (I promise)

But broken.

Wind burnt.

Frost bitten.

Yes, generally weak all over.

The longer I waited to eat, the longer I could trek without puking!

Oh BOY, I just love a good compromise!

Who needs food anyway!? Screw it! Who even needs teeth? Or lips?! OR TASTE BUDS!?

JUST TAKE THEM!

I WOULD RATHER BE WALKING DOWN THIS MOUNTAIN RANGE, STUMBLING OVER MY OWN FEET IN UTTER MALNUTRITION!

DID I EVER TELL YOU HOW MUCH I LOVE FALLING IN THE DIRT?!

IN FRONT OF PEOPLE?!

OH MY GOD!

I CANNOT CONTAIN MY ELATION!

no really.

I was elated.

I won the game.

I had made it over the pass.

Delirium had also won.

Had settled.

A stack of new favorite pastimes entered my life.

Like ordering food I couldn’t eat.

Putting it to my lips, and letting it rest there for prolonged periods of time, you know, because I am such a jokester.

Insulting Tibetan mountain folk by ordering their thukpa soup, with its lovely handmade noodles, then proceeding to groan and stab at said noodles until the dish more precisely reflected my stomach’s emotional state.

Because stomach’s have emotional states.

Ripping apart a dumpling and eating a single shred of cabbage, deeming the remaining 97% of the meal inedible to Lauren.

That was a good one.

Poor Lauren.

She easily had it more rough than I did, as a direct result of yours truly.

But we had made it!

Only four or five more days of walking to go, with hospitals and natural hot springs to look forward to, rhododendron trees and air, thick with oxygen at a lower altitude!

From the tip of the pass, the land was initially dry, the snow dissipating, black rock exposed.

Day one of the descent led us to Muktinath, a full 1200 meters of downhill sliding (often literally) to round out our day of painstaking uphill steps that had brought us to the top.

Resembling something from an old western, we were, yet again, in another land.

Fittingly the gateway to Mustang Valley, where a traditional Tibetan kingdom still thrives, despite Nepal’s attempted abolishment.

Somehow, we all pushed to believe this to be a new chapter, as opposed to “the end.”

Silly family! How could it be the end with 8 days of trekking marked on the agenda?

ha. ha. ha.

Really though. It was time for a change.

Phase Four: Point of No Return

2009-06-23T18:02:00.000-07:00

Arrival at the point of no return...

(dun DUN duuuuuuuuunnnnn)

Or was it?

It was the last two days of an entirely uphill battle to climb over the pass, Thorung La.

Anticipation turned to anxiety.

But you can always just walk back down...right?

Nah. Not so much. Not for me.

(Cue the violin as I stand bravely against the wind, hair flying, scarf blowing)

I couldn't.

I just couldn't. I'm sorry. I apologize. Profusely.

I will not. could not. will not. go back down.

We passed the tree line into rock and ice.

And I was sick.

Acute mountain sickness sick? Well..I'm sure the fact that we were climbing to 18,000 feet did not help. But really, it was quite the stomach infection.

Food came right back out where it came from (happily, not the other way around).

Yet, speaking of happy: I was.

I was ecstatic! Taking it slowly, taking my time, with enough slow (albeit, labored) breaths, I could readily appreciate every moment.

But not without complications. The fact of the matter was that I had my group, my family, fretting over my health.

They were right.

I was sick, and I could have stopped moving. In any other environment, this probably would have passed in a day or so, but, given the conditions, it lingered. The thinning air, and hours of walking, were indeed working against me.

But being around 8 days in, how could I possibly rationalize turning around? If it wasn't, in fact, the altitude, and the hospital was actually on the other side of the pass, how could I?

Two days. Two days left. One more night at Thorung Phedi, then up and over!

I was too close! Man, really, can you blame me?!

Ok, so I guess you could. BUT STILL!

It was freezing at the foot of the pass. Luckily, the mass of people jammed into the two lodges of Phedi cooked up enough body warmth to keep us going.

Envy:
Yes, Christmas-like anxiety! So excited, we couldn't even sleep!

Or maybe that was just the lack of oxygen.

Sitting around the table, we read, and talked, ate chocolate, and labored over our biggest decision of the night--what's for dinner?

Easy for me: soup!

Erik looked at me, all sorts of German and disapproving.

Should have gone for the plain boiled rice...but I just couldn't. It was one of the last things I ate before takin' ill, and I just wouldn't have it.

L. May Mahoney: official spokesperson for the "no" campaign. baton twirling, rifle firing, leader of the annual negativity parade.

Two things "no": boiled white rice. cashews.

Banned for at least a month from my diet, as far as I was concerned.

But sweet things....mmmm....I could deal with that. Or extra salty things...MmMmmmMmmmMmmmmmmm......

soup.

chocolate.

(until an hour after ingestion. after which I would unfortunately taste it again in a slightly altered state).

Mmmmmmm.......?

Yet negativity really wasn't the name of the game. There was a giant NO to backtracking, and then rice. and then cashews.

Or cashews, and then rice.

Whatever.

Turns out, the foot of the pass held more smiles than not. Taking whatever oxygen I could scrounge up, I laughed, and laughed hard.

There are two reasons for this:

Tom. And Roland.

I suppose it's one of those things where you don't realize what you're missing until it's smack in front of your face.

Their sense of humor hit my own like a ton of bricks!

Funny, how two blokes from England could instantaneously make me feel so at home! Sickness was set aside. It was just what I wanted--a way to laugh it off, to leave it at the door.

Where have these guys been all my life?

Morning came, and I was in "I don't want to talk about it" mode.

This is where traveling alone has its benefits.

This is where my personal pattern of the refusal of company during times of stress comes in.

Single word answers. Smiles. A shrugging of shoulders. The dreaded and repetitive "I don't know."

High Camp was the last official stop before the stop.

500 meters from Phedi, and 500 meters from the top.

I could at least make it to High Camp for a personal evaluation!

So off we went, and up we went, and to High Camp we landed, where I finally caved.

Here we were, a mere 500 meters away, and it was time to make a decision.

While I was positive that by taking my time, I could make my way up, as usual, slowly, slowly, this was the one point where this was not an option.

Slowing down meant slowing down the family, or at the very least, my dedicated Lauren.

Slowing down meant increasing the chances of frostbite.

Slowing down meant that if too slow, we would meet the high winds at the top of the pass.

Basically, past 10 am, we run the risk of being blown off the mountain entirely, and very literally.

Time to make a decision.

Phase Three: Anticipation

2009-06-04T04:41:00.000-07:00

Adjustment, routine, established to the last mid-morning snack of hard-boiled egg.

But up we went.

And down went all things familiar.

6:00am wake, slowly edge out of the sleeping bag.

6:15am throw on an extra layer, pull my hat down over my ears, re-braid hair.

6:30am ask for breakfast: a cup of boiling water for our oats. black tea. two boiled eggs for 10:00am blood sugar melt down. brush teeth. wash face (if you dare). roll sleeping bag. take pills. sunblock. bag packed.

6:45am grab empty water bottle, water steriliser, oats, map, book--drop on dining room table. out to the cold stone walkway: stretch.

7:00am remember to ask for an empty bowl. pour oats, pour boiling water, cover with tea plate. sip. sterilise water. open map. eat.

7:30am pay. say thank you. throw on our packs and begin.

By about 10:00am, we've usually made it past the first tea stop where the guided trekkers stop, and on to the second leg.

On this day, finally on our way up, up, up, we stopped on a stone ledge. Crushed our egg shells into the dirt. Erik passes us.

Snack time with a view:

Further still, four eagles swoop over our heads. We meet Scott for the first time.

Onward, upward, the growth becomes sparse. Feels like my imagination's Tibet.

And ahead of the crowds, we find a single monastary on the edge of a plateau. Deserted. Gold trimmed. The sun beats down, and we warm ourselves on the slated stone. Erik strolls up from behind us.

L. May, Lauren, Scott, Eric: the family meets.

Somehow, we come to a descent.
Somehow, we are off the track.
Rocky. Sandy. Slippery.

And after a two hour detour, the four of us find our way to the edge of our destination. Dust in our lungs, out of water, and without lunch at 3:30pm.

This may not have been a problem, if it weren't for the fact that when asking for food, it comes with the knowledge that it won't be ready for at least a half hour after that. Sometimes 45 minutes. Sometimes an hour.

We stare at each other.

We fumble, hands shaking, through our bags, pretending to busy ourselves.

We look at the map.

We look at each other.

Someone usually tries to be funny. It doesn't work.

Food. Oh my GOD FOOD. GIVE ME FOOD!

We are at a shack that rents out mountain ponies and sells seabuckthorn juice. For all we know, we're the first customers this man has had in weeks. But Dal bhat has never tasted so good!

Seabuckthorn juice = nectar of the gods!

Whoa. MMmmmm...Food.

Too bad we still have another hour our trekking. Somehow that pile of rice and lentils didn't exactly make me want to run up a hill.

But on we went, on to our last day of familiarity. On to acclimization.

The edge, being the town below Manang: Braga.

A stone village, I still can't shake. Wild, jutting edges, homes crackling down the sides of the cliffs.

It was officially time for change.

Routine was exchanged with an unbelievable anticipation and anxiety for the pass.

We were entering Acute Mountain Sickness territory.

Morning, and onward to Ice Lake.

Up and away to 4600 meters.

A "day trip"

A "side trip"

Our way throw of throwing bodies a bit of extra help in adjusting to the elevation.

Run up. Give each other a high five. Run down.

I'm just gonna say...covering over 1,150 meters? in one day? absolutely straight up?

friggin exhausting.

Yet, while Ice Lake itself was neither icey, nor particularly memorable.......the view....on the other hand....the view:

My lungs may not have been extra happy that day.
I couldn't have really cared.
I was pretty goddamn happy.

Phase Two: Settling In

2009-05-16T21:34:00.000-07:00

This trek is something I’ve been dreaming about for over a year. Big jump, from the sweet little 4 day tramps in New Zealand, to a 21 day Himalayan hike, but I couldn’t get it out of my head.

And as much as I'm a fan of doing things for the sake of kicking my own ass, the '21 days, 5,400 meters up' end of the deal wasn't the sole draw.

Although unfortunately (fortunately?) the trek isn't the same as it was, say, 15 years ago, life in the Himalayas is largely untapped in the grand scheme of things.

Fortunately, for safety's sake, communities have access to phones; access to the ongoings in the world outside of the mountains--even creating the possibility of governance of a country whose people generally wouldn't exactly be hearing the "current events" unless they walked for 30 days to Kathmandu.

Unfortunately, cultural preservation is at risk.

Plastic bottles and candy wrappers are often found at your feet on the trail.

Massive plans to build a road are under way.

Fortunately, for safety's sake, a road could lead to a hospital when necessary.

Unfortunately, when a Jeep screeches past you, kicking up dust and dirt to your lungs.

Yet, regardless of how much satellite television bleeds its way into Nepal's remote villages, multiculturalism digs deep. survives.

Can't say this will survive much longer.

Can't say that it was even remotely as profound as it had been for trekkers in the past.

Can't even honestly comment on whether or not quality of life has improved for these communities. Nepal remains one of the most impoverished and overpopulated countires in the world, no matter how many snickers bars their children eat.

This may be the one time where I'll admit that having a Nepali guide would be beneficial.

L. May Mahoney: the stubborn independent.

A guide would break the language barrier between you and the people in each village.

As we made friends along the trail, we were fortunate enough to befriend a Sherpa by the name of Pemba. Pemba was a guide for a large group of British men.

Pemba was born on a Saturday. Pemba is the name for Sherpas born on a Saturday. Not Dawa. That's Monday.

Obviously.

Speaking of traveling with someone, these were the beginnings of our first days without Dan and Sarah.

We moved along, getting a feel for those who kept the same pace as us, and before we knew it, we had a family.

Eric, our German. Wit like a saltine cracker.

And Scott, our bewildered Brit from the Isle of Wight.

We were an unlikely group, and that may have been the best part.

In a time where people rarely look up from their iphones to make eye contact with you, let alone hold a conversation (hello, Massachusetts), it is an incredible thing to spend three weeks without electricity.

Yes, we freeze our asses off until they light the goddamn fire (catch 22=deforestation for the sake of tourism. damn. officially can't win.) And yes, the idea of spacing out the strength of my camera battery, i.e. never knowing when it's worth it to take that photo.

But, we'd sit around the table together. Hot coals under our feet. Card games and rounds and rounds of questions. Sleep at sunset.

Yeah...about that. 7:00pm. Teeth brushed. Hat on. Gloves on. Legwarmers on. Yak Wool shawl on. And into the sleeping bag, where I curl up in a ball until I regain feeling in my arms and legs.

It's cold in the Himalayas.

The funny thing is, I’ve found the most challenging part of it, has been the fact that I am not alone.

I’ve only ever traveled alone.

L. May Mahoney: not so much into team sports.

Sickness teamed with athsma teamed with high elevation = L. is the slowest one in the group = L. is holding people back = guilt.

Hm.

Apparently, trekking alone is not "advised," but the thing is, there are always people to temporarily meet up with.

Maybe...just maybe, it's a pride thing.

Pride and guilt? What can I say.

L. May Mahoney: the Catholic raised, middle child, gemini.

Aside from the actual pain/discomfort itself, I would take it again, sickness and all, if I didn't have to walk behind for the entirety of the trek. Of course, I did take the lead a couple times, but only by a terribly benevolent act of kindness by my trekking partners. It was a nice gesture. But really. It just made me feel worse. Slowing everyone down. Having everyone be witness to my weak legs, and disoriented steps. So I'd stick to the back.

When the walking behind thing extended past this trek and back into India, my personal morale was at an all time low. This is not to say I want to walk in front.

Beside me would have been comfort enough.

Overall, however, the fact that I was sick did little to my overall happiness.

Overall, I was elated.

The trekking was tough, but I mean...trekking is tough.

Taking regular breaks (sometimes in 30 second intervals), if I pretended I was trekking alone, it was absolute bliss.

Lauren and I made it to Pisang, as the Himalayas opened up entirely to us. Lunch in Lower Pisang, sleep in Upper Pisang to take the high route in the morning, and to watch the sunset at one of the most incredible spots on the entire trek.

Our first stone village, our first taste of the cold, and our last stop before heading up, up, up to the heights...

Himalayas: Phase one: Adjustment

2009-05-02T04:46:00.000-07:00

The first few days, happily with Dan and Sarah.

Although my lack of air in the airways pulling me far behind the group, making the mental agitation of trekking sting a little bit harder.

With 5-8 hour days of hoofing it up hill, there isn’t much spare breath for conversation. It’s an exhausting solitude, no matter how large your group may be.

Staying in traditional Nepali guesthouses...

(and by traditional, I mean, traditional for each individual cultural group you happened upon)

The landscape began with green, green rice paddies and bamboo, thick as thighs, and our one day of rain...

...Flowers, orchids, thousands of lady bugs...

Donkeys and work ponies, puppies and porters.
Everything and anything, up and over.

Our first peek of the peaks: Tal.

After a long push through an allotted two days of trekking, into one, Tal still managed to grab the last bit of breath left in us.

Silver sand. Ice blue water. 1700 metres up.

Feasts of Dal Baht: lentil soup, rice, spiced spinach onion and garlic, potato curry, and if you were lucky, a spicy pickle to round out the meal, maybe even a papad or mini "salad". All you can eat. Enough sodium for a lifetime. Entirely perfect post trekking fuel. Happiness on a compartmentalized metal plate.

From Tal, to Danakyu at 2300, and our final day with Dan and Sarah at 2670, Chame.

With most pathways through this trek only accessible by foot, the Annapurna Circuit Trek, trails through close to 130 miles of Himalayan terrain--the contents of your Dal Baht, being a firm indicator of altitude.

By the time you’re reaching 3000 metres, and before you hit the roads, you’ll be hard pressed to see much more on your plate than potatoes. A sad day, when spinach leaves your plate for good, when, rather than looking out the window to the humble beginnings of your plate of rice, you see mounds of yak dung housing potatoes, and the emptiness where barley grew, far off in September.

Barley. Potatoes.
Tsampa, barley porridge, for breakfast.

And strangely enough--apples.

Yup. Apples.

The Annapurna Circuit itself, dubbed the Apple Pie trail.

Pumpkins in low altitudes as well.

Pumpkin soup and Apple Crumble.

What are the Himalayas coming to?

Speaking of which, all other items you might see on your plate are primarily brought by foot. Porters, carrying anything from biscuits to banana flavored gum, a strap over their forehead, and more balls and stamina than I can begin to conceptualize.

These rugged Nepali dudes are tough as nails. If they haven’t been doing it their whole lives, rounding the pass, Thorung La, 10, 20, 43 times, then they’re young guys from Kathmandu, just, you know, “getting a bit of exercise.”

Otherwise, it’s up to the donkeys, horses, ponies and yaks.

hahaha.

yaks...

North to Nepal

2009-04-29T23:22:00.000-07:00

Transitions from West to East.
From North to South.
From India to Tibet and back again.
March coming to a close, and further north still:

Nepal.

Consider Northern India a Himalaya pre-game.

Time for the Annapurnas.

Home to the highest peaks in the world.

Paths filled with delicate traditions shakily standing under the golden bucket of tourism and the burst floodgates of technology and communication.

On the brink of something.

A road being build? A phone being connected?

Kathmandu, the capitol of the entire country was home to a single restaurant in the 1950s.

The city stretches; Newari woodwork, warped under the weight.

The people smile.

“Namaste": no longer a word that burns a white hot flame out my ears.

Kindness.

Maybe even a hint of sincerity.

The “People” comprised of upward of 15 major ethnic groups.

Newaris, Thakalis, Gurungs, and Sherpas--not to mention the thousands of Tibetan refugees.

Religion playing its normal games, perhaps with less tension than its frenetic neighbor, India.

Yet while Hindu-cow-calm takes over the sound and fury, efficiency still eludes us in Nepal.

“Same, same, but different”

Customs.

Ok.

Nobody likes going through customs.

But here we are, at the gates of Nepal.

Lauren, Linzy, Dan and Sarah.

Dan and Sarah whom we picked up at a Japanese place in Dharamsala, and became quick best friends with--in fact, spending our last day in big D, cooking up a feast at the organic farm down the river.
Aside from a power shortage or two, the fact that we had no running water, and the part where when we asked if they had any milk, a field hand came back with a full bucket, still warm from the cow, none of us got sick, except as a direct result of stuffing our faces.

Right. The gates of Nepal.

The gates of Nepal that ask for their visa fee, STRICTLY in American dollars. Who WILL not (of course) change your Indian currency into Nepali currency. Who STRICTLY want cash. Who SIMPLY will not take anything but Visa cards to produce said cash. No mastercard, no debit card, no discovery, no, no. No. no.

“You don’t have? It is no problem. You go ATM outside.”

Outside? As in, outside of the bounds of the customs area?
As in, beyond your friggin border patrol?

So I can come back inside past your border control, and exchange YOUR currency into AMERICAN currency so you can change it BACK into YOUR CURRENCY, so you can allow me…beyond your…border patrol?

Wait.

What’s this?

Your ATM directly outside your border patrol is broken?

What’s that?

These rickshaw drivers will drive me to a functioning ATM in KATHMANDU so I can drive BACK to the border, to walk BACK into customs area, so I can pay your border crossing fee, so that I can…..go beyond your…border?

What?

No electricity?

No ATMs at all?

No change?

No help?

WHAT.

Dude.

Nepal.

I understand your government has changed hands at least six times since the year 2000, but really, get your shit together, friend.

Did I mention I was sick?

Yeah. About that. Let this be the introduction to the beginning of a common trend, lasting the entirety of the month of April.

I had almost left India entirely unscathed, and in reality, I was, in fact, leaving India for Nepal when sickness punched me in the throat.

But you can bet your ass I contracted whatever it was that got me in good old Incredible India.

Something along the lines of a chest infection, teamed with my asthma, egged on by my demanding to walk everywhere instead of taking auto rickshaws, all the while steadily inhaling exhaust fumes….I found myself having hard time getting up a single flight of stairs.

And here we were about to begin a trek, scheduled to take 21 days to complete, through the Annapurna Mountain Range, getting close to 18,000 ft in the air.

India’s beloved Karma came to bite me in the ass. (what did I DO?!?)

Luckily, there is no such thing as “prescription” drugs, in India.

Do your research, go to the store, take your pick.

And so, packed with my tin foil lined pack of pills, off we went to the mountains...

Borders

2009-04-19T19:54:00.000-07:00

Transition time.

Time to leave Tibet, to integrate India back into our lives.

One step at a time.

Time for a side trip.

Armritsar.

Fittingly wild and spiritual, uncomfortable, and inspiring. India in a flamboyant little package.

The “I dare ya” of the Indian traveler’s circle.

The trip involving two things, strictly: the Golden Temple, and a trip the Pakistani border.

While we had wavered between the two camps of judgment on this side trip, one writing it off entirely out of caution (mainly Americans), and the others saying, hey, at least it’s not Kashmir, sign me up--we eventually gave in to the temptation.

I mean, a Golden temple? Come on, how can you resist.

We were ready for India in all of its madness, and why fool ourselves by taking it the easy way.

India will find a way to slap you across the face, whether you want it or not.

Back to the trains! Back to the madness! Incessant staring and broken record phrases!

“Come look my shop!”
“Looking is free!”
“Which Country?”
“Where you from?”
“I give you good price!”
“First customer, lucky customer!”
“One rupee?”
“Chocolates? Sweets? One pen?”
“Yes, please?”
“Yes, please!?”
“YES PLEASE”

Oh, India, I had no idea how very much I’ve missed you.

The state of Punjab was at once familiar and entirely foreign to us.

Since when are Indian people so genuinely friendly en masse? Since when do I smile in response to the stares? Since when do I readily accept the family photo session?

Something is going on here.

Hey there, Sikhs, what’s the deal? What’s all this trust bullshit?

I think I might love you.

I think I may have even found my India.

We arrived at the Golden Temple by mid-day, met by 15,000 curious pilgrim’s eyes.

Curious, but kind. Not piercing, or judging. Barefooted on cool marble floors, a mass of people, colorful, loud, a place of breathtaking spirituality, devotion, and generosity.

We were invited to the temple dormitories to sleep, to the temple food hall to eat (600 of us at a time). Free of cost. 40,000 visitors a day. 40,000 mouths to feed over an entirely full 24 hour period.

With 3am somehow pulling in the longest lines in the public bathrooms. (also, the cleanest bathrooms I’ve seen in the entirety of India).

Pitched headfirst into a uniquely young sector of religious culture, we ate, slept, brushed our teeth, and paid respect to their beautiful Golden Temple for three days, heads covered, feet bare.

And clad with Sikh silver bangles, symbolizing fearlessness, we grabbed our shared taxi to the Pakistani border.

The border, exchanging trucks upon trucks of sugar and onions, and a crowd of Indians that could be compared to those at a high school football games.

Painted faces, waving flags, and incessant chanting, “Go India, down with Pakistan!”

Entirely comical. Fittingly childish. Flags were raised, and feet were stomped. And the sad Pakistani crowd on the other side of the border, mostly in white, slightly more subdued, dusty land stretching on for miles...

Long Term Tibet

2009-04-19T02:18:00.000-07:00

You have these countries.

These “slow” countries.

A pace, unhurried.

Spanish speaking countries come to mind.

The siesta: a country wide mandated nap time.

India is slow, as well.

Slow (or, no) service. Trains, or buses--anything linked with a supposed schedule.

Yet, how. How, India, are you simultaneously manic?

A pace, frantic.

Words cannot escape an Indian’s lips fast enough, spitting “okayokayokayokayokay” over your response.

Buses whip around whatever stands in their way through whichever (ever elusive) “lane” they so choose, dodging cycle rickshaws, cows, and rogue chickens.

The reasoning behind the dashboard shrine of deities finally begins to make sense.

Chapter II of our trip began as we let out an enormous sigh of relief in Upper Dharamsala, India.

Though India persists in honking its horns, raging down the roads as usual, Asia lays its zen blanket over the town, bringing a cup of grace to the table, a much welcomed peacefullness.

With a month to spare before our move to Nepal, we buckled down and began to work out way into the town via some semblence of a routine.

Beginning with daily yoga from 8-10, cooking classes with Lhamo from 10-12, lunch, writing and research until 4, then our conversational English class til dinner time.

There’s no such thing as the “highlight” of our time here.

Yoga was an incredible accomplishment for me. Flexible as I am, the plot is lost as its slower pace quickly gets the best of my nerves.

Committing to yoga every day was a test of my personal discipline. I adore routine, but If I don’t challenge and throw my comfort zones in a blender (routinely) I will remain stagnant for-e-ver.

Oats in hot water with cinnamon every morning for two years.

Come on Linzy, it’s time to make a damn omelet.

I’ve been rocking the old lady tendencies for ages.

Gin is my favorite drink. I dream of knitting sweaters. Of baking bread. Of hand making Christmas ornaments and jarring fresh strawberry jam.

Beware.

And so, Yoga.

Every day.

On to mid morning cooking classes.

Momos and thukpa and tingmo.

Chopsticks, how I’ve missed you. Hot chili paste. Holy mother.

Strange how India has barely scratched the surface of our firey food limits.

I find myself having to beg the waiters in India to request more heat. Yet even then do they serve with with a smile, and a “medium spice for you!”

i.e. “you can’t handle spice, white bitch!”

Stop judging me, India!

Thankfully, in McLeod Ganj, we wore our temporary local status with pride, quickly leaping to a first name basis at our favorite hang outs.

Pots upon pots of lemon tea (or otherwise, glasses upon glasses….really, India? Hot liquids in a thin, tall glass with no handles? I have no words.)

And after weeks of distrust in humanity via India’s constant scamming, to know maybe not the “Indian price,” but at least the “dude, you see me every day, and I may be white, but I know where you live,” price--priceless.

To know that the Indian man’s offer of Kashmiri Saffron tea, is indeed, a dodgy one.

To have the yak wool blanket lady flag you down for your daily hello.

Street momos.

To finally be ignored by the beggars. You know, the ones who have enough money to take the bus into town every weekend with as many babies as they can scrounge up from the town below, in order to hit up the tourist scene.

Which brings me to the Tibetan community.

Here are these people, completely displaced from a land where their culture is uniquely engrained, to a place where their industries become off kilter, their crops unable to thrive, their cultural relics all but entirely obliterated by the Chinese government during the so-called “Cultural Revolution.”

But, do you see Tibetan beggars?

No. Not so much.

A community in need, yes, but one with sense and solidarity enough to evolve in their new surroundings, while giving a giant push to gather the pieces of what’s left after China’s cultural pillage.

A youth effort that I can’t help but admire, in an age with so many distractions, in a community where new coming young Tibetans have already been influenced, trained and taught in Chinese school systems.

Globally, there is always the struggle to hang on to our own traditions--an increasingly difficult task in an age where shoes go out of style as soon as they are slipped on, cutting edge technology, obsolete within weeks. Nothing sacred. Fashion and design go for nostalgia and tackle all things retro with a snigger of sarcasm. Moustaches are not cool or hot--they are simply resurfacing for the sake of hilarity.

Tradition, you are a tricky subject. Globalization, I don’t even know where to begin with you. Moustaches: don't get me started.

Volunteering at LHA gave us insight into these community’s inner working, into the Tibetan cause, the Tibetan mentality. Students from age 14-46. Skills ranging greatly, with some a bit shy (i.e. mute), and others actually quite intellectually challenging.

What is unique about this particular Tibetan community is their draw to Dharamsala, specifically.

Not only does the Dalai Lama make his home here, but it is one of the largest educational centres available to the Tibetan community abroad--giving a chance even to those with the most dodgy of status in the way of legalities as a refugee. LHA, Hope Education Centre, Tibetan Children’s Village, top the long list of education options, with India granting incredible freedom in terms of their own governance. Monasteries spring up with impassioned Buddhist monks following in the wake of their spiritual leader.

Educated as they are in Dharamsala, or at least en route to education, we, as temporary residents were able to hear, first hand, accounts from some of the more educated of the common community. LHA’s students are primarily Buddhist monks, giving a twist to our own Tibetan cultural education (making English class more like Buddhist Philosophy class).

Education is the key to giving a voice to this community on an international level.

Language.

We sat on the temple grounds, shoulder to shoulder with roughly 500 other spectators as the Dalai Lama spoke on Uprising Day, the 50th anniversary of the massacre in Tibet.

Listening through 80 rupee headphones to a translator relaying his speech, the thought of linguistics rises again. How much is lost in this? How much more eloquent would this be with the most simple, seemingly insignificant change in wording. How often does a word simply not exist in an attempted translation. And isn’t it always the most beautiful, the most profound.

I wonder who the translator is.

I wonder about the development of the Tibetan language. Here, our English dictionary grows year by year, while the Tibetan language lies on the brink of stagnancy.

How does a community, whose cultural decimation is a reality, simultaneously cling to the past while fusing with the modern world? A community spread in pockets all over the world, how will this culminate in a common culture?

The week the Dalai Lama was in town was a whirlwind. Teachings for three days and an address on Uprising Day to Tibet, to the masses. Press, everywhere. Marches, and candlelit vigils, nightly.
An experience I will never forget.

Thursday, however threw us back to India

And smack into the much anticipated holiday, Holi:
The festival of colors:

While we may not have been in the most Hindu of towns on the block, a sickeningly twisting bus ride down the mountain to lower Dharamsala was enough to stumble upon a street party.

And did I forget to mention the company we kept?

Doug!

And Callum and Charlotte and Sandra and Gabriel! How the hell did we end up (yet again) in the same corner of India, after an entire county’s worth of travel?
Officially saving the ever studious duo that is Lauren and Linzy from gettin' too serious

Somehow, through our classes, teaching, and personal study, we managed a social life, even if it meant a conversational English date with our Thai Monk friend, Mantree, or a bollywood movie night with Sividas, our yogi.

By the end of our stay, we had just about maxed out our schedule with social events. Each day making our final goodbye that much more impossible….

To the North

2009-03-25T08:00:00.000-07:00

Chennai was dirty.
So we went to France. I mean. Pondicherry.
And jumped north.

Never thought we’d go so far north, really.
Had basically written it off, given the whole Kashmir conflict.
Also apparently hadn’t looked close enough at the map to see how wildly far from conflict one can be, while seemingly as northerly as northern can be.

The home of the Dalai Lama is a long way from a violent conflict zone.

So, onward to Dharamsala we went.

On an overnight bus from Delhi.
On the most miserable/hilarious ride of my life.

13 hours of mountains, on a bus that actually was enroute to Kashmir.

Over sleep and conflict land it was!

Luckily, there is no such thing as sleep on an overnight bus.

Especially an overnight bus over the mountains.

(A non stop bus with no toilet)

Moments before peeing out the window, we landed in Pathankot. Or somewhere near there, because we (the only white people for miles) were ushered into a cab by the bus drivers, and driven into the night to yet another bus station.

Finally, as daylight crept up on us, we, the wired white ones, caught our final bus from Pathankot to Dharamsala, to the tippity top--Mcleod Ganj.

Technically, we were still in India.

But, really?

We had officially arrived in Tibet in exile.

And here we've been for the past month, hanging out in one of the most peaceful of communities in the world, let alone our beloved wild India.

Munnar

2009-03-24T08:52:00.001-07:00

Oh yeah....

Remember the time it was so bloody hot in Kerala that we ran away to the hills for the weekend?

And the time I bought a carrot peeler, just so I could eat carrots?

And the time we slept in a hallway for 50 rupees?

Good times, in Kerala. I'll give you a 7 out of 10.

The Backwaters...

2009-03-24T05:50:00.000-07:00

Green. The most tangible of colors.
Eat it, smell it, taste it, breathe it.
Re-birthed into our lives the further south we clacked down the coast.
The Arabian sea on your right shoulder.
Unless you sat backwards on the train.

Leaving Portuguese Panaji, Goa behind, after a day in the spice plantations. Eating green peppercorns off the vine. Squeezing cashew nut fruit, fresh from the tree. A final dinner of fish vindaloo, fiery coconut toddy vinegar, cooked down with a rich port wine.

And a final beach day in Arambol, culminating in a bus ride with (count it) 23 people over the seating limit. i.e. over your seat. over you.

A tubby Indian woman with facial hair and a relentless grin, on your lap.

Finally, the journey to fabled Kerala, the southern most tip of India.

The land of literacy, of stability, a defining example of the barrier between north and south. An utter political, religious enigma of backwaters, snaking rivers, coconut lagoons, over 30 varieties of bananas, and communism. Yes, Communism. Possibly more Socialist?

Arundhati Roy, author of (the best book I’ve read in years) The God of Small Things, gives a sampling of theories...

“Structurally--this somewhat rudimentary argument went -- Marxism was a simple substitute for Christianity. Replace God with Marx, Satan with the bourgeoisie, Heaven with a classless society, the Church with The Party, and the form and purpose of he journey remain similar. An obstacle race, with a prize at the end. Whereas the Hindu mind had to make more complex adjustments.

The trouble with this theory was that in Kerala, the Syrian Christians were by and large, the wealthy, estate-owning (pickle-factory-running) feudal lords, for whom communism represented a fate worse than death. They had always voted for the Congress Party.

A second theory claimed that it had to do with the comparatively high level of literacy in the state. Perhaps. Except that the high literacy level was largely because of the communist movement.

The real secret was that communism crept into Kerala insidiously. As a reformist movement that never overtly questioned the traditional values of a caste-ridden, extremely traditional community. The Marxists worked from within the communal divides, never challenging them, never appearing not to. They offered a cocktail revolution. A heady mix of Eastern Marxism and orthodox Hinduism, spiked with a shot of democracy.” (66-67)

“Our states are so diverse!” I’m constantly explaining of the U.S.

HA.

Kerala is a state of India.

Kerala is communist.

The US, diverse? My ass.

India’s division of north and south finally becomes screamingly apparent.

Landing in Kochi, the high expectations of this enigma of a state aren’t entirely holding.

The question of India itself, finally takes over.

What is India? It is the most individually driven of questions.

My India is entirely different from yours, and the sooner you realize this, the less hostile and/or deprived you will feel when you “lose India” momentarily, or subsequently never find your India at all.

India was lost for me in Kochi.

Kochi was clean, and by India’s standards, efficient.

Kochi seemed to be trying to be something it was not, simultaneously exploiting the things it does best.

The Chinese fishing boats pull up plastic bottles and old shoes. Kathakali, Kerala’s traditional form of theatre is performed nightly to awe-struck (otherwise, bored) foreigners.

“It didn’t matter that the story had begun, because Kathakali discovered long ago that the secrets of Great Stories is that they have no secrets….”

“….The Kathakali Man is the most beautiful of men. Because his body is his soul. His only instrument. From the age of three it has been planed and polished, pared down, harnessed wholly to the task of story-telling. He has magic in him, this man within the painted mask and swirling skirts.

But these days he has become unviable. Unfeasible. Condemned goods. His children deride him. They long to be every thing that he is not. He has watched them grow up to become clerks and bus conductors. Class IV non-gazetted officers.

With unions of their own. But he himself, left dangling somewhere between heaven and earth, cannot do what they do. He cannot slide down the aisles of buses, counting change and selling tickets. He cannot answer bells that summon him. He cannot stoop behind trays of tea and Marie biscuits.

In despair, he turns to tourism. He enters the market. He hawks the only thing he owns. The stories that his body can tell.

He becomes a Regional Flavour.

In the Heart of Darkness they mock him with their lolling nakedness and their imported attention spans. He checks his rage and dances for them. He collects his fee. He gets drunk. Or smokes a joint. Good Kerala grass. It makes him laugh. Then he stops by the Ayemenem Temple, he and the others with him, and they dance to ask pardon of the gods” (230-231). The performance was one hour long. It was beautiful.

Keralan cooking courses made up for the nightmare that was the “international cuisine” available for us. Fish molee, banana leaf thali’s and coconut scraped everything--links to ayurvedic cooking, with herbs made abundant by the rich, water drenched land.

India was saved (my India, not yours) by Alleppey’s backwaters.

(Alleppey itself, giving us an Indian kick in the ass--Kerala’s “order and cleanliness” gave way to over 120 bed bug bites on Lauren’s back, and a grab to the crotch in the streets, asking “do you know what sexy is?” Oh, you poor Indian men…the problem is that you do not know what “sexy“ is).

Jumping a boat bus to a homestay in the backwaters officially makes the “best decision Lauren and Linzy made while in India” list. Opting out of the unregulated, polluting floating masses of luxury (and albeit, complete serenity) aka the overnight houseboat......complete with personal fisherman aboard to catch arm-sized prawn that your personal chef will then cook up for dinner, we cruised into the backwaters to settle in.

Thomas was the name of our host. Thomas? How are you a native to this land and named Thomas. Flash back to Keralan history 101: Syrian Christian Apostle, St Thomas, arriving from the west, post resurrection, on a conversion rampage.

Hm, not only are you named Thomas, but it’s an old family name at this point.

Thomas’s family turned out to be some of the first reformers of the land, “voluntarily” dividing up their land to their neighbors, singing Christian hymns all the way through, I‘m sure.

Thomas painted us a happy picture of shared wealth.

The communist dream fulfilled.

“The Tribal people work with us,” he says. “You can distinguish them by their dark skin and curly hair.” Dredging the sand and mussel shells to lay new land in the constantly sinking man made islands of the backwaters. Their work is crucial to the survival of the towns. How nice. Although I’m sure they could be replaced by machines, work continues to be provided.

Coconuts still need to be picked, don‘t they?

Where does the caste system hide in communism?

“Pappachi would not allow Paravans into the house. Nobody would. They were not allowed to touch anything that Touchables touched. Caste Hindus and Caste Christians. Mammachi told Estha and Rahel that she could remember a time, in her girlhood, when Paravans were expected to crawl backward with a broom, sweeping away their footprints so that Brahmins or Syrian Christians would not defile themselves by accidentally stepping into a Paravan’s footprint. In Mammachi’s time, Paravans, like other Untouchables, were not allowed to walk on public roads, not allowed to cover their upper bodies, not allowed to carry umbrellas. They had to put their hands over their mouths when they spoke, to divert their polluted breath away from those whom they addressed.” (74)

Although, as Thomas guided us through his town’s mud paths, the fierce sense of community did, in fact, shine.

A popular man, that Thomas. Neighbors beamed at the sight of him. Children sang us songs along the way, and showed off their English speaking skills. The same children that will leave these villages, leave tradition in the 250 year old fish oiled boat that brought them ashore to the mainland where they buy ring-tones for their mobile phones, and work in the IT field. Tradition defies its definition.

It is indeed more malleable than we like to believe.

Christmas trees did not fall from the sky.

In Kerala, tradition is constant in its most basic forms (i.e. the best forms).

Food. Thomas’s mother and wife prepared three gorgeous traditional Keralan meals a day for us.

Pollution is eminent, yet the backwaters continue to be a haven of uncontrollable growth.

Mangoes hang over your head.
Tamarind lies out to dry.
Coconuts of every color and shape.
Bananas: green, red, orange, yellow.
Breadfruit: a textural mix of turnip and potato.
The place is entirely alive. Break off a stick, shove it in the ground, and it will grow. An entirely natural fencing system.

A night time canoe ride through the backwaters at the end of the day. The heat of the day hovered over the water as the air finally cooled and the sky lit up with stars.

Goa to Hampi...

2009-03-15T01:54:00.000-07:00

The Portuguese have fled the coast, the 60s have come and gone, and rave culture has been buried underground, seemingly for good, but relics of the past subtly linger in Goa. And while the old mansions gracefully crumble, new growth peeks out from the corners--inventive cuisine, homegrown art, and even a chance for a true cup of coffee.

Is this India? Certainly a piece to the puzzle: yes.

Settling primarily in Anjuna, we found Goa to be equally comforting as it was upsetting.

The food?

Unparalleled.

International hippie chefs find respite from the likes of New York City and Paris......avocados are officially integrated back into my daily diet, along with fresh seafood, and Portuguese/Indian fusions.

The beaches?

A tough subject.

Being from the Cod puts me in an awkward position in terms of the global beach scene.

Am I a snob, or simply homesick at the sight of the sea?

To sort through this, let’s begin by saying that these beaches don’t exactly fall anywhere remotely close to the “clean” category.

Only in India would a clear tourist jack-pot be completely and utterly ignored by the state.

Left to the hippie NGO’s of the world to save the day, only so many “projects” are ever finished entirely.

Environmental cleanliness and integrity of community is in a constant state of equal deterioration, and bhang-lassi infused reformation.

Good effort, team.

A+ for an utterly stagnant state of affairs.

Bonus points, as the hassle softens as you ride down the coast…
(as hassle often does in an oppressively hot climate…who can be bothered, really?)

A few extra smiles, in Goa.

(but that may just be the Indian men with their jaws on the floor, paralyzed by the sight of a western woman in a bikini).

Ultimately, these were quiet times in Goa since the Mumbai attacks...

Beach parties were cancelled, and the state mandated noise control laws (no music past 10:00pm) were in full force.

It was the perfect recipe for sampling India’s process of law.

Or at least running smack into its trap.

Three threatened arrests in one week! I think that’s a personal record!

First, let me explain the company we kept: Leigh and Chris.

Rookie travelers from Sheffield, England, making travel for the rest of their lives exponentially easier, by conquering India first.

Just as every English lad seems to be doing these days, they’ve bid farewell to their girlfriends (temporarily) as they hop from country to country.

We met over our only terrible meal in Goa, and joined forces the night after Lauren and my 1 year anniversary of knowing each other (celebrated with a limca and cashew liquor cocktail).

Now, back to Indian law enforcement…

Encounter Number 1: Held up on the beach by three officers, on our walk back from the bar that we neglected to drink at, searched, poked, and prodded, until we finally convinced them we didn’t have any drugs, nor did we condone the playing of music on the beachfront. Initially left Lauren and Chris to the dogs, as Leigh and I temporarily avoided their attention, dropping our Kingfishers in the sand, and walking at a rapid pace (until our consciences got the best of us). A flashback to the entirety of my under age career on Cape Cod.

Encounter Number 2: With only a dog as our chauffeur...(although faithful to us for the entirety of our stay as our escort, to and from our hostel)

...Lauren and I skipped back to our home, a mere 100 meters from the bar where we sang songs with Chris, Leigh, and Krishna (our Nepali/Indian Idol contestant/self-proclaimed hip-hop artist friend) before being stopped dead in our tracks by yet another round of Indian police officers.

“You arrested now”

“We bring you station”

Hmm..

How do you reply to such things?

The same way you reply to any confrontation in India: by bargaining.

“No, uh, that’s ok, I think we’ll just go home?”

(as if it was an offer as opposed to a demand)

There was relief in the fact that we were most likely more sober than these officers were, and after a bit of negotiating, we were “freed.“

Now officer encounter number 3 was the real killer. Unfortunately this involved mopeds and money.

Basically, officers stand on the side of the highway waiting for white people drive by, in order to fine them stupid amounts of money for whichever reason fit’s the bill at that given moment. Fine sums are directly related to how much cash is already in said officers pocket, aka, however much of an asshole they feel like being.

500 rupees each (except Lauren, who is cute, and blonde, and therefore mysteriously innocent), and we were on our way.

Did I tell you we rented mopeds?

Hm.

Yeah….I think I forgot to tell my mom and dad that too….

Goa was definitely a place to relax, although we definitely made an attempt to mix it up with mopeds and threatened imprisonments.

After our trip through Old Goa, a sunset at Vagator, and one of the nicest meals of my life on Valentine’s Day, we decided to head inland to the ruins of Hampi.

Hampi was pretty phenomenal.

Actually, when I think of Hampi, I think it’s the only place where we might have screwed up in terms of timing.

I could have stayed at least a week in Hampi, and instead, we had two days.

Hampi=rocks.

Lots of rocks.

Big ones.

And things made out of rocks.

Temples.

And elephant stables.

And bath houses.

The surrounding area can make you feel a bit like you’re on the set for Honey I Shrunk the Kids. Or Indiana Jones.

It’s as if magnified pebbles were tossed around banana fields and rice paddies, until someone looked up one day and realized how cool and useful this situation could be, and decided to build their homes, right smack in the middle.

While the town itself is incredibly small, it extends to the other side of a river, where there’s a community of rock climbers, living it up in the hours between the Karnataka mid-day heat.

That’s where Doug was living!

Doug!

We found you!

At least 16 hours away from our meeting point in Mumbai!

Doug had picked up a new posse, and had been bouldering on the other side of the river for about a full week.

Good work, Doug.

Doug got it right.

Round II Hampi is officially making the list...

Maharashtra Mayhem

2009-03-09T02:18:00.000-07:00

I’m sorry.

Do I sound negative?

Did I forget to mention the fact that I’m having one of the most incredible experiences of my life?

Have I been ranting endlessly of social politics, ethics and my own personal culture shock?

Yes. And I continue to do so, here, on a daily basis.

But how friggin fortunate am I to have a travel partner who is as fired up about this as I am? Pretty damn fortunate.

Solitary travel has its benefits, god knows I find comfort in them, but the end of the day venting session here is a direct highway to sanity.

India creates solitude--its masses swallowing your voice, drowning your eardrums with a thousand shrieking horns and hollering hawkers. The eyes tell all.

There’s the, “oh thank effing god we made it across that road and didn’t get rammed by that bus” look.

The, “oh thank effing god you’re still here and I didn’t lose you to the fake Brahmin priests who “bless” you by the water, then force you to fork over 1000 rupees at a time (or else lose your loved ones to bad fortune forever and ever)” glance.

The “dude, this guy is totally charging me triple the price for these friggin’ green bananas” stare.

And the end of the day sigh.

The end of the day sigh after experiencing some of the most beautiful sights, sounds and smells, the earth has to offer, and just plain not even being able to find the words.

There is no such thing as silence in India, all the while it is our only common language.

But really, I mean, we’ve been anything but alone here! We’ve held our own in this sweaty, dusty, sleep deprived social scene that is the Indian travel network.

But, why?

Why?

The question.

Is always.

Why.

Why India? Why did you willingly subject yourself to this? Did you have pink fluffy ideas of yoga and elephants? Did someone forget to tell you about the piss stained streets, feral dogs and corrupt police? You look bewildered. Who are you traveling with? What brought your two together? WHY? Are you (somehow) having as much fun as I am? I hope you’re laughing. Because I am. Wholeheartedly.

You. have. no. choice.

Oh, for at least one beer a week.

Just grant me that, in all your sobriety, India.

Mumbai: I think you owe me at least three.

And Mumbai, in fact, was where our social life expanded exponentially.

Beer has a tendency to do this.

From our train via Udaipur, formed a disoriented train of people.

Our white people train.

Hurled off the rails after an endless overnight trip in blue metal bunks, were three students of a university in Jerusalem, one 22 year old looking-30 year old Brit, and a long bearded, yellow ukulele playing boy in rectangular black rimmed specs named Aaron, trailing in a line, with us, the token blonde and brunette American chicks--all in search of the Mumbai metro.

An Indian man and his wife attempted to help us.

The cab drivers screamed at them for giving us directions.

Good effort.

The white people train trailed on.

The stares grew stronger.

Big funny backpacks, pasty skin, reflecting in the Mumbai sun, surely blinding the already stunned onlookers. And a ukulele. Tinkling in the background.

One train, one walk through a bazaar, one local metro ride, and one (our first) official taxi drive later, we stumbled into the Salvation Army Hostel of Mumbai. An actual dorm room! An actual hostel! They even have rumors of bedbugs!

Wow.

We are now officially beaming. Our first true traveler’s social contact since the beginning of the trip.

Time for a beer (or three).
Time to compare notes.

Within minutes of confirming a bed, there was Doug.

Doug! Aw, we miss Doug!

Doug was our first best friend. Doug was from England. Doug left his job to travel the world, and was meeting up with his girlfriend in Australia. Doug had landed in India, merely hours before we met him.

By the next morning, we were off on our own personal walking tour of Mumbai. India Gate to Marine Drive, to Chowpatty beach where we sampled an Indian beachside favorite, Kulfi and Falooda.

Kulfi and Falooda: Mango Pistachio Butterscotch Ice Cream-ish stuff in Strawberry Milk with Tapioca Noodles and Black Liquid Beads of……something yet to be determined.

With a cherry on top.

It was the unofficial anti-guide book tour of Mumbai (although I’ll admit those maps are pretty sweet). After creeping through a crazy bazaar, we cruised through the backside after our beachside walk, finally finding a replacement camera battery for Doug, and buying a refill for my inhaler (No questions asked. For 75 cents. Note to self: restock all prescription drugs prior to departure).

Lunch at a dive. Dinner at a knocked down version of our initial dive. And three beers each at a dive so dive-y, you can only buy your cheap-ass liquor by the bottle. An ultimate smoke filled, woman free zone (Except for us. But we don’t count. We‘re not women if we‘re already in the “alien“ category). Mumbai stole us for much longer than expected, ending with a stroll by India Gate, with vanilla ice cream and a pomegranate. Life almost appeared settled before our inland journey to Aurangabad to visit the Buddhist caves of Ajanta.

Note to self: don’t sleep in the busiest train station in South Asia. Note to self: don’t take one of the busiest train journeys in the country, expecting to get a proper seat. 8 seats and 13 people later, we landed in small town Aurangabad, to explore the surrounding caves.

Note to self: don’t climb to rock caves in mid-day heat of Maharashtra. And one more train ride, inland, before our haul to the south....

By the time Goa rolled around, it was well deserved…

Sideshow Bollywood

2009-02-25T23:25:00.000-08:00

Standing at the ruins of Hampi, a family of eight stood around me in a semi circle, roughly ages 7-75, fingers pointing, and laughing. The women giggled and poked, while grandpa was nearly on the ground, wheezing in hysterics. The boy, covered his mouth, doubled over.

Flashback to the six year old pinching my ass in Jaipur.

To his friends, following and harassing us, circling us, running to get a grab in, or to show us their penises, until a man restrained them (after watching for a solid 10 minutes).

But then, our little Punjab football team of 16 year olds--traveling with us for a 10 hour train ride from Mumbai to Aurangabad. Endlessly fascinated, the team slowly crowded their way around us, and politely worked on their English, questioning us about our favorite movies and music. We showed them maps of the states, and where we had been. I showed them a picture of my family. Soon, the coaches and chaperone's were in on the spectacle.

“You came on a good day! If my wife were here, she be very jealous!”

“You will not forget us! Look! My coach, my coach, meet my coach! Also, international team, Iraqis, age twelvefouteen! They very good. You will remember us?!”

Although it is mostly men who question and stare (and record videos of us on their cell phones as we walk by, and indiscreetly photograph us) we’ve had only a few conversations with women. One, Anita, tutoring us on Hindi, and hand feeding us for half a train ride.

There is a fine line between freak show and celebrity status.

Meanwhile, others simply can’t be bothered.

In search of food unscathed by the likes of guide books and tourism, we’ve crept in to some true hometown dining institutions.

The reaction goes one of two ways--we are either doted on, and carefully explained everything by the appointed best English speaking staff member, while the entirety of the waitstaff gleefully gapes.....or.....completely and utterly ignored.

It's a funny thing. To be ignored.

We tap on his window.

Asleep.

We tap again.

He stirs.

“Hello?”

The rest of the Indians in line for their train tickets start to giggle.

Giving us a red-eyed, clearly stoned glare, the mustachioed tub of a man leans forward and aggressively shoves half of an entire corn muffin in his mouth.

Rolling his head back, he falls into a crumb-filled-choking-hazard-waiting-to-happen-snore.

I guess our train ticket would have to wait, or else we move into yet another line. And by line I mean a window with 15 people practically piggy-backing each other with money in hand, screaming in Hindi (or Urdu or English or Bengali or Gujarati or Kannada or Malayalam or Marathi) for a ticket.

Though there is some order--there are specific “lines” just for us.

You know, the “foreigners.”

Literally, the signs over the counters are as follows:

“Ladies”

“Gentlemen”

“Disabled, Elderly, Freedom Fighters, Cancer Patients, Journalists, Foreigners”

One begins to think that there is a collective, national age of about 8 years old.

But then, the intellectual crowd comes in to save India’s image.

“Matt,” a student in Aurangabad, relentlessly gave me an entire family history of University founders and professors, firmly defending India.

“We are not seven years behind, as the world thinks”

Many Indians are embarrassed and outraged by Slumdog Millionaire.

“This is not the India of today”

It isn’t? Last I checked, there were six children, half naked, asleep at my feet as I made a phone call from what looks to be a wooden lemonade stand, on the street corner in Mumbai. Last I checked, a full 45 minutes of my train ride into this city cut directly through a slum....you know, the one that accounts for nearly 50% of the population of the city.

Yet, there you are in Colaba, Mumbai, and the streets gleam, seemingly just for you. All the while, Colaba takes on a new shade. Certainly, standing in front of the Taj Hotel, now takes on a certain amount of weight. Boarded windows and bullet holes over a beer at Leopold's Cafe.

Paper thin niceties, lining the city.

To Ignore: a medium of art in itself.

Rajasthan

2009-02-11T02:04:00.000-08:00

For many a long hard year of life on Cape Cod has the word “tourist” made my stomach turn.

To contextualize my being a tourist despite my innate loathing is enough to drive me friggin crazy.

But here I am.

And I, better than many, am familiar with survival relying upon them.

“them”

Tourists.

(shudder)

A traveler, that’s what I am, yeah, a traveler, not a tourist, right? Right?

….right.

But a tourist destination, is such for a reason, isn’t it?

People are drawn in masses because, at least at one point, there was some merit to it.

While Agra and the Taj Mahal seemed like a glorious vacation from the hassle of Delhi, moving to Rajasthan proved that there is potential for India to become increasingly easier as we moved along, however, not necessarily “touristy.”

It’s not that we didn’t hit the usual suspects, but it’s the way you go about it that matters.

What time you choose to leave the house? Did you take the public bus, or not? Are you wearing a baseball hat? Are you wearing a ripped denim mini skirt? Are you an idiot?

Sorry.

But really…once you start to get the hang of things, your Lonely Planet guidebook is simply a free map, instead of an end-all solution to your activities, housing and nourishment.

So! Rajasthan! Land of desert and camels and bright colored saris!

(And whole grain chapati bread! Woot! I will kill you, white flour!)

But, all bread aside, for some reason, through the bit of research I could manage before leaving, I’ve been amped about Rajasthan.

Beginning in Jaipur, the Pink City, we wandered through the bazaars, completely awe-struck by the color and ease set by families shopping for goods, instead of tourists, bumbling into commission traps.

Although our rooftop view, guided by a cute, English speaking Indian boy, ended in an invitation to his gem-cutting shop for purchases, it didn’t manage to ruin the moment, watching paper kites fly for January’s kite festival, and catching the pink city’s sunset.

Two days in Jaipur, brought us on our first bus ride aka wooden roller coaster without a rail, to Pushkar.

As of now, Pushkar still holds it down as my favorite spot we’ve hit so far. It was the first place I could breathe (literally…my asthma has been anything but tame in Indian cities).

Circling a small lake, edged with ghats, with our $1.50 a night hotel has a rooftop restaurant overlooking the water, we had nothing to do but settle our city-crazed heads and begin to roughly map out what we wanted out of this whole ordeal.

The sunrise temple hike stole the show...that is, after we avoided being attacked by a pack of dogs gaurding their camel....

Then, finally, our last stop in Rajasthan before heading south to Mumbai: Udaipur....

......And....one....more.....train.....

Aggro in Agra

2009-02-04T23:02:00.000-08:00

Traveling in India, you ultimately resign your life to the rails.

Thankfully, our first train ride went smoothly after an exhausting end to our stay in Delhi.

Using any form of transportation seemed to be the main cause of disorientation and stress when acclimating to this country. Within the first couple weeks, I’m thinking we’ve just about nailed it.

We can haggle with the best (and worst) of the rickshaw drivers, determining price, distance, and time, and no longer do we starve on the train, nor let the beggars at our feet starve with us. Packed with confidence, a solid “NO,” a bunch of bananas and toasted chickpeas, we’re finally getting the hang of it.

After a trip to Old Delhi to the Red Fort turning into a bit of a nightmare, where we thankfully were shoved on to a cycle-rickshaw by the only person for a mile who A) didn’t have her face covered completely and, B) spoke English, we smartened up a bit about public transport.

“Go now, it is too far, it is too dangerous for walking”

Other rickshaw drivers grabbed at our shirts and at the wheels of the cart as we pedaled away.

Conservatively dressed as we were, it apparently was not enough.

But, were we truly offensive, or simply so alien that it warranted a mass of roughly 20 people closing in on us?

No more accidental strolls through the slums for us. No, sir.

India remains impoverished in a way I cannot begin to comprehend, let alone describe.

As a Mumbaiker explained to us over coffee, “I have left this country for well over ten years, have come back, and it is exactly the same, except everyone has a cell phone”

Children are tugging at your shirt on every corner.

Walking in Mumbai, I watched a girl, no older than 2 years old, dragging, grappling to carry an infant, whose head, swinging backward, brushed and bumped against a sea of people browsing through plastic trinkets.

A man with no legs, heaving himself through a crowd, pulling at your leg.

People just brushing past.

I have seen more deformities in these weeks than I have seen in a lifetime.

And here you are, looking into these big brown eyes, and around the corner is a ring-leader, collecting the money from a days worth of begging.

Deformities equal cash.

All ethics aside, here are the repercussions of over-population

So what do you do? You give food. But even then, where does this problem lie, and how much am I perpetuating it as opposed to stopping it. Where can my service, my time, my money go, to turn this over?

Daily, I’m frustrated by the dollar sign painted on my forehead, but who is to blame for that?

The man at the train station throws a weight on the scale holding the two oranges I hoped to buy, bringing the price from 15 rupees to 150.

A boy shows us to the rooftop of his building for the most beautiful view of the pink city of Jaipur, only to be led directly to his gem shop for purchases.

Men line the outskirts of tourist spots, selling the most inane, and utterly wasteful plastic products imaginable, meanwhile all garbage is thrown to the ground without a single bin in sight.

Not an ounce of respect for authority as our auto-rickshaw plows through a line of police-men, who slam on the roof as we nearly hit the lot of them, completely disregarding their check-point.

(our driver, apparently completely disregarding the need for a license).

Conversation and journalism drive home how far India has come.

Many are offended by the picture of India painted by the likes of Mother Theresa’s work and subsequent missionaries, or films like Slumdog Millionaire.

Gandhi himself was adamant that India’s battle is India’s battle.

It’s an incredible thing, feeling somewhat lost in time, and actually useless in the enormity of India’s tribulations.

I feel how heavy it will be to return home after this.

And how this trip could single-handedly propel my life in a very specific direction.

On a different note, while Agra was filled with desperate hassle, the Taj was all together absolutely stunning....

Week One

2009-01-26T21:05:00.000-08:00

Yesterday a six year old pinched my ass at a hindu temple.

What better way could I end my first week in India?

I’ve been constructing this trip for almost a year now--reading, researching, pulling as many resources as possible for the sake of preparedness. I finally know that there is no such thing. All the anti-malaria pills, water purifiers and guide books combined couldn‘t possibly prepare your mind and body for the India experience. It’s as if someone is pounding on my chest. Love, horror, and awe.

The combination of my obsession with Asia, as well as hopes to involve myself in the non-profit world, teamed with Lauren’s potential future in international development, made a simply exploratory trip into something a little more essential.

But really, ok, enough being serious for a second.
Honestly? I’m here. I made it, and I’ve had a stupid grin on my face about 90% of the time since hopping on our bus from Hyannis to New York, from our plane from New York to Brussels, and finally, after at least 20 hours in transit, landing in Delhi.

Since my brain apparently has no way to compartmentalize any of this, the stupid grin has remained.

I’ll take it.

The lines in the airport are probably the last official lines I will stand in for the next four months. As an Indian man told us yesterday on the street:

“In America, you have system. India? We no have system.”

With a big white grin, he gestures to the pile of trash at his feet.

Our final flight into Delhi, although packed with Indian people--bollywood playing on our screens, and curry for breakfast,--did not officially convince me I was going to be thrown into Indian city streets within a few hours.

The flight was more of a clean-cut caricature of India, and in turn, hilarious. Even the flight attendants gave us a trial run at the pressure and charm that Indian men exude, seemingly from the moment they open their eyes in the morning.

It was love a first sight for “Harry,” our turban clad flight attendant. Within 20 minutes, we were invited to first class for a glass of wine. What’s a guy to do, when Lauren’s eyes “are the most beautiful eyes in the world.” How do you fight with that!? Before we knew it, we were surrounded by flight attendants, pouring glasses of wine and offering personal tours of Delhi and Agra.

Hysterical. And flattering. Kind of.

Poor Harry--upon arrival to Indira Ghandi International Airport, I could finally see why his heart ached so badly.

Women apparently do not exist, in Delhi.

Yup.

No ladies.

Aren’t we in a major city? Where are they hiding?

Sorry.

All men.

Poor Harry.

This becomes glaringly apparent as we make our way through an absolute mob of raucous male taxi drivers, where we spot a little man in a red sweater and a moustache, holding a paper sign with my name on it.

It’s then that I realized that I hadn’t been breathing for the last ten minutes since getting off our plane.

Airport pickup is the most genius idea going.

We hop into a tiny van, after making our way past “crazy” policemen, a pile of scruffy looking dogs, and a slew of armed guards.

If only Indian guard attire spoke more of their authority than whichever sweater they pulled out of their closet that morning and a machine gun. I’m sure there’s a badge tucked in their somewhere, right?

Our first drive in India taught us two things.

1) The horn is to be used in lieu of a directional at all times.

2) The lines in the road are purely for decoration. We honked and weaved our way through Delhi, to the “backpacker’s ghetto” of Paraganj. Looking back, our little neighborhood of shops, street vendors, food stalls, dogs, cats, babies and cows, seems like a picture of peace, in comparison with what the rest of our first week held, but initially? Holy mother of god. Again, I think I forgot how to breathe. I’m hoping that lack of oxygen doesn’t put a damper on this trip.

Backpacker life, however, quickly set into gear, as Smyle Inn of Paraganj morphed into “home” for the next two nights. I had initially wanted to fly into Mumbai, but here we were in Delhi, north India, between Pakistan and the Himalayas. What is there to say, except that it is a major Asian city, caught firmly between third world and highly modern standards.

Grandma takes a break from weaving baskets on the street corner to answer her Bluetooth.

Our hostel served free breakfast, of mango juice, chai, bananas, toast, and sometimes even a veggie omelette. The breakfast seemed enormous, but you quickly realize that you need all the energy you can manage. (That, and the fact that I’m back to living out of a bag, and without my beloved kitchen--let the food hoarding begin, yo).

Delhi’s purpose for our trip ended up being, not so much a place to site-see, as it was to wrap our heads around the next few months. Survival tactics? Yeah. Something like that.

Dear Mom and Dad,

I’m not trying to paint India as such a dangerous place. I’ve never once felt as though I’m about to be attacked, jumped, held hostage, or anything of the sort. It’s the smiles and friendly faces of the streets of north India that we’ve had a crash course in managing over the last week. It’s all a scam. 90% of the men, kindly asking where you are from, want your money. It’s survival of my wallet, we’re talking about here. And maybe my sanity. Yeah, that too.

Yet even with 90% of the men in the streets, slowly driving me mad and depleting all sense of trust in the world, at the end of the day, I have to remind myself that these scammers probably only make up about 10% of the population of India. It takes all of my willpower not to lump the Indian people into one big bowl of scam-driven-skeevers. Some people might even mean well. Assuredly, if I had spent the entirety of my trip in Indian homes, I would most likely never feel the insecurities, doubt, and mistrust, that comes with travel, or even a stroll down a single city street.

In looking for a specific shop to buy a salwar kameez, our “friend” kindly pushes us in the wrong direction (the direction of the shop that will give him commission if he presents us as customers).

“No. Do not go that way ma’am. Yes, please, ma’am. No, it is broken.”

The shops, in fact, weren’t “broken,” although it sure seems as though much of Delhi is.

A few other things about Indian cities:

1) The world is your trashcan

2) The sidewalks, your toilet.

While individual shops are furiously swept throughout the day, the streets themselves are piled with plastic, and running with piss.

“India? We have no system.”

“It is broken”

Yet, through all of the hair raising sights, sounds, and smells of Delhi, I’ve come to the conclusion that the most true danger you encounter on a daily basis, comes when you cross the street.

Plenty of crosswalks. But since when do white lines on cement mean anything? This is an all or nothing, go big or get hit by a bus situation. Indian people (and dogs and cows) apparently have a sixth sense of sorts when taking on oncoming traffic.

They just walk.

The light turns green, and here are roughly 63 cars, trucks, buses, auto-rickshaws, camel drawn carriages and bicycles coming at you at full speed.

And you just walk.

Trust in good karma is an incredible thing.

Jumping.

2009-01-16T20:09:00.000-08:00

I'm taking my trip to India much like I did with bungee jumping.

I'm laughing I'm laughing I'm laughing

I'm being strapped in

I'm laughing I'm laughing I'm laughing

They stand me up

I'm giggling I'm laughing I'm talking like a mad woman

I'm on the edge

I'm laughing, I'm shaking, I'm humming

The air sucks out of my body, my heart flies to my throat, my stomach to my chest.

I'm screaming I'm laughing I'm screaming I'm laughing

I want to puke I'm screaming I'm laughing

I'm laughing I'm laughing I'm laughing.

....so.....

Flight to India in less than 2 hours.

I've been home for a month with my family, and, I think I love and appreciate my family even more, with every day I spend with them.

It's been cold as hell, but worth every minute...