Trip to the Emergency Room

Fair warning: this might be a little graphic and gross for the weak of stomach.   Be warned!
Fair warning update 2017: this was also written by a much younger version of me.  Please forgive her glaring… youth.

So, as I was saying a temporary goodbye to Kong – my Angkor Wat motorcycle driver –  I was also eating “mien” (like ‘mean’) or longan  – a relative of the lychee.   They are a delightful fruit with a thin peel.   Once peeled, they have the consistency of a grape (smooth and slick), are slightly smaller than a golf ball, have a flavor much like cantaloupe and pineapple, and a big seed in the middle – about twice the size of a corn nut.   I had one of these glorious globes in my mouth as I walked away.   As I shouted back “Okay, bye!”   I took a deep breath in to follow up  with, “See you at 5:30!” and instead inhaled the un-chewed fruit straight into my throat.   Ahhhh!

longan

Longan’s aren’t huge, but they aren’t small either. photo Emran Kassim

I began choking and turned around to located Kong, desperately imagining how I would show him the Heimlich maneuver if he didn’t already know it.   As I gagged and struggled towards him trying to dislodge the ball, it suddenly slipped down my throat, much to my temporary relief.   Kong hadn’t turned around and was none the wiser.   With a slight pain in my esophagus, I turned back to my original destination, the Butterfly Garden, and headed inside.

Two minutes later, as I wandered up the street to check out Singing Trees, I could no longer swallow.   I am one of those people with an ‘esophagus  thing.’  If I eat too quickly, food becomes lodged on its way to my stomach.   From here, I either sit drooling over a sink or toilet until it passes – unable to get anything past the painful blockage, or I throw up.   Not stinky-from-the-stomach puking, but my body just clears out whatever was stuck.   Throwing up is always much nicer and quicker than waiting for the lump to work its way south, but I never get a choice.   Starchy foods like rice and bread and dense foods like meat are the biggest culprits.   This has been a source of embarrassment at several “just-met-you” dinners for me, as my dining companions worry and hover over my drooling, spitting self as I assure them “I’m really fine.   This happens all the time.   I don’t know why it happens.   No I’ve never been to a doctor.   My parents just told me to eat more slowly.   Really.   I’m fine.   It will pass.   Please, go eat.   I’ll be fine.   I’ll be out in a minute.   No, really.   It’s fine!”

Never have a I swallowed something so large and so… whole.   So… unchewed.   The tightness in my chest was worse than any other time as I trudged through the streets back toward my guest house spitting everywhere.   Kong had been so nice to me, and I was sure the blockage would pass soon.  So I went to meet him… and his girlfriend Heather for dinner.   We were going to the market to get ingredients and then go back to their place to make dinner.   The market was fantastic, minus me fleeing to the street every few minutes to spit.   And then few times that my mouth was so full of saliva that I couldn’t respond to questions without looking like something out of a horror flick.

Cambodian markets don’t really stink, which is awesome.   Usually the smell of flesh and fish at the markets penetrates all corners – even the dry goods and clothing – but it wasn’t like that at this market.   We rolled up our pant legs to cross through the section of vendors selling flopping fish, and I got to see a woman with a seasoned hand rapidly turning a pile of skinned frogs into frog legs for sale.

frog legs

Frog legs – not at the market, but this is what they looked like there.        photo wikimedia

We bought vegetables from their favorite vendor.   At the pork stand, there was also a black block of a clay-like substance for sale.   I asked my companions what it was (between mouthfuls of saliva), and they told me it was blood mixed with a gelatinous substance which is then cut into squares and used as soup stock.   Heather said she likes it.   Oh.   Umm… yum.

After our rice purchase, we loaded up in Kong’s tuk  tuk  for the trip back to their apartment.   They have a lovely furnished place that is so 70’s with dark wood paneling covering one half of the main room and burnt orange paint covering the other.   Heather showered while Kong worked on chopping things for dinner.   I helped out, between spitting out mouthfuls of saliva, trying to be  a good conversationalist and not let the tightening in my chest distract me.   Then it was Kong’s turn to shower, and I chatted with Heather about her past and her Cambodian existence.   She’s done lots of teaching around the world, and loves it here!   I’m invited for drinks later with their friends – a goodbye celebration as I learn Heather and Kong are moving to Phnom  Penh in a few days..

As the evening moves on, my need to spit turns into a need to throw up as I inevitably swallow some of my saliva.   My esophagus fills up, and when it’s full, I then wretch over a toilet until it comes back up in a froth.   Ew.   I tried to eat some rice and veggies, which made me puke almost immediately.   Then, at Kong’s urging, I try to take a big drink of water in the hopes that that will force it down.   When I have my esophagus problem, this is always the first remedy people suggest, but I know that anything else going in just makes things worse.   I’m desperate this time, so I take two big swallows of water.   Big mistake as I bolt for the toilet and spend a few minutes escorting it back out of my throat.   Yuck.

Finally, Kong finishes his water, and I stealthily nab the bottle creating for myself a place to spit without having to run to the bathroom every 90 seconds.   Now I am much better company, and I can only hope they don’t notice that I am now collecting a bottle of saliva.   Again, yuck.   We head out on the town to meet up with their friends.   It has now been almost five hours.   Usual clearance time is from 3 minutes to an hour.   The longest I’ve gone was 90 minutes because of some stupid rice in college.   Now I’m getting worried.   I decided to skip the social scene which would require  me to sit in a bar and spit in a bottle unable to partake in the celebrating.   Nothing will go in my body.   I go to an internet cafe and start looking up ‘can’t swallow’ and ‘ask-a-nurse’ phone numbers in the U.S.   I call my boyfriend, Pat, who calls the hotline for me.   In my distress I forget to tell him that you have to trick the nurses because of stupid US laws.   They won’t (can’t) help you if they’re not licensed in your area.   So he tells the Montana nurse that he’s calling from California, and she says, “Sorry.   No dice.”   Oh no!

Pat calls the Mad River (Arcata) Hospital who say I would need to cross the thousands of miles to the California coast and come in to be  evaluated.   What they will tell him is that I either need a muscle relaxer to help the spasms do their job, or (god forbid) an endoscopy to push it down or pluck it out.   Oh, please no tubes in throat.   In my frustration at the cards being stacked against me, I am short with Pat who I wanted to be my salvation (sorry sweetie) and rush to end the pricey call.   Having no other options, I head back to my guesthouse to wait it out.   My bus leaves at 7:30 a.m. to take me to the Thai border.   At least, if it’s not gone, I can go on to Bangkok to get some medical care.   My guidebook says cryptically, “If you fall ill in Cambodia, run – don’t walk – to Thailand.   Cambodian medical care is atrocious.”   Oh no!

I watch National Geographic specials for a few hours, spitting into my bottle every 90 seconds, and puking  up the accidentally swallowed saliva every 20 minutes.   The squeezing in my chest is awful, and my hopes at getting any sleep are dashed  as I instantly start to drool all over the pillow.   I resign to reading my newest purchase, “First They Killed My Father” – a book about a family by a woman who was five when the Khmer Rouge took over.   When the chest pain gets so strong I can’t concentrate, I stare at the wall as I spit into my bottle and think about the next step.   I would die for a drink of water.   It’s been seven hours now since I’ve had anything.   My pee was dark, dark yellow last time I went – a product of hiking up and down temples in the tropical heat all day while only drinking a liter and a half of water.   I slowly realized that if I’m still in this condition in the a.m., getting on a bus would be a stupid choice.   I will be hot, continuously more dehydrated, and starving.   I realize that I could end up passing out and would then be at the mercy of my rescuers.   I shudder at the thought of the death-trap of a clinic described by my guidebook.   Crap.

I’m getting desperate.   I start to brainstorm ways to get a muscle relaxer into my body.   I remember a third-grade teacher my mom used to work with said when she was in Ireland, they used to snort shots of vodka to get drunk really fast.   Would that help?   I realize that I can breathe and therefore  could smoke something.   There’s a reason that ‘medical marajuana’ exists.   It’s supposedly really illegal here, and I weigh the possibility of  Cambodian prison with the possibility  of being able to eat and drink again.   In the end, I don’t take the streets in search of weed.   Then I remember someone once told me that anorexics  put alcohol up their bums to avoid ingesting the calories associated with it.   I consider this and then realize that I might also be able to put a pill there and accomplish the same thing.   Then I decide I would rather risk illegal pot smoking than experimentally shove some questionable pharmaceutical up my rear.   Damn .

Now it’s midnight.   My chest pains are increasingly worse as I become more and more dehydrated.   I flip open my guidebook and read about medical care in Siem  Reap.   It names a hospital that’s ‘affiliated’ with ‘the hospital’ in Bangkok.   This is like saying a college is affiliated  with a university in Boston.   Um… there are dozens.   Which one?   I decide I don’t care.   ‘Bangkok’ is enough for me as I weigh the possibility of  passing-out-from-dehydration-and-choking-to-death-on-my-own-puke with sub-standard medical care.   I am going to the hospital.   I dress and try to rouse one of the staff sleeping next to the front desk to help me.   He murmurs sleepily from his hammock, “No speaking English.”   I look up hospital  in the dictionary and try out the foreign words.   No dice.   Then I say “tuk  tuk.”   Still nothing.   Then I say, “Can you help me get a tuk  tuk to the hospital?”   Again I get, “No speaking English.”   Shit.

I’m starting to get a little panicked, which is saying something.   Usually I am the epitome of calm, even when bad things are happening.   But I do NOT like this.   At all.   Finally I decide to hit the streets and hope there’s someone there.   The image of the girly bar I will have to walk past with all its leering staff lingering outside passes through my head and I shudder.   About a block past my guesthouse, I hear a motorcycle  coming.   Make that a tuk  tuk.   I peer into the headlights trying to discern whether it is occupied.   I think not, and I raise my hand to flag him down.   He wants five bucks for a two dollar ride, but I am too desperate and anxious to keep this opportunity, so I agree.   I spit in my bottle the whole  way to the hospital  and am greeted  by corridors empty of patients except for me.

I explain to the man at the nurse’s station and ask for internet so I can show them a picture of what I swallowed since they are having trouble understanding.   I quickly email Pat so the only person out there who knows of my fruit choking incident will also know where I am.   They want an xray.   I tell them they won’t see anything, except maybe the seed, since fruit is organic matter.   I ask for a muscle relaxer.   They say they will give it to me, “but first x-ray.”   I suspect this might be a money maker for the hospital and nervously wonder if my insurance company is going to live up to the reputation of  insurance companies and I will have problems with my claims.   I am the type of person who would not carry auto insurance if it wasn’t legally required.   This time I am glad that I followed advice, albeit reluctantly, about getting travel insurance.

Of course the xray  shows nothing.   This is my first hospital admittance.   Ever.   In my entire life.   My mom has taken me to the emergency room before for flu and whatnot when it was outside of doctor’s hours, but never have I been a hospital patient.   And now I have to go choke on fruit in Cambodia.   How exasperating.   So, finally they stick one of those awful IV things into my hand, draw some blood, and put some antispasmodic medicine into my bloodstream.   Finally!   Actual treatment.   Now just work on my dehydration issue and you’ll be my new hero!   I get a little nervous as the doctor and the nurse converse in front of me with confusion on their faces.   I get the impression they are trying to make a team decision about what to do and don’t really know.   I don’t like it, so I say, “What’s going on?”   I get a barely intelligible reply and the doctor ushers the nurse out to hash out their guessing game in private.   Oh no!

Finally the nurse returns and he hooks up my saline drip.   Relief!   Over the next half hour, my dizziness starts to subside (placebo?), and they tell me I am going to be  admitted to a ward.   I become an official invalid as they insist on rolling me and my I.V. on a gurney upstairs to my first ever hospital room.   I spy a computer in the hall and ask to again use the internet to send an update to Pat.   I feel like I’m in a movie as I wheel my drip with me down a hallway.   I hunt and peck out an email with my I.V.-free hand.   I get new nurses and a new doctor to whom I have to explain the story all over again.   The new doctor wanted to give me a muscle simulator.   Isn’t that like drinking a beer and then having a cup of coffee?   I am desperate to drink, eat, swallow, and be pain-free again, so I agree.   They are going to monitor me for a few hours.   If I’m not better, I go to Bangkok for an endoscopy.   Yuck.

The nurses want me to try and  drink some water, so I go through the uncomfortable demonstration of just exactly  how it doesn’t work.   They freak out as turn exorcist and puke back up the water and extra saliva that’s gone down recently.   Convinced, they leave me to read my book.   Finally, it’s 3 a.m. and I am exhausted.   I raise my bed to sitting and actually manage to sleep for 20 minutes at a time until my throat fills up, my chest tightens, and I need to puke.   At 7 a.m. my new doctor decides I should have another x-ray – the kind where you drink something that appears on the x-ray and identifies the blockage.   I try and  explain that I can’t get more than two tablespoons in before immediately puking  but he wasn’t to try anyway.   ($$$$$$??)   Oh well.   The not-so-gentle morning nurse helps me get my top off again for the xray.   They take three shots, lining me up, having me swallow at the last minute and then wretch until they move the equipment so I can puke.   Yuck.   Of course they don’t come out because I couldn’t drink enough fluid.   Crap.

Now we are making plans to fly me to Bangkok where they have endoscopy equipment.   I will miss the first departure, so they try and  get me a seat on the afternoon flight.   Once my second saline drip runs out, they unhook me and I get my affairs in order.   The plan is to go to the airline office, purchase  my ticket (insurance better pay!), go to my guesthouse, retrieve  my luggage, then go to the airport.   My personal plan, since I am in one of the wondrous spells of no chest pain, is to swallow NOTHING until I get to Bangkok.   Then, on arrival, before going to the hospital, I will try some water to test the blockage and possibly invite a whole new bout of puking  and chest pain.   I get my affairs in order and am escorted to the cashier’s where I sign my credit card slip for $373.33 in medical care.

My escort has disappeared, so I sit down to wait and re-read my insurance policy.   To my dismay, the coverage section seems to say that it will only cover doctor recommended medical care (I’m safe here, I think) and flights where the ensuing hospital stay is seven days or more.   Shit.   I am only going to need a few hours.   As I wait for my escort, I lament having to give up the pain-free spell I am in to test the blockage, and head for the water tank.

I fill my glass with cold water, enjoy a few more seconds of being pain free, and take a tentative sip.   Nothing.   Then another sip.   Still nothing.   I get brave and take a big swallow.   NOTHING!   What timing!   I am cured!   No pricey airline flight!   I can eat!   I can drink!   I take a few more tentative swallows until the glass is gone.   I fill it and finish it two more times.   Drinking never felt so good!   YES!   My escort is still missing, so I ask reception if they can arrange a tuk-tuk.   Turns out that’s part of my $400 visit, so I am delivered back to town for free.   Thank you!

Yay!   I am free!   Afraid to stomach solids, I order up a fruit shake for breakfast.   It is heaven to feel food in my stomach again.   Then, I make phone calls to Pat and my mother, and one to my bestie Mags for good measure. I feel silly, but I am joyous as I make my way to my guesthouse to drop off my things.   Since I’ve missed the only buses out of here, the only thing to do today is blog, read, eat, and relax. I decide an ice cream is in order for the ‘sick girl’ and get myself to the  air conditioned  shopping center for a banana split.   Mmmm!!!   Today has ended up being a great day.   Now I just hope my insurance comes through!

Update 2017: It did.  Submitting the paperwork was super easy, and they paid the whole thing!

Angkor Wat

The temples around Siem  Reap are amazing.   They include Angkor Wat – the largest religious building in the world – as well as several other amazing historic temples.   My calves got a workout acending to the level of the gods all day long.   Thank goodness I didn’t try to bike this one.

The principle spires of Angkor Wat, and the most famous view of the enormous compound.

I had partial success getting a moto  driver who could tell me a little more about the temples.   His name was Kong (but said ‘coon’ with a whisper of a ‘g’ at the end).   I told him I was determinded  to find a driver worth his salt and asked him what his favorite part was about Angkor Wat.   He couldn’t tell me a favorite part.   However instead of repeating the route and temple names, he explained that moto drivers aren’t allowed inside and that you have to go to guide school and get a special license to learn about the temples.   Fair enough.   You’re hired!

Angkor Wat from a distance surrounded by a huge moat (which the local kids love to jump into).

He was really nice and loved using all the “American” phrases he knew on me.   ”Let’s go, dude.”   “Take it easy, dude.”   ”Yo, my man, what’s up?”   His English was superb for local standards.   The first point of interest for me wasn’t a temple, but the road rules here.   He, as the driver, has to wear his moto  driver identification jacket when he’s driving me.   And he has to wear a helmet.   But I don’t.   What gives?   Also, he confessed to not having a license plate by way of explaining why we left the main road.   He knows where all the cops hang out, so he just drives around them.   I noticed about 30% of people didn’t have license plates.   I think it’s usually not a problem for Kong, since he more often has his moto  hooked up to his tuk-tuk (the pull behind cart for passengers) which obscures the view of the would-be license plate.

An example of some of the awesome bas reliefs at Angkor Wat.

On to Angkor Wat!   Once the home to a jaw-dropping empire, Angkor Wat and surrounding temples boasted a metropolitan population of over a million in the days where London was a small, 50,000 person city.   Wow.   I always try to imagine these places with the all the missing wooden structures that have long since rotted and the sea of houses that must have rolled out between all the places of worship.   Now the space between is covered  in groves of trees and jungle.   Angkor Wat was pretty awesome in a very sweaty way.   It’s surrounded by a moat, and it’s a veritable Asian castle of which it was refreshing to wander the cooler corridors.   It smelled like a mix between castle (musty), incense (to carry prayers to Buddha), and cave (bat crap- and lots of it).   Out of respect for my very warm-blooded body, I very slowly made my way up and down the stairs throughout the compound admiring the bas-reliefs and sculptures – both the ones that have lasted the ages and the ones that have been recreated.

The menacing gateway to Angkor Thom with ten foot thick and twenty four foot high walls.

Next it’s on to Ankgor  Thom – another compound only slightly less majestic.   It’s way larger in terms of acreage, but includes a wider variety of temples.   One of the neatest things about the temples surrounding Siem  Reap is that they weren’t built all at once, but rather in entirely different centuries.   So, they carry with them the history, values, customs, and architecture of the ages.   The similarities are noticable, but the differences are amazing.   Angkor Thom is surrounded  by enormous walls 24 feet high and 10 feet thick all the way around.   The gem of Ankor  Thom is Bayon  – a fortress of an ancient king complete with pinacles  similar to Angkor Wat, but each hosts a enigmatic  face.   They are said to resemble the king, looming over the kingdom reminding the people who’s who.   It was my favorite of the temples in terms of beauty.   Also worth mentioning are the ”Elephant Terraces” where I got to wind my way through canyons of buddha images adorning the bases of the monuments.   Wow.

The whole of Angkor Thom. Wow.

“Let’s go, dude.”   Onto Ta Phrom, the last stop of the day, and award winner for most mysterious and adventure insipring.   This temple has only recently been slated for reconstruction and repair.   So, it is a testament to what the other temples would look like today were it not for due diligence of ages of culture conservationists.   Here the jungle literally eats away at the temple as tree roots slice through walls and wrap around structures like boa constrictors.   There are huge stone chunks of the temple everywhere, and a walkway throughout to keep visitors away from areas which are in serious danger  of collapse.   It is rumored  that portions of Indiana Jones films were shot  here amongest  the historic rubble.   My favorite parts, of course, were the enveloping trees and the places where I could see the walls starting to spread apart – like looking at gaps in a Jenga game on a grand scale.

One of the faces at Bayon in Angkor Thom. Big Brother is looking out for you…

My least favorite parts where other disrespectful tourists – especially the ones who look like me.   Do they just not read that it’s not okay to wear shorts and tank tops in the sacred temple grounds?   Do they not care?   What’s so hard about wearing some capris?   Can you really not handle a t-shirt?   And quit holding hands!   PDA’s here are SO not okay.   But you didn’t read that either, did you?!   Do you see anyone else doing it?   No.   Do you think that means you’re the only people at Angkor Wat who also happen to be  in love?   No.   And quit climbing on the temple!   I know you can read.   I know you saw the sign.   Thanks for making white tourists look like jerks.   Grrrr!!!

Some of the thousands of buddhas adorning the canyons between the terrace bases in the ”Elephant Terraces.”

By the end of the day, my legs were wobly  from all the climbing and motorbike riding.   It’s actual exercise to sit on the back of a motorbike here.   It is both really uncool and super weird (not to metion  uncomfortable for people who are embarassed  by a hug) to hold on with anything but your legs and core strength.   So, when Kong wanted to take me to one last temple, I declined.   He guilted  me into it by saying, ”you don’t like the temples that much, do you?”   Okay, okay, one more temple!   And of course it had to be  the steepest one.   Much like climbing the sacraficial  pyramids at Tenochitlan  in Mexcio, but steeper.   Some stairs are worthy of a climbing rating – granted only 5.6 or 5.7, but still!   I offered up my thanks for my young legs the whole  way up and the whole way down.   The view from the top was spectacular and very worth it.   I also got to tease a trinket selling girl who asked me where I came from.   I fired the question back at her, and she said ”my mother.”   I laughed out loud and said, ”Yeah?   Me too!”

A ”Temple of Doom” shot at Ta Phrom. Nature completes the cycle.

Overall – Angkor Wat is amazing.   Maybe it’s my northern hemisphere blood, or my lack of education about the temple history (or both), but they don’t beat Machu  Picchu  for awe and amazement points in my book.   I suppose because I’m a mountain girl, ruins with peaks shooting skyward all around and a temperature in the comfortable 60’s instead of the sweltering 80’s (and that’s the winter temp here!) get my vote more easily.   I definitely recommed a trip, though, and I look forward to returning one day!

Ta Phrom rubble – what the rest of the temples would (and did) look like without serious and ongoing efforts.

I had Kong drop me off at a tea garden famous for it’s butterflies (none in sight) where he invited me to meet up with him and his American girlfriend for dinner.   I readily agreed!

One Day Moves Into Two

After I got done looking for prices on Rotha’s  BrailleNote  (poor guy, they ARE $6,000!), I went for a nightcap at my guest house – my first pina  colda  with real coconut cream!   I still wasn’t quite satisfied, so I went down the street to the Monkey Republic and ordered up a Chocolate Chimp – just the ‘dessert’ I’d been craving!   There I met Ellie from the Netherlands, and we chatted the night away about traveling, bargaining, holiday customs in our home countries, and more!   She thinks Christmas in the U.S. is a waste of resources and expensive and that I should be more bold in my bargaining.

I was almost done with ”Around the World in 80 Days,” so of course I had to stay up late to find out if they won or lost the bet.     As a result, I didn’t get myself clothed in time to order a very hearty breakfast and instead ended up with the only portable thing – PBJ – for $3 (ridiculously expensive, especially for here, and especially when a full breakfast is only $3.25!)   The moto  driver I’d arranged the night before was really nervous about me being “on time,” but of course it was hurry-up-and-wait as usual.

I’m still trying to figure out the difference between durian and jackfruit.   The look alike  and small alike, but wikipedia  lists them as two different species (not that they’re any kind of official reference, but…).   Today I got to try one of them at a bus stop.
Was it a durian?
Or a jackfruit? I may never know!

It was great, but I ended up springing for the pineapple and a few Cambodian donuts instead.   One was like an empanada  (half moon  shaped dough) stuffed with shredded coconut.   The other was like a sopapilla with honey on the inside.   Yummy!

One thing I keep noticing but forgetting to talk about: no traffic lights!   There are very few traffic lights in Cambodia.   Even at major intersections (like four lanes meets four lanes), the modus operandi is just to nudge your way out in to the stream.   I did this several times on my bicycle in Phnom  Penh.   Amazingly, people just go around you and you keep inching forward until you’re across.   Not too bad!   When there is a big enough group crossing, it ends up stopping the cross traffic for awhile, so functioning basically like a stop light, only it’s common sense.   I like it!

The most interesting cargo on the trip to Phnom  Penh  that I got to see leaving the bus: 1) a wicker tote bag full of live chickens, 2) a moto  scooter!   The chickens were a surprise, but I did a double take when I saw them rolling a scooter out the back door of the luggage area.   How great!   The monkeys in the power lines were also a treat as we rolled in to Phnom  Penh.

My all day view out the window today.
Monkey in Phnom  Penh

Much to my dismay, upon arrival I found out my coast to city company was completely booked for Siam Reap seats for the rest of the day!   There is no night travel in Cambodia, meaning buses arrive at their destinations in daylight or shortly after sunset.   It being 12:30, and Siam Reap being a 6 hour trip, I was really pushing it for time.   I raced down the street to another bus company, and thankfully found out (while luxuriating in their air conditioning) that there were a few more seats on the 2 p.m. departure.   Yay!

I settled in a local’s spot with no menu and pointed at a cabbage/pork dish and some rice.   It was great, and the other guy at my table loved chatting with me.   He also recommended a guest house in Siam Reap to me, and arranged for them to come pick me up at the bus station – a relief to me since I would be arriving in the dark to a throng of overenthusiastic moto  and tuk  tuk  drivers!   Then I hunted for internet (it’s time to start hunting for a ride home from San Fran to Humboldt) in the sweltering heat to no avail before settling back in the air conditioned bus office to read about sustainable tourism in Siam Reap.

The bus ride was six hours of delightful sleep mixed with non-stop karaoke videos.   It’s weird – like watching Cambodian MTV crossed with that 80’s disney  talent show.   Of course all the songs were love songs with the woman playing coy and hard to get.   They also almost all took place in the countryside.   Modern dressy clothing, but walking through rice fields, paddling around ponds in wooden fishing boats, at the beach, etc.   From my window seat, I also noticed repeatedly the Cambodian variation on Buddhist shrines.   Same three-tiered doll-house size replica of a temple, same offerings out front, but many of the Cambodia shrines are disco-style with lots of neon and bright colored lights.   I wonder what the difference is to them?

Now I am in Siam Reap, and I love it!   No more big city!   There are still lots of people here (50,000?), but it’s a small town feeling with all but the main roads unpaved and quiet.   And I can see the stars!   Orion and the Seven Sisters are out in full force tonight.   I’m getting used to the constant bargaining and hassling, and try to take it with patience and a good sense of humor.

Siam Reap night market

Tonight, as I entered the night market and stopped to look at some spoons, the very first vendor woman says to me, ”Hello, lady.   Buy something?”   I laughed out loud, and asked her, ”Did you just say ‘buy something?’   She says yes, innocently, and I laugh again.   She asked me if she said something wrong, and I explained about the less direct approach most westerners are used  to.   She thanked me for explaining, telling me that it really helps her to know because she doesn’t have a way to learn otherwise.   It was funny!   Of course I heard the phrase over and over as as I strolled through the market.

Tomorrow I go to see Angkor Wat, the world’s largest religious compound.   I’m excited!   I’m not looking forward to bargaining with the tuk  tuks.   I’m determined to find a driver who knows at least a few factoids and tid bits about the temples.   When I tested the waters tonight by asking a few guys what their favorite temple was, they just kept repeating the different routes and asking me when I wanted to go.   I will try again in the morning, but I might end up resigning myself to the standard fare of memorized phrases.   Guess I should learn Khmer or hire a tour guide!

P.s. – I can’t believe today is already the 20th!   My jaw dropped when I checked in at my guest house.   Five more days! 🙁

A Little Wiggle Room

So, thanks to Vichetr, my arrival in Sihanoukville was smooth.   After a pretty good night’s rest, I awoke to find I’d tipped over my makeshift contact holders during my in-the-dark fan battle.   (Should have brought two cases or back-ups.)   I put the old ones in and left the dried up lenses to soak hoping they’d regain their life.   Especially if the old pair didn’t survive the snorkelling trip!

I got my beachware  on, had breakfast, got to see my first alms-giving to a monk (I’ve tried not to be  the voyuer  that so many tourists are regarding  this tradition), and got picked up by a tuk-tuk and two French men.   We did the standard hurry up and wait as we watched storm clouds gather on the southern horizon.   It was clear to the north, though.   Which direction is Bamboo Island, anyway?” I asked our guide.   That’s when we found out the our ”English speaking guide” didn’t really speak or understand all that much English.

Sure enough, we launched off in the direction of  the storm!   Two awesome Australian women – Pip and Beck, a young Dutch couple, the Frenchmen, two older women from Denmark and a mysterious and quiet older couple.   It wasn’t long before I could see the whitecaps flashing in the water ahead.   Pretty soon the islands ahead became obscured by the gloom and the seas turned to an emerald grey.   They rolled the rain cover over the braces to make an awning for us, and we dove head long into the storm.   The rain came down in sheets soaking everything around the edges as we sat huddled in our bikini’s and towel-wrapped shoulders.   After an somewhat unnerving hour or so of wind, rain, whitecaps, rocking, rolling, and constant engine cut-outs, we sighted Bamboo Island and ran up on the shore.
We all just sat there as the rain came down in sheets.   The Frenchman donned their raincoats  and took the plunge.   Next the Denmark women were off, then the Australians went for it.   I decided that I love to swim, rain or no rain, and dived in as well.   Soon the rain had stopped and the sun was shining.   In between bouts of swimming in the clear blue water, I lounged in a hammock and read my book.
The waters off Bamboo Island
The greatest lazy day in hammocks. Makes me feel like I’m on the Amazon again!

It was great to do so much relaxing!   For lunch, it was Barracuda baked in tin foil, rolls, and fruit!     I love the tropics!   We went for a hike across the island and found another beach.   We all went for a swim and I soon learned about teeny schools of stinging fish that don’t really hurt any more than a mosquito bite.   Those with more extensive ocean experience assured me that they were normal, but I cut my swim short anyway as I tired of the little zaps.

Finally it was time to boat past some snorkeling spots on the way home.   I love snorkeling, and was the first to dive in!   I had some trouble with google fog (I don’t care how many times you spit, it doesn’t always work), but the coral was beautiful!

Fuzzy coral
My the most prominent underwater species – looks like little suction cups and sways in the water. I like it!
Squiggle coral (I’m making up these names)
And I’ve never seen such big sea urchins!   The coolest part was the electric blue rings on the surface of the urchins.   Really cool.   And the reef we were at was really close to the surface so I could see everything.   The downside – as I was treading water and defogging  my goggles, I accidentally kicked a sea urchin.   OUCH!   They’re poisonous.   Not kill-you-posionous, but definitely make-your-foot-numb-for-a-few-hours-posionous.   After that, I took one more trip around the coral, swam out to the deeper sea, and then took my turn at flopping myself back onto the boat (this was one of the funniest parts of the trip!).
My nemesis! Beautiful but dangerous.

The Australians were nurses and advised me to keep my puncture covered so I don’t pick up any of the rampant diseases (ring worm, etc.) in my open wound.   Point taken!   So, I hobbled back up to my hostel, took a shower, dressed my throbbing and numb foot, and took it upon myself to veg out as completely as possible.   I interneted, read, had a fantastic gourmet baked eggplant dinner, had a few beers, a crepe  suzette, and then watched two disks of Grey’s Anatomy (which I have never seen before).   I didn’t get some of the macro stuff, this being season 3 and all, but lots of mini dramas to entertain my brain.   It was great!   It’s been… probably two years since I’ve spent more than an hour or two doing “nothing.”   Heaven!   Thank you, Sea Urchin!

Today I slept in, had a breakfast so huge that at 8pm my normally ravenous appetited  is still abated, caught up on my blog some more, walked down to the beach (carefully) and took a moto  to the bakery where proceeds go to a local project for street children.   Then I went to Seeing Hands Massage – an employment opportunity for the blind.   I spent an hour and a half with Rotha  (rote-ah) which was the highlight of my day.   The massage  was, as usual, different than  what I’m used to at home.   Lots more pressing than rubbing.   The great part was chatting with Rotha.   He spoke great English!   He’s 23, and became blind from having the measles when he was three (as did most of his co-workers).   He hopes to be the director of a place employing blind people.   He asked me if I would mind telling him the difference between search and explore, between correct and edit, and if I could find out how much a Braille Note cost for him.   He was great!

Seeing Hands Massage in another city. Unlike other places I’ve been to in SE Asia, they have you change into scrubs and each person gets their own massage table. It was great!

I walked back home and took the wrong spoke off the traffic circle.   After a little backtracking, I made it ‘home!’   So, now I am here, researching the Braille Note (I thought maybe he was confused  about the name).   I’m sad to report back to him that this computer for the blind is about $3,000 – $6,000 new (maybe – no companies list their prices – I had to go through hearsay), and there is only one on Ebay right now that is $100.   I hope he can get one!   I wonder if I could write a company on his behalf?

Tomorrow morning I am off to Siam Reap, the base city for SE Asia’s most famous temple – Angkor Wat.   I might try to pay a visit to the Killing Fields as I pass through Phnom  Penh.   We’ll see how my foot is.   I can’t believe I’m flying home in only six more days!   Yikes!

Get Me Out of Here!

04.27.10 – Preface: this entry and indeed the entire blog is my means of communicating with my friends and family.   If you are looking for an accurate representation of what Phnom  Penh  is like or searching out wise & philosophical ponderings on the lessons of travel, please look elsewhere.

Phnom  Penh.   In a word, “‘YUCK.”   In two – ”absolutely putrid.”   You want three?   “Full-volume chaos.”   I think Phnom  Penh ranks right up there for worst trip experiences.   I think I almost would rather have been back on the slow boat.

I am not a fan of cities.   Especially cities where people have been consumed  by desperation and can no longer have the priviledge  of being “‘people.”   The reining era of the Khmer Rouge ripped Cambodia apart beginning in the late seventies and continued for twenty years.   Background for those who need it: the Khmer Rouge was an extremist communist party who sought to aggressively exterminate all the down-sides of capitalism by flipping the country completely on end.   Anyone who had moved above the very bottom ranks of society was considered  a threat to the communist ideal.   Shop owners, university students, professors, anyone who wore spectacles – essentially all of the  middle and upper class citizens – went onto  the list of seek and destroy missions.   Illiterate and uneducated peasants from the countryside were installed  to fill societal needs that education necessitates – like medicine.   People were exterminated out of pure suspicions.   Pol Pot, the major Khmer Rouge leader was fond of saying, ”It is better to kill twenty innocent men than to let one guilty man go free.”

After my interest in meeting the local people and learning lessons that travel alone offers, Angkor Wat and the Khmer Rouge history are what drew me to Cambodia.   If it weren’t for Tuol  Sleng   (a major prision  of the KR) and the killing fields (mass graves outside of the city), Phnnom  Penh  never would have been on my list.   Conventional wisdom has it that Cambodia ”is crippled  by a short-term outlook that encourages people to live for today rather than  thinking about tomorrow, because a short while ago there was no tomorrow.”   Which brings me back around to the misery that is Phnom  Penh.   People are not poorer in Cambodia than in surrounding SE Asian countries, so I have to wonder if the vulture mentality that has evolved here (and not elsewhere) is a product of Cambodia’s recent injustices at the hands of the Khmer Rouge.

My eighteen hours in the city were barely tolerable.   I arrived and was accosted  and hunted by moto  drivers everytime  I even looked at the street.   In the morning, since the earliest sight-seeing open was the Royal Palace, I rented a bike and headed straight there, determined to make the 2:30 p.m. bus OUT of the city.   I didn’t eat breakfast.   A big, big mistake for anyone who knows me well.   Big.   Mistake.   I ended up having to eat a bag of some weird cross between a cheeto-porkskin-chip thing as a ”breakfast replacement.”

The Royal Palace was a let down, as I tend not to be  as awed by architechture and art as I am by mountains and waterfalls.
This tree and its amazing flowers (shorea  robusts  roxb) were all over the palace grounds. What do you think, dad? Have you ever seen this before?
The pavilion of  Napoleon. This house was gifted  to the King after it was used  to house a French empress during the inauguration of  the Suez Canal. It was reassembled in the palace grounds.

The grounds were beautiful, the gardens and buildings were amazing, but I was full-to-bursting with its history after only 90 minutes.   I was then faced with a dilema.   I had four hours thirty minutes remaining.   More than the killing fields, I really wanted to see the Tuol  Sleng  prison museum.   If I went to the fields first, I would have to rush through the museum or not go at all.   If I went to the museum first, I couldn’t chance leaving town for the fields afterwards and having traffic keep me from my bus (for which I had already purchased a ticket).   There was no way I was staying in Phnom  Penh, so Tuol  Sleng it was.

The museum is the site of a former school turned prision during the Khmer Rouge era and it was horrifying.   I arrived just as a movie that focused on how the KR rein affected a single couple began the first of its two daily showings.   The fear described by all the survivors in the movie of never knowing when you or your family would be swept away by the Khmer Rouge, for better or for worse, was completely tragic.
Some of the mugs shots of S21  (Security 21) Prison – Tuol  Sleng. Nearly all those pictured here were eventually executed at the Killing Fields where their skulls reside in a giant white memorial stupa.
The photos and histories of Khmer Rouge recruits were sad and spoke to the helplessness that racked Cambodia’s people.   The torture chambers were terrifying.   Paintings depicted how the torture devices were used.   The worst were the fingernail rippers, the body hangers, and the dunk tanks.   From gallows, soldiers would tie a prisoners hands behind their back.   Then, using that rope, they would hoist them into the air.   People dangled in this atrocious position until they passed out.   They were then dunked head first in putrid water sure to revive them and the whole process began anew.
The tank itself – really horrifying to stand right next to it and imagine all its victims.
A painting of one of the torture methods at S21 by a prisoner who survived.
The regulations for the prisoners and every other citizen under the Khmer Rouge regime.

The photos and mug shots of the prisoners were haunting.   The “rules” of the prision  were some of the most disgusting abuses of power I have ever seen.   The barbed wire still covering the building was awful.   The only uplifting thing in the whole  place was a display about the national effort to expose the Khmer Rouge’s wrong doings completely to Cambodia’s people.   A campaign to have all citizens visit the Killing Fields and Tuol  Sleng  is giving people pieces of their history back and helping to fill in the blanks created by Khmer Rouge.   One woman discovered her long-lost brother in a photograph of Tuol  Sleng prisoners.

The worst of the living situations at the prison. Some were ”lucky enough’ to get a cell. Others were chained at the ankle and had to lie side by side, nearly naked.

I left the Tuol  Sleng  prison in a somber mood and raced back to check out of my hostel.   My two hours remaining before the bus were just enough to be  dangerous, and so I decided against visiting the Killing Fields.   I didn’t want to forever impress my negative mood about the city on the history of my foray here, so I passed the time trying desperately not to be hounded, eating lunch, checking email, eating ice cream for comfort, and trying to visit a nearby market that was in a parking garage.   It was terribly depressing, and I immediately left to sit at the bus station and wait for the bus.

The starving and dead at Tuol  Sleng.

Finally I was seated  in an air-conditioned space and no one was hassling me to buy anything I didn’t want to buy, go anywhere I didn’t want to go, or do anything I didn’t want to do.   I was so relieved to be  leaving Phnom  Penh that I didn’t really mind too much when the three cell phones (yes three) of the young man I was assigned  next to went off constantly for nearly the whole trip.   We had a passive-aggressive space battle, as both of us are the type that insist on bringing our bags on the bus with us.   I was annoyed  with his willingness to sprawl into my area (I have a thing about areas).   But overall we managed pretty well.   We stopped half way and everyone got off the bus.   In these situations it’s always hard to tell if it’s a bus stop or a break.   After the bus was empty but for myself and three passengers, I decided on break.   In Brazil, often the bus stops at a restaurant en route.   Many times a meal at said restaurant is included in the ticket price.   After watching other passengers go in several directions – to the cheaper food vendors and to the restaurant – I decided it wasn’t included.   I wasn’t all that hungry, so I roamed about and stretched until it was time to roll on.

A child prisoner who was a victim of the regime.

When we arrived at Sihanoukville, my seat partner spoke to me for the first time announcing the name of the town and gesturing out the window.   That started a small conversation about where the bus stopped in town.   He was a supervisor for a cell phone company (which explained his three phones ringing non-stop).   I asked him the appropriate  price of a moto  taxi when we pulled into the bus station and grinned at him in amusement and disbelief at the moto-party  greeting the bus.   The drivers all come running along-side the bus as it pulls in, leaping three feet in the air and smiling and waving frantically at the arriving passengers, desperate to establish  a connection and gain a fare.   It’s nuts.   You would think we were their long lost  brothers and sisters finally coming home after twenty years.   Vichetr  (like Richard), my seat buddy, told me his staff was coming to pick him up and that I should go with him.   I was much obliged and gathered my things to follow him off the bus. He was one or two people ahead of me. By the time I had descended the stairs, I lots him in the mob who were all shouting at him.   I searched the crowd with no luck, and suddenly Vichetr  surged up the middle of all the moto drivers and whisked me off to the parking lot.   Thank you!

He had his driver take me past all the possible hospitality strips so I could decide where I wanted to stay.   Finally they dropped me near the “Monkey Republic” and I ended up at ”Mick and Craig’s” where I got a very nice room for only $6.   After the most delicious goat chesse  and bean burritos, I arranged an island, beach, and snorkelling tour for the morning and retired.   What a day.   Vichetr’s kindness was the bright spot in my otherwise dark days in Cambodia.   Thank you!

Pigs and a Death Wish

So, we were off, the Irish and I, to Cambodia.   The journey, however, was not to progress with any semblance of speed.   I had rushed to make the 8:30 departure only to linger until almost 9.   Then we had rushed from the boat to the vans, only to wait around until nearly 10.   Then we had bumped with a focus down a few miles of rolling dirt road to the main highway where we sped 20 miles to the border.   At the Lao border, it was a minimum of 30 minutes for the 15 of us, as there was a French couple adamant about not paying the $2 ‘stamp fee.’   Pure corruption, but you’ll never talk them out of it.   And it’s not like it’s $20.   To me, it seems a bit silly to argue what almost all first world-ers make in less than 15 minutes of employment.   The French did not succeed in doing anything but getting terribly angry and then parting with $2.

The approach to the Lao border.
The Lao immigration shack.

Then it was a 50 yard drive to the Cambodian border where half the group still needed to obtain  visas.   I would have been up $15 but down “peace-of-mind” if I had waited.   My guidebook threatened that a visa at the desolate border wouldn’t be possible, so I succumbed to my (American?) need for security and got it in the Lao capital.   Finally all were processed  after an hour’s time, and we were directed  to a mini-bus.   There was no rack atop for the massive bags most backpackers carry, so we were instructed  to load them onto the bus in the back seats.   A hefty project in the stifling heat – the bus being a completely windowless oven.   I, thankfully, was mostly exempt.

The Cambodian immigration shack.

We stood around the boiling pavement taking refuge in the shade of some small trees for the better part of an hour.   Finally, patience  not always being my strong suit, I sought out the guy in charge of the whole  operation.   He informed me that there would not be enough passengers for the minibus and that we would instead be taking a van.   The groans of the other 14 were humorous if you looked at it from a certain angle, as we formed an assembly line in the oven to transfer the bags.   Finally, a suspicious man (in this environment, all locals are regarded  as suspicious by most travelers) approached us enthusiastically asking if we were going to Phnom  Phen  and pointing at his car.   Having already paid $22, and not wanting to be  duped into paying more, we ignored him and stood with our crowd at the van.   Twenty minutes later, our conductor announced that the three of us making the journey to Phnom  Phen (the Irish and I) would go by car since the route varies farther along.   Good enough!   So we went, after all, with the suspicious man.

But.   Of course we couldn’t depart  right away.   First he opened the trunk.   Left to talk to some folk.   Then loaded the Irish’s bags (I loaded mine, they -in  the heat-  said exactly, “HE can do it.”).   Then left again on a conversational errand.   Then returned and encouraged us to get in the car.   Then, suddenly, had one more errand to leave.   The Irish grew comically impatient, practically yelling, “WHAT is with all this PISSING AROUND!?!?!?!”   I hadn’t set foot in the car, whereas they had been in and out.   I decided in the broiling heat, I wasn’t going to get in until the driver closed his door!   Two more errands, and we were off!

One hunderd  yards later, we were not.   Our driver pulled over and followed a path into the tall grass where we could hear him chatting with someone.   I took it upon myself to see if the A/C worked (it did!_, but he quickly shut it down when he returned a few minutes later.   Four hundred yards and stop.   Three hundred yards and stop.   Five hundred yards and stop.   Will we ever get to Phnom  Phen?

My mother and Pat will be glad to know that this man was one of the more careful I’ve seen.   He actually depresses the brake pedal on corners and when there are animals in the road.   However, as is standard, once we got going, we maintained a speed of 80-90 miles per hour on a road I wouldn’t trust with 60 in the states.   The potholes were horrifying as we slammed through them, bottoming out in our 90’s Toyata Camry again and again.   We picked up a passenger in the first town, and she rode shotgun with the foreigners in the backseat.   It took us awhile to discover why she kept throwing plastic bags out the window: the rough roads were making her terribly car-sick.   Poor thing!

The worst stretches of paved road were like this. When the potholes were numerous, we slowed to about 40mph. But if there was just one every 30 feet – back to 80 or 90! Poor car.

We bombed through villages, took detours requiring the compact car to descend deeply rutted craters four feet deep and then climb the other side.   The scraping of the under carriage on the high points of the ruts was brutal.   I wanted desperately to get out and walk, but the driver just plowed through, groaning at each rub and smack.   Yikes!

Ordering lunch at the roadside restaurant was comical.   As there was no menu, we spent about ten minutes pouring over my menu-reader in my phrasebook with the staff trying desperately to communicate that we’d eat anyting.   How was the word for “rice” not in the menu-reader?   Eventually we got “fried rice” and “pork” from a woman diner at the only other table.   We nodded enthusiastically and were served  heaping plates of delicous  fried rice, the famous Kampot pepper, and some interesting meat bits – many of which I avoided – followed by a huge plate of papaya.   We tried desperately to finish it in the name of showing our gratitude, but it was just WAY too much food.

The nicest of the sections of dirt roads. I couldn’t get a good picture of the rolling dips, crevices, ruts, etc.

Most memorable on the trip (besides the atrocious roads and our severe sympathy for the car) were the pigs and boats.   Every population center we passed had loads of people driving aroung  with pigs in crates – their forelegs and hindlegs bound in pairs.   There were bicycles with pigs (yes, plural), motorbikes with pigs, trucks with pigs, carts with pigs, pigs, pigs, pigs.   At first we thought the pigs were dead, but closer inspection saw that they were just bound and stuffed in the crates.

Slaughtered pig on a moto. A surprise sight the first time around.

The boats, were some kind of mythical  cross between medival  times and the third world.   I think they must have been fishing  boats.   A giant 60′ x 40′ raft hosted enourmous  poles that raced skyward at leaning angles shooting off like a hand in five directions.   At the tippy-top, maybe 70 feet in the air were giant nets connected to the five points.   I assume that the nets were dropped  into the water where they gathered fish and were hoisted back up.   But why so high?

Dip net fishing (as I learned it’s called) in black and white. Apparently the nets are used  to gather entire schools of fish that swarm the Mekong when it floods. It’s said that the counterarm makes it possible for a single person to lift and lower the net. Wow.
More pigs in a basket

As we neared Phnom  Phen, I realized why, when we had pulled over and were waiting for passenger-girl to finish puking  in the bushes, our driver had had  such a hard time understanding my friendly questioning, complete with map, about where he and his wife lived in Phnom  Phen.   At this point, you might do well to know that he was a customs official.   Well, I thought it was just a language barrier.   Turns out he’d been hoping the whole  time to squeeze a few more dollars out of us.   He refused (via “confusion”) to tell us where his final destination  was (lest ours be on the way), and tried to get $10 more for taking us to the door of our hotel.   When the Irish girls indignately  refused his first offer, suddenly his English was excellent so that he could tell us how bad traffic was and what a taxing chore and huge favor he’d be doing by taking us there.   They demanded him down to $6 – two a piece – and we ended up at “Capitol” – one of the most popular guesthouses in Phnom  Phen.

Piglets in a basket…on a motorbike.

The second we stepped out the door of the car, we were descended  upon by the moto  and tuk-tuk  drivers desperate to make a buck all shouting over the top of one another for our attention (money).   We tried to politely decline, but our “no thank yous” fell on deaf ears and continued shouts, much to our annoyance.   Conveniently, the hostel had no single rooms left (true or not, I’ll never know), I instead had to pay for a double (one of the few downsides to travelling alone).   When I returned to the streets twenty minutes later in hopes of internetting a bit, of course I was accosted  again by the motos  and tuk-tuks incessantly, even after I communicated repeatedly that I did not need a ride as I was only going across the street.

The nasty, crowded streets of Phnom  Phen. Imagine it by night at the end of a long, uncomfortable journey!

Island…. Paradise?

I spent all of 24 hours on the islands of Don Det and Don Khon.   However, seeing as a tip to tip bike trip only take a few hours, 24 hours is plenty!

I thought I was going to stay in Pakse  (a bigger city) after the night bus, but it had been days since I’d been to a small town, so I decided to continue on to the islands.   I had planned on going to some larger islands about 20 miles north (known as the Four Thousand Islands), but decided at the Four-Thousand Islands bus stop that the smaller, quieter, tropical river scene suited me better.

My guidebook didn’t sport an accomodation  map of the islands, and, to my surprise, there were no touts waiting at the shore to provide  commission-based assistance to the bamboo shack of their choice.   The lone traveler disembarking at my stop, after rolling up my pant legs and lashing my sandals to my pack, I hopped off and shoved the boat back into the Mekong’s current.   I was so road weary that I practically fell into the first bungalow I saw.   It was pretty shabby, and my second biggest dismay were the here-and-there ants on the bed.   My first was the damn white boys on the porch next door swinging in their hammocks blasting gangsta rap on their travel stereos reading Pot Growers magazine.

The waterfront bungalows! Great except for the potheads with their loud gangsta rap.
After an amazing cold shower (really, they should just be called “cool” showers.   In the tropics, it’s hard to find water so icy that it would be unpleasant), I headed down the path to Mr. Tho’s.   He made me up a fantastic plate of curry and I quizzed him as the prices of his bungalows.   Mine was 50,000 kip – about $6.   He said his were only 20,000 and looked much nicer!   I decided I would make my case with the proprietor when it came time to settle my bill.   Later I would learn from quizzing other travelers that the going island rate for the shacks is 15,000 kip – about $2.   I realized my mistake – even though I repeated the price back to the keeper, 15 and 50 sound a lot alike no matter what your accent.   Long story longer… I ended up only paying the 15,000 kip.

Despite being HOT and edging toward exhaustion, I decided I could sleep stateside as much as I please and promptly rented a bike with which to see the island and get some “free air-conditioning.”   I was fascinated  by all the five year old children riding adult size bikes up and down the island paths and in the dirt packed yards of their homes.   One little boy was so tiny that he literally had to stand on the middle bar with one foot, press the left pedal to the bottom, switch feet on the middle bar, press the right pedal to the bottom, and so on.

A typical island path, minus the potholes and ups and downs. The straight stretches are part of an old rail line and full of rocks that are just as bad as the dips and bumps of the messier roads.
The bridge that connects the two islands and the typical bike for rent – with basket.
I started my circuit and promptly ran into the Irish girls from our Chiang Mai trek.   Of all the people on the trek, they were the ones I least wanted to see.   Although they hadn’t been rowdy or impolite on the trek, they were terribly boring, apathetic, and like many Irish LOVE to drink, drink, drink.   Don’t get me wrong.   I love a glass of wine and have had my fare  share of cold beer here, but I’m not the type to pound rum and cokes and they are.   I think they were equally unimpressed with me, and I quickly bid them adieu.
After leaving the path flanked by bungalows and shack shops, it was off into the country-side.   I saw a girl of about eight and her two year  old sister riding and adult-size bike and was duly impressed.   The baby knew to use her feet against the bar to stay on the bike.   Wow!   After a four foot snake slithered across my path, I ran into a farmer herding his water buffalo back to the fields.   They’re hilarious-looking creatures and only delayed my progress by a few minutes.   I saw an old woman fishing, lots of people working the rice fields, lots of people bathing in the river, and a mother with her baby who couldn’t have been more than nine months old in the same kind of bike basket I was using to store my water bottle!

An aside:   it’s the strangest thing.   Helmets are not always so popular in third-world countries where motorbikes are the major form of transport.   SE Asia has been an exception, and I see about 2/3rds  of riders wearing helmets.   However, like many similar countries, entire families still cram onto the bikes, sometimes riding three adults and three children at a time.   And not on a Harley.   Just your average scooter.   The strange part is that so often I see a family of three or four, and the adults are all wearing helmets and the children are not.   Maybe they don’t make children’s helmets here?

Anyway, I finished my loop around Don Det and came to the bridge the connects it to the island on Don Kong.   My guidebook warned me of the toll – about $1 – which I am all too happy to extend to a poor island community.   As I was crossing the bridge below was the (particularly rude) European tourist who had been on my boat taxi.   She was part of the same crowd who tried to argue the price of the taxi (a whole 5,000 kip – less than $1) because her bus driver had told her it would be 15 and not 20.   Well, true it’s fifteen to my island, but it’s 20 to hers since it’s farther.   As they argued with the ticket sellers, I jumped in to point out that the price was clearly posted, and it made sense since it was a bit further and the taxi’s weren’t operating independently.   The point of all this background is that she was now fighting with the toll taker.   In her Slavic accent, she yelled, “”You want me to pay 9,000 kip just to walk under the stupid bridge?!” I almost thought to go tell her how lucky she was to have made it to this place and experience these folks’ home, and how they would never have the resources or access to do what she was doing.   Instead, I got on with my day and shared a look and a smile with my toll collector instead, which I hope will keep her from influencing too much the local opinion of first-world tourists.

After a long and bumpy bike ride over paths so rough and marked with craters that I thought it might be better going just to walk the bike, I arrived at the Tat Somphamit falls.   Hot and sweaty, I was glad for the shade from which to view the massive falls.   It wasn’t a straight drop like you might imagine,   Instead, over about 50 yards, there were several tiers of rough granite over which the water flowed.   Remember that the Mekong is a massive river running a huge distance through several countries, and you’ll understand the impressive volume of water that coursed over the drops.   WOW!

One shoot of the Somphamit falls. A photo can’t do the vast expanse justice. I tried for ten minutes to find a good view, but there was none!
Another view of the muddy rush that the falls are right now. The passive fishing was interesting to observe – lots of baskets strung across shoots collecting fish as the water tumbled through.

Afterwards, it was back to the bumpy to see if I couldn’t add on  to a boat tour to the dolphin viewing point to see the “rare” Irrawaddy dolphins.   Not another tourist was to be found at the beach where a boat is 90,000 kip no matter if you’re one person or four.   I wasn’t too disappointed.   The put in is just below the falls where the river is still rather raging around tiny islands, the boats are dangerously close to the water, and calling them “sketchy” is an understatement.

The dolphin boat, which I did not take. Doesn’t look very steady!
The rare and endangered Irrawaddy dolphin, which I have not had the pleasure of seeing. Maybe next time!

So, I biked  back home and headed for a big Beer Lao (equal to an America “Forty” basically) and tried to catch up a little on the pricey island internet.   I heard, by way of the Australian woman next to me, that there was to be  a big party on the next island over that night in honor of the boat races the next day.   I got to see some islanders practicing the equivalent of dragon boats in the U.S., and the rower in me thought about sticking around for the fiesta and to see the races.   However, a woman traveling alone can’t afford to attend a drunken carnival solo, so I ended up at a restaurant indulging in some sub-par pasta. (You can only eat so much fried rice!).   I tried a Beer Lao Dark with my dinner, which topped off my tipsy.

The bike ride home down the one track island path in the dark was a bit… interesting.   I made it home alright, tied up my bike in my room, and couldn’t bear the thought of sleeping with the ants in anything less than my head to toe clothing.   It made for a slightly uncomfortable evening (my second night sleeping in my clothes), and I woke up hot several times.   However, I had decided, after gathering some advice on the way home, that I had no choice by to leave the next morning for Phnom  Phen  in Cambodia.   My original thought was to piece together a four-point hop to include the boat races and the largest falls by volume in SE Asia just down the river.   However, I learned that the border crossing was a desolate land with only share taxis waiting to take you on the eight hour journey into Cambodia.   If I arrived alone, I was sure to either go broke taxi-ing alone, or sleep on a bench at the border waiting for the next days’ crowds.

The sturdiest boat of the whole trip. You just climbed aboard and grabbed a plank to make another seat!

A whirlwind morning complete with snoozing well into my packing time and racing to get my ticket followed, and who’s company do I find myself in?   The Irish girls!   Again!   Going to Phnom  Phen!   So… across the river we went, me with my pancake in a plastic sack, and them with their chronic hangovers…

The Other Stuff

 I’m a bit behing  on blogging, so this might seem a bit dry as I rush to catch up in this island-priced internet cafe.   I learned the value of journaling  from my grandmother at a young age, and I’m determined to keep up, whether or not I “feel like it.” (which I don’t. 🙂

So, the shock of seeing and experiencing first-hand all of the information about the current state of affairs in Laos usurped everything else that’s been going on.   That said, here it is:

peninsula view in Luang  Prabang – great!

Before I left Luang  Prabang, I had a beautiful morning walk down the “gentrified” streets of  the town  to the tip of the peninsula where the Nam Ka River flows into the Mekong.   I visited several temples along the way, smiling at the monks and pondering the artwork that predates the history of the U.S. by hundreds of years.   I’m always in awe of such places.

One of the many gorgeous and mythical wat’s of Luang  Prabang

After a treasured and pricey phone convo with Pat, I tried to get on the good side of the electric showers at our hostel before check-out time.   No luck.   One ran straight cold water, and the other was either scalding hot or freezing with a few seconds in between the transistion.   It made for a lot of waiting!

Lao mealtime. You grab a wad of sticky rice, form a ball, pinch on some of the main course, and drop it on your tongue. Delicious!

Lunch at Big Brother Mouse, besides being informative, was delicious!   All traditional, local dishes.   Some kind of spicy cabbage and chicken dish and another tasty stir fry all eaten by hand with small ball of sticky rice, each ball being formed out of the communal bowl on a per bite basis.

I’m really going to miss seeing the enthusiastic and serious monks everywhere in their bright orange robes as they do their daily errands.   On the way to the Royal Palace Museum, I crossed paths with several.

The Royal Palace in Luang  Prabang.

The Royal Palace Museum is glorious!   The entry hall is drop dead gorgeous, and my mom’s mom would have loved it.   Everything was done up in gold leaf with huge mosaic scenes in japanese glass of deep and varying colors: bright green, teal, copper, blue, silver, and more!   There were boats on rivers of gold, bright green corn stalks, beautiful teal trees, and elephants in copper, blue, and silver.   It all looked like  a Diego Rivera painting but more beautiful!   (and easier to decipher and understand as well).

A photo can’t do justice to all the gold leaf and japanese glass motif’s, but here is an example!

Other highlights of the palace were a 14th century painting series illustrating the story of one of the ancient monks.   Very similar to the Christian story of Abraham’s willingness to sacrifice his sons.   The low point of the museum was the display area with gifts from other countries.   Australia, Japan, Cambodia, and loads of other countries all sent their best artwork in goodwill.   I like the way Nicole puts it, so to quote her, ” By far, we had the crappiest  gifts offered.   Very ugly pen holders, a small replica of what I thought was a satalite[sic], a large silver paper weight with the US treasury on it.   R. Nixon[‘s]… name was on some [plaque].”   Things like this make me embarassed  to have to announce myself as an American in some of the places I go, and help me understand the lack of respect and the outright disappointment (and unfortunately sometimes disgust) that so many of the world’s people feel about the United States.

I will miss seeing brightly robed monks everywhere!

The final  stop in Luang  Prabang  was the night market (see gorgeous photos in “Metric Revelations”) before hopping the bus the Vang  Vieng.   If you’re going chronologically, then you know Vang  Vieng  became Vientiane (farther down the road as my sense of responsibility to interact with the Lao people and their history rather than  the Lao landscape grew).   The bus ride was definitely one for the books.   First, it was freezing.   But  I have lots of bus rides at 15,000 feet + without heat, so I can deal with freezing.   We began and ended in the mountains and every inch of the road was curved.   About an hour in, I began to find the curve warning signs quite comical.   They could save an awful lot of money if they just said “We’ll warn you if the road is going to be  straight.” every 100km or so.   Never have I felt so much g-force on my body for such a long period of time.   The driver literally careened around every corner.   The highlight of the ride was the full moon.   We followed rugged ridgelines all night, twisting and turning above moonlit valleys that made me feel like I was in a Salvador Dali painting.

The golden stupa in Vientiane. Amazing.

INteresting highlights of Vientiane, besides MAG and COPE:

1) Our sangthew driver at the bus station was really funny.   He got us loaded up in the truck bed, and then proceeded to stall hoping for more passengers by driving about 15 feet and then stopping to go talk to someone for a period of 20-30 minutes.   Mind you, the perimeter of the bus station was all of 400 feet. 🙂

2) Nicole and I separated rather unceremoniously since we were road worn, sleep deprived, and in the back of a pickup.   It was like something out of a surreal French film, waving goodbye on the sidewalk as she rode off into the sunrise.

Victory Monument in Vientiane. The locals and a plaque regarding the sight call it “an ugly concrete structure.” I don’t think it’s half bad!

3) Finding a place to stay was a challenge.   The first place was so bare bones, I just couldn’t stomach it for my first night alone.   The next four places didn’t have rooms.   I asked to plunk my bag down at the nicest of the four and rented a bike to go visit MAG while I waiting.   Upon my return, when a room was available, I CRASHED hard for a few hours before getting on with my day.

4) It dawned on me, as my teeth begged to be  brushed, that I had forgotten my travel toothbrush in the pocket of the pants Nicole let me borrow.   It was quite  an adventure finding a new one.   On the way home, I stopped at an Indian restaurant for some awesome food where I was invited  to eat with Mr. John. and his “brother” Jamoo.   Mr. John and Jamoo  are from Africa.   The “I’ve always been around white people” part of me was stuck  by all the dark, dark, dark men (men only) all over the city.   Mr. John is in Lao on a coffee business trip, and Jamoo  is running a clothing business out of Bangkok.   Mr. John was very flattering, asking lots of questions telling me he wanted to “know me.”   They weren’t very interesting, and I was a bit weirded out, so I politely declined their invitation to coffee after lunch and instead headed to COPE where I spent hours.

what it’s like on the sleeper bus!

5) My hours at COPE led me to four hours of processing and internet time, before I indulged in some western food (beer and pizza) to wrap up my day.

Leaving Vientiane was easy, thanks to the sweet 60-something man who ran the travel agency outside my hostel.   As I was repacking my bag (a never-ending task for the minimalist backpacker), it dawned on my that my forward plans might include Cambodia (visa needed) and I was in the capital.   I firmed up my plans over breakfast and my new friends booked my onward ticket and rushed to get me my visa before I left the capital that night.

I biked  to the must see of Vientiane – the golden stupa – and the Victory monument.   This place is the Washington D.C. of Laos, and incredible.   Their stupa is a lot like the Washington Monument, but prettier.   Not as good as the Lincoln or Jefferson memorial, though.   The night before had been the moon festival, basically the Mardi Gras  of Laos, and the streets around the most patriotic areas (like the Stupa) looked like New Orleans  in the morning of the Mardi Gras week.   Trashed.

I spent the rest of my afternoon at COPE and then piecing together  a dinner of pineapple, fresh and fried spring rolls, and SPICY papaya salad  before boarding the sleeper bus to Pakse.   My bedmate  (a single is twice the price!) was a woman name Pok  who is an obstetrician.   She was great, and we were  quick to share jokes with one another.   The  bed was tiny, just enough room for the both of us, but meant for the height of Asians.   Pat – you are so lucky  you’re not here!    My  poor buddy Scott from  New  York asked me “how do you know which U is the top and which is  the bottom?”   Me: “Umm… U stands for upper.    Both numbers are top.   They’re  double.   You’ll be paired  by  gender.”   The poor 6’3″ man survived the  night, though!

I was happy, despite the  cramped space, to get several long stretches of sleep, interupted  only by a bleary-eyed half-way stop at a main bus station.   When we arrived in Pakse, for the first time  I  didn’t roll up my pant legs for the squat toilets.   My sleepy self noticed the lack of “splashy” feeling on my calves, but didn’t  put two and two together until I stood up and realized I had peed on myself.   Thank goodness for detachable pant legs!

Now I am in Don Det, but I’ll save the rest of the story for a cheaper internet connection.   I heard there is a huge  boat race tomorrow and a party on the next island over.   If I  find some women to go with, maybe I’ll check it out.   Can’t be partying alone!

Take care!

Love, Jema

Saddest in the Happiest Country

Laos is an incredible county.   Most people call it “Lao” (without the S) which is short for the “Lao People’s Democratic Republic.”   It’s also one of the poorest countries in the world.   The people here are friendly and always have a smile ready.   They work hard and most earn or grow just enough to stay alive.   My very short time here has been incredibly impactful.

My first crystal clear window into the enormous privilege I carry with me as a first-world citizen came yesterday morning.   I read about a project called “Big Brother Mouse” in my guide book.   It describes the venture as a place you can go and volunteer to help Lao people practicing their English.   I missed the morning practice session, but learned about the depth of what the organization does over lunch with the staff.

Most Lao children have never even seen a children’s book or sometimes even seen a book at all.    Most Lao children have never known anything beyond the few bland textbooks (sometimes only five or six for a whole village), and don’t get excited about reading.   For the most part, their schools don’t even have pencils or paper.   Education and knowledge hold the key to many doors in this world, and so one American man teamed up with a Lao man to create a publishing and distribution company for children’s books.

After the labors of developing and training a Lao staff to author or translate and adapt children’s stories, more and more children’s books are being published  by Big Brother Mouse.   (The Lao word for one who takes care of another translates as “big brother”).   Because there is no distribution system, BBM  holds book parties.   A group travels into the rural countryside, sometimes hiking for hours before they reach a village without children’s books.   They spend three hours playing games, doing puppet shows about how books can be fun, singing songs about books, and leading  a creative writing and drawing lesson – often the first a child has ever had.

Kids learn to sing a fun song about books as part of their introduction to children’s stories.
As part of the Book Party, the leaders and kids act out a story to help the children see how much fun books can be.

At the end, each child gets to choose a book – nearly always the first book they’ve ever owned and a great source of pride.   They also leave a mini library of 50 books so the children can trade in their books for new ones.   I can imagine the children who were enthusiastically shouting “hello” and high-fiving me on my bike in the hills two days ago pouring enthusiastically over books savoring an education that many first world children take for granted.   It’s only $250 to give a village a book party.   I’m saving my money already.

Children after receiving their first book ever.

At Big Brother Mouse, I picked up a tourism publication called “Stay Another Day – Laos.”   The publication promotes sustainable tourism and encourages  tourists to do more than just visit the temples, waterfalls, and markets  (the only things listed in my Lonely Planet Guide  Book).   In reading my guidebook  regarding  treks and hikes to waterfalls and other sites in Laos, there is a warning about “unexploded ordanances” (UXO  for short) littering the countryside.   I’ve never heard the term before, and assumed UXOs  were like land mines.   A scary thought for an adventurer like myself who loves to escape the crowds in search of the authethic, solitary, peaceful experience.

The “Stay Another Day – Laos” publication covers three cities in Laos – the first I’ve just come from (Luang  Prabang), the second I’ll miss this time around (but I can’t wait to come back!), and the third I’m in now.   I had planned on going to Vang  Vieng  first to do some tubing,  cave tours, and a  rock climbing splurge  with my “Flying Fifty” from a rowing friend of mine.   However, as I spent my post Big Brother Mouse hours reading about all the opportunities to really get to know the people of Lao in “Stay Another Day” (and I as reassessed my visit to a place that Lonley  Planet Guide says has a few gems left ‘despite its reputation as a sullied paradise’ and fellow serious traveler Barbara says is overrun with the worst types of tourists), I changed my mind.   The bus I was on was long distance to Vientiane (where I am now) with a stop in Vang  Vieng, so I just stayed on the bus all night.

Top on my list was a visit to this branch of Big Brother Mouse to see if I couldn’t volunteer a few hours of English practice.   Second was “MAG” – Mines Advisory Group listed as having a photo-essay slideshow, displays on the history of UXOs, and a Google Earth program that shows all the known UXO  sites in Lao.   Third on the list, taking priority over the Buddha park, was COPE – Cooperative Orthotic  and Prosethetic  Enterprise providing artificial limbs and physical therapy to those “lucky enough” to survive UXO accidents.

Unfortunately, this branch of Big Brother Mouse is still in its fledgling stages and has yet to expand beyond publishing to provide  a site for English practice (not their main goal, but a by-product of their daily functioning).   So, on to MAG!   The building is located  in a compound-like piece of land next to a brand new apartment building on an unpaved and pot-hole ridden riverfront road.   The first image panel that greets visitors is “Neua” – a farmer whose arm was blown  off by a UXO  when he accidentally struck it harvesting sweet corn.   His neighbor accidently  struck one with a machete and was killed.

“Ta” being dressed by his son. He lost his arms in a UXO explosion.

From the rest of the panels I learned that the Lao people are stuck  in a cycle of poverty and danger thanks to the UXO’s.   Lao is the most heavily bombed country in the world, per capita – mostly a U.S. campaign.   More bombs than the U.S.’s campaign on Germany and Japan during the WWII combined.   Wow.

The prosthetic one man made for himself using metal from the bomb that took his leg!

So why are UXO’s  unexploded?   About half of the bombs are cluster bombs – a big torpedo shell (about four feet in length and a foot in diameter) filled with tennis-ball-sized “bombies.”   The shell is dropped, rips in half in mid-air, and the flutes on the bombies  cause them to start spinning, activating their detonation cycle.   However, if the torpedo opens too low, the bombies  don’t spin enough to complete their cycle.   Or, they land in mud or water where the impact isn’t enough to detonate them.   Then they lie in wait to be  stepped on by an animal, struck by a farm tool, or picked up by a child who thinks it’s a toy (many bombies are bright yellow and just the right size for small children to play with).   30% of all the bombs dropped thirty years ago did not explode and are lying in wait.

UXO’s  keep Lao and its people in the “poorest country” bracket.   They can’t develop infrastructure like roads, bridges, or anything that requires digging (one man lost an arm and a leg  while digging post holes in his home).   They can’t farm new fields without the severe danger of disturbing the bombs in wait, and often the fields they’ve “cleared” still harbor unexpected surprises.   Not being able to grow more food leaves many families starving.   Horrifyingly, the next available option for a source of income is to harvest scrap metal from the unexploded bombs that litter the countryside.   If the scrap collector is lucky enough to disarm the bomb without being killed, they are paid  15 cents per pound of metal and $1.50 per pound of explosive by scrap dealers.   Collectors use poorly made metal detectors that cost $12.   If villagers don’t have enough money to get started in the collecting, the scrap dealers will let them “work to own” the detector, taking a portion of  the proceeds from what they collect until the detector is paid  off.   One of the saddest photos I saw was a village’s “savings account” – a piece of an aircraft wing they will hold onto until they need to sell it to get through a bad harvest season.

The buffalo “Ta” had to sell to get money for his treatment after his bomb accident.

Children are in the most severe danger.   They get mixed messages about UXOs.   (There are more than just bombies.)   Because the Lao people are so poor, they use every resource available to them.   As a result, homes are full of dismantled UXOs  that have been turned  into water jars, lanterns, decorations, planters, and more.   Children know they are supposed  to stay away from UXO’s, but their presence in every day  life combined with the possibility of  helping provide for their families if they can get one home without detonating it causes many young Lao to fall prey to the bombs.   An 11  year old boy lost an eye, has metal fragments permanently lodged in his body, and his penis was severed  when he accidentally triggered a UXO.   I saw a photo of a dead 17 year old  boy who had been collecting for years.   Pieces of his body hung from the trees.   They dug his grave in the side of the 15 foot crater created by the bomb that killed him.

So what did Lao do to deserve such secret carpet bombing by the U.S., in spite of the Geneva Accord we signed promising not to attack Lao?   Wrong place, wrong time.   If you take a look at my route map, you’ll see Laos is a neighbor to the infamous Vietnam.   Vietmanese  troops used land and water routes in Lao to move supplies to South Vietnam.   Also, the communist political faction of Lao (a minority party) was bunkered  down in caves in the north.   Without the knowledge of congress or US citizens, the CIA waged an execution campaign over the majority of  the country.   They dropped bombs with entire regions as targets, instead of specific military installations (about which they had no information).   Sometimes, Lao’s number just came up when primary targets in Vietnam couldn’t be reached.   Aircraft carrying “ordnance” would be directed to a secondary “target” on the way back to base in Thailand.   Since Lao separates Thailand and Vietnam, it was often carpeted by bombs meant for elsewhere to save pilots the safety check process required if they landed with un-deployed ordnance.   Many American pilots gave testimonials citing this as one of the many things that haunted them in dealing with their post-war PTSD.

At the COPE (the prosthetic and orthotic  organization) visitor center, I met “Nam.”   He’s my age, and very worldly.   He comes from a village heavily affected by UXO’s.   His cousin lost his legs to a bombie.   Nam eagerly approached me and offered to guide me through the displays.   He shared many of the Lao ways of life with me, including a frog catcher and a mice catcher (for use in soups), a crossbow, a creel for storing fish, and an inventive hanging device that utilizes water to keep ants out of the food.   Nam also opened my eyes to the following:

***1. There are 80 million UXOs remaining among Lao’s 6 million people today.

***2. 15 of the 17 provinces in Laos were carpet bombed.

***3. An exploding bombie will maim or kill everything in a 90 square foot area.

***4. Of the many types of bombie, one of the worst was a time delay.   People often picked them up (before bombies became a big no-no) so they would have something to throw back at the planes that were bombing their livelihoods away.   Usually villagers hid in caves and took the time delays with them for safe keeping, ultimately destroying their only salvation from the carpet bombs.

***5. The spider bombie  was another horror.   Instead of detonating on impact, it has eight 3ft. tiny trip wires extending in eight directions.

***6. The acid bomb was one of the worst.   The Lao still have no knowledge of how to deactivate  an acid (how many of us know?).   Nam described to me the experience of a boy who tried to wash off and rub off the acid with water, “but no matter what it just keeps burning.”

***7. Many people have heard of the bombs, but some have never seen them.   Since they often look like fruit (the yellow ones) or rocks (metal covered in mud), people pick them up to investigate or to learn more about them.   Curiosity kills people just as easily as the collector’s desperation to earn enough to survive.

***8. The red dots that show where cluster bombs were dropped  don’t indicate  a single bomb, but rather a bombing mission.   So even the lone dots outside the areas so thick in dots that the dots melt into one another represent thousands of bombies from tens of torpedo shells.

***9. Because the living floor of Lao homes is built  above head level, those surviving explosions with disabilities end up with even smaller worlds as they are stuck inside the house (really just a 10 x 10 platform with three walls) all day while others go to work in the fields.

I’ve tried really hard not to cry yesterday at Big Brother Mouse and all day long today.   The COPE visitor center has four films that you can watch in “the cave.”   I almost cried during the story of a man fishing with his sons.   He tried to get the UXO  to the pond so he could throw it in and bring back a feast for the village.   Instead his children are now fatherless.   I almost cried when an inventive old man used some of the metal from the bomb that took his leg to fashion his own crude prosthesis.   And I teared up during the “bomb education” segment about a poster contest in school.   The only poster contests I can remember from my childhood were for t-shirts.   The scene that broke me was a room full of school children singing the “bomb” song.   I sang songs about the months of the year and the muffin man as a child.   These children sing, “we must take care not to disturb bombies  so our country’s people can be great and good.”

Why are we, as Americans, so sheltered?   Why didn’t I learn about the awful carpet bombing of Lao in school?   Why didn’t I know until I was 22 that we “lost” the war in Vietnam? (not kidding.)   Why don’t we have more in-your-face information about politics instead of the newest pop star?   Why does so many Americans’ political knowledge begin and end with their stances on moral issues?   I am reeling with more questions, as I’m sure you are if you made it through this whole experience.   Thanks for reading and learning about the Lao people!

Metric Revelations & Kuang Si Falls

Most American folk, if you ask them, couldn’t tell you how many miles are in 45 kilometers (including me).   I’d estimate about half of the American population couldn’t even tell you if it was less or more (go ahead and experiment!).

I know that it’s 1.4 km to a mile (thank you CCHS  Physics).   So the answer is less.   How much less?   Well, I tend not to bother with the math and just focus on the “less” part.   So, today, when we set out on a round-trip 70 kilometer bike trip to Kuang  Si Falls, I pedaled happily along.   Nicole, however, thought I said the conversion the other way around.   Hill by hill she became more convinced that we had a death wish.   It wasn’t easy going.   When a falls restuarant  owner pulled over and practically insisted that he give us a ride the final 20+ km to the falls for “cheap price” (20,000 kip – about $2.50), we caved.

On the way to the top, we pieced together the story of how he and his wife (in the backseat area with their 40 day-old baby) met.   He told us about the water levels of the Mekong River, about how sometimes the road is flooded, about the medical problems the new baby had had, and about his two year old daughter.   When we arrived at the falls, I got to hold the baby while mom climbed out of the car and got things in order.   He was SO CUTE!

The falls were gorgeous, and I slowly became more and more grateful for the ride up as we hiked for hours and hours!   First up the right side of the falls to a veritable dead end  when we finally pulled out the guide book  and read the sentence that said, “up the LEFT side of the falls is a path that leads to a magnificent second tier.”   Magnificent it was!   No swimming at the upper levels, but we did manage a healthy walk with “S.K.” from Malaysia deep into the park where we didn’t see a single other farang (foreigner).   Lots of cattle, though!

The best view of the main fall.
Runner up!
We couldn’t believe that it was already 2 p.m. by the time we returned to our new friends’ restaurant for lunch.   I had some weird noodle soup.   Apparently noodle soup with vegetables is plain noodle soup served with a plate of various salad greens still bunched together supermarket style.   I tried adding them to the dish, but nothing really struck my palate quite right.   I took most of it back out, added some chili sauce, and dug in!

After lunch, I couldn’t bear leaving the falls without swimming despite the fact that it was pretty chilly today.   It took some encouragement from Nicole, but I splashed into and kicked around the first swimming hole and escaped without hypothermia!

Where I braced myself against the steely waters for bragging rights and the joy of swimming, no matter how cold the water!

After a change into dry clothes, we were ready for our 35+ km (25 mile) descent.     Nicole took the lead, and I was surpised  to see her blast so far ahead of me.   On our cheap “cruiser” rental bikes, I used my brakes to keep me at a sane speed in case  I needed to stop quickly.   In the flat lands I caught up with her and discovered that her front brakes had blown out at the top of the hill.   She saw the front right brake pad go flying off, which rendered the left one useless.   With only cheap back brakes, she was in a world of hurt.

We inched our way along for a few kilometers, me cruzing  ahead to deliver a safety forecast back down the line.   Finally an empty sangthew  (truck with passenger benches in the back) passed  us and pulled over to offer a ride.   I had been looking forward to the bike ride all day.   I was even conflicted about taking the ride in the morning.   So, Nicole generously let me continue alone and loaded up with the driver for the stretch back to town.

25 miles of 65% incline and 35% decline was… tough.   I am the kind of exhausted that pleasantly consumes your entire body.   The best parts of the ride were: 1) the views.   It’s harvest time here, so the rice fields are ripe and being cut, backdropped  by majestic, jungle covered peaks. 2) the kids.   School had just let out, so the road was packed  with children on their way home.   I got lots of enthusiastic hellos, both “Hello” and “sah-bai-DEE!”   3) the high-fives.   When they saw me coming, the children who were walking would turn and face me and stick out their hands for high-fives as I cruised by.   It was great! 4) the bike races.   The boys on bikes, when they saw me coming would yell to each other “farang!   farang!”   (foreigner!   foreigner!).   Then as I pulled even I would get, “sah-bai-DEE”s.   Twice I got the glimmer of a challenges and went racing down the road with a school boy.   I WON the first time, and pulled a tidy second place the next time around.   With many miles to go, I was happy to fall back. 🙂

The night market getting set up in Luang  Prabang. It’s really the late afternoon to late evening market, so I ended up getting back too late and having to bike through it!

When I returned, Nicole and I biked  (with her new bike – with brakes) to the bus station to get onward  tickets for tomorrow.   We will probably spend the day seeing different temples and the royal palace museum.   I’ll probably need a massage.   Then at 7:30 we’re southward bound – me to Vang  Vien in Laos and Nicole back to Thailand.

Now it’s on to beer and pizza (hey – after my noodle lunch, I’m ready for some western food!   I’ll be sure to have a “Beer Lao”, though!)