14/03/10
I am at the airport. I am in the quietest part that I can find. I can hear a dull roar. Not as soothing as the tide outside my door. I have just put in earplugs and the roar has lessened. It was an uneventful trip from the island. The morning taxi from Treehouse at 8 am. I had managed to get a final swim in at 6:30 and my final bucket shower. I sat in the front with Ole the driver and one of the cooks. I sat in the middle. Ole speaks an atrocious English, all mangled words and missing consonants. It was a feat to grasp what he was saying. He and a Swedish girl are boyfriend and girlfriend. He said that once a Thai man has a western girlfriend, it is very hard to be with a Thai woman. I put my hands together at my heart to say goodbye but he opened his arms and gave me a strong hug.
Ferry to the mainland. A hour wait for the bus which was very decent after Lao and Cambodian bus service. A shuttle to the airport and here I am. Now decisions to make: do I check my suitcase in left luggage? Do I treat myself with a room at a nearby hotel for $30? I am such a cheapskate. I already let go of my reserved and paid hotel room in Bangkok because I didn't want to hassle with the water festival and the blocked roads. At this point, I think I can chill out here. It is a 12 hour wait and there is always the hope of sleeping part of it. Or I could be staying in a sterile room on a good bed and watching TV till late. Hmm. I am 57 after all.
Postscript: After sitting for a while on a hard seat, the passenger next to me shifting restlessly and shaking the bench then a meal in a frenzied fast food joint, I finally succumbed and went looking for a hotel. I bargained hard but 1000 baht ($32) was the best I could do. I ended up in a no frills standard room with A/C, TV, hot water and a very clean bed. I took my first real shower in over a week. I slept thru the night. It was just lovely. A few mosquito bites but it was worth it.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
the prettiest internet cafe
11/03/10
I have discovered the internet cafe up the hill behind the guesthouse. A girl from New Zealand was sitting next to me at breakfast this morning. She mentioned that she was staying up on the hill. I asked why. She said: it is 100 baht ($3) She comes to Thailand every year for 6 months or more and stays as long as the money lasts. She mentioned that there was internet as well after 6 pm when the generator kicks in. I went today to investigate. i walked up the concrete stairs, down past the 200 baht bungalows. You can hear the generator here. Across the narrow wooden bridge and up the concrete steps on the other side. I come to what looks like a construction site: unfinished concrete bathrooms with no roof. Must be hot in the middle of the day. Holes with the beginning of pilings and finally at the edge of the hill facing the ocean, a very large covered veranda. some hammocks, some lounge chairs. A bar counter and a long table in the centre with 3 laptops on it. Each one is occupied but the manager vacates the middle one for me. I sit on the chair and key in my internet provider. I am facing the ocean. It is 5:30 pm. The sun is setting. The water is a clear turquoise. The sky is blue. It is a beautiful sight. I tell the manger that this is the most beautiful internet cafe ever. I will come again tomorrow, mainly for the view.
I have discovered the internet cafe up the hill behind the guesthouse. A girl from New Zealand was sitting next to me at breakfast this morning. She mentioned that she was staying up on the hill. I asked why. She said: it is 100 baht ($3) She comes to Thailand every year for 6 months or more and stays as long as the money lasts. She mentioned that there was internet as well after 6 pm when the generator kicks in. I went today to investigate. i walked up the concrete stairs, down past the 200 baht bungalows. You can hear the generator here. Across the narrow wooden bridge and up the concrete steps on the other side. I come to what looks like a construction site: unfinished concrete bathrooms with no roof. Must be hot in the middle of the day. Holes with the beginning of pilings and finally at the edge of the hill facing the ocean, a very large covered veranda. some hammocks, some lounge chairs. A bar counter and a long table in the centre with 3 laptops on it. Each one is occupied but the manager vacates the middle one for me. I sit on the chair and key in my internet provider. I am facing the ocean. It is 5:30 pm. The sun is setting. The water is a clear turquoise. The sky is blue. It is a beautiful sight. I tell the manger that this is the most beautiful internet cafe ever. I will come again tomorrow, mainly for the view.
treehouse guesthouse
10/03/10
Third day at the beach. I finished that 800 page book yesterday. I am glad to have it behind me. It was beach material, no more. I am sitting on the porch of my bungalow, the water perhaps 4 metres in front of me. I can wade into the water in seconds when it is high tide. When the tide is low, I have a great expanse of sand in front of me. The water is different shades of turquoise and warm as bathwater. The sun is strong. I am careful to lather my body with sunscreen and avoid the peak heat. Today I have experimented and gone bathing at high noon. We will see later if I am burnt. I do feel a tingle on my face.
The bungalow is very basic. It is made of wood with a thatch roof and is up on stilts. A mattress on a raised platform, a couple of rudimentary shelves, a mosquito net, 3 wooden windows, a door, a small balcony with a hammock.There is no fan. and as long as the wind is blowing off the ocean, I am comfortable. When the wind dies, I sweat. There are many little bungalows along the path. They are placed such that there is a sense of privacy. There are many trees and flowers and shrubbery. I have seen hibiscus plants towering over me. Thus, my balcony and hut are always in shade. A big plus here. There is a bigger bungalow 2 bungalows down. No one is using it so I go during the day to use its hammmock. It has a better view than mine. Plus there is a bigger balcony space to do yoga in the morning. At 350 baht(around $11) I am in the most expensive bungalow here. There are others at 200, 250 and 300 which are further from the beach. But not by much. We all share the numerous toilets and showers. They are in concrete huts. Someone has been creative and mixed rocks and shells into the concrete. The shower is a bucket shower. A room with a concrete bath filled with brackish water, a plastic basin for rinsing. A dead tree trunk in the centre, the branches are hooks for clothing and towel. The toilet also has a concrete bath filled with water and a plastic basic to flush the waste.
The electricity comes on at 6 pm till 1 or 2 am. A long life bulb in the bungalow and one on the porch. A few strategic lamps light the path to the restaurant. The food is fair. Many different types of salad, rice dishes and curries. Tofu and yoghourt available. I drank the last soya milk yesterday. Water is 10 baht a litre and we can refill the bottle for 5.
So the days pass. I get up, meditate, do yoga, then go for breakfast. Sometimes I swim before breakfast. Today I was hungry. Breakfast is a fruit plate, raisins and yoghourt. Then I went to swim. It is now the heat of the day. I stay out of the sun. I sit and look out at the water. A Danish man just passed by. He stopped to talk. He came for the afternoon on his motorcycle. We chat about this and that. Now he is gone. Soon I will go and try another salad. A German woman has made up the menu. It is definitely not Thai. There was banana in my salad yesterday with the curried rice, tofu and vegetables. Actually tasty. And the shake yesterday of carrot, apple, cucumber and honey was fine. Do I dare try the ginger lemon watermelon shake?
I will be here for 4 more days and then it is time to go home. It is Thai New Year and the red shirts are protesting in Bangkok. I will avoid the city and stay at the airport.
Third day at the beach. I finished that 800 page book yesterday. I am glad to have it behind me. It was beach material, no more. I am sitting on the porch of my bungalow, the water perhaps 4 metres in front of me. I can wade into the water in seconds when it is high tide. When the tide is low, I have a great expanse of sand in front of me. The water is different shades of turquoise and warm as bathwater. The sun is strong. I am careful to lather my body with sunscreen and avoid the peak heat. Today I have experimented and gone bathing at high noon. We will see later if I am burnt. I do feel a tingle on my face.
The bungalow is very basic. It is made of wood with a thatch roof and is up on stilts. A mattress on a raised platform, a couple of rudimentary shelves, a mosquito net, 3 wooden windows, a door, a small balcony with a hammock.There is no fan. and as long as the wind is blowing off the ocean, I am comfortable. When the wind dies, I sweat. There are many little bungalows along the path. They are placed such that there is a sense of privacy. There are many trees and flowers and shrubbery. I have seen hibiscus plants towering over me. Thus, my balcony and hut are always in shade. A big plus here. There is a bigger bungalow 2 bungalows down. No one is using it so I go during the day to use its hammmock. It has a better view than mine. Plus there is a bigger balcony space to do yoga in the morning. At 350 baht(around $11) I am in the most expensive bungalow here. There are others at 200, 250 and 300 which are further from the beach. But not by much. We all share the numerous toilets and showers. They are in concrete huts. Someone has been creative and mixed rocks and shells into the concrete. The shower is a bucket shower. A room with a concrete bath filled with brackish water, a plastic basin for rinsing. A dead tree trunk in the centre, the branches are hooks for clothing and towel. The toilet also has a concrete bath filled with water and a plastic basic to flush the waste.
The electricity comes on at 6 pm till 1 or 2 am. A long life bulb in the bungalow and one on the porch. A few strategic lamps light the path to the restaurant. The food is fair. Many different types of salad, rice dishes and curries. Tofu and yoghourt available. I drank the last soya milk yesterday. Water is 10 baht a litre and we can refill the bottle for 5.
So the days pass. I get up, meditate, do yoga, then go for breakfast. Sometimes I swim before breakfast. Today I was hungry. Breakfast is a fruit plate, raisins and yoghourt. Then I went to swim. It is now the heat of the day. I stay out of the sun. I sit and look out at the water. A Danish man just passed by. He stopped to talk. He came for the afternoon on his motorcycle. We chat about this and that. Now he is gone. Soon I will go and try another salad. A German woman has made up the menu. It is definitely not Thai. There was banana in my salad yesterday with the curried rice, tofu and vegetables. Actually tasty. And the shake yesterday of carrot, apple, cucumber and honey was fine. Do I dare try the ginger lemon watermelon shake?
I will be here for 4 more days and then it is time to go home. It is Thai New Year and the red shirts are protesting in Bangkok. I will avoid the city and stay at the airport.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
going to Trat
5/3/10
I am heading to Koh Chang, an island off the coast of Thailand about 5 hours from Bangkok. My plan is to take the bus to Poipet at the border and then find a Thai bus heading south. However during my tour yesterday, I met a taxi driver while I was eating my lunch. Wth the ketchup bottle, the toothpicks and the napkin holder he showed me that I was going out of my way. The shortest physical distance was to cross at Prom. From Prom, I need to get to Ban Paket, then to Chantaburi and then to Trat. It sounds complicated and I am sure that it will take as long as my previous plan. But what the heck. It is possibly my last adventure this time around.
The share taxi comes at 8:00 am. There are 3 people sitting in the back and one moves to the front seat when I approach. I have paid a whopping $10 to keep only 3 people in the back seat and to get a window seat. Two people are now sitting in the front passenger seat. One has his buttocks on the bucket seat and his torso shifted towards the middle. I am happy to have my seat in the back.
It takes a while to reach the border as the taxi driver keeps trolling for more customers. When one gets out, he stops and waits for another. At 10:45, we get to the border. I am the last passenger. Leaving Cambodia is straight forward. A young man on a moto offers me a free ride to the Thai border. Nothing is free. He wants to drive me to Chantanburi for $45.
At the Thai border, they want a photocopy of my passp0rt and a photo. They send me to window 6 to get a photocopy but the electricity is down. Luckily I have a copy in my suitcase. It is 11:30. I stand outside the border office. A heavy sweating man with poor skin offers to take me to Trat for $50. He is actually offering me his friend who stands there in sunglasses with a serious look on his face. When I say it is too expensive, he suggests Chantaburi for $40. As I continue to refuse, he offers smaller distances at incrementally smaller prices. He finally offers me a motorcycle ride to the nearest pick up station for 100 baht (around $3) I accept.
A young boy places my suitcase propped up in front of him on a very small bike and I hop on behind. It is a 10 minute ride down the road. He loads my suitcase onto the sang thiew ( pickup truck with 2 benches for passengers). I have just enough time to eat a green papaya salad and we are off. Two hours later we arrive in Chantaburi. I have to pay him $3 because I have no baht. I try to get baht at the bus station but the ATMs are not working. The big bus is leaving for Trat in 10 minutes. I have just enough to pay the bus fare. 52 baht ($1.50) It takes an hour to get to Trat. The Trat bus station is deserted. The sangthiew is waiting to fill. It may take some time. Two monks are waiting onboard. They are willing to pay 100 baht each to get the driver to take us to the ferry dock. I agree. One monk pays for me so we can get going. The driver stops at an ATM machine so I can pay back the monk.He motions to me to put the money down on the suitcase between us. I cannot hand it directly to him. I offer him a mango. He is very pleased. We arrive at the ferry station. It is now 3:35. We have just missed the ferry. At 4:00 we get on the next one and arrive at Koh Chang just before 5. Almost there. But yet again, the sangthiew waits to fill. I arrive at my guesthouse at 7:30.
I am heading to Koh Chang, an island off the coast of Thailand about 5 hours from Bangkok. My plan is to take the bus to Poipet at the border and then find a Thai bus heading south. However during my tour yesterday, I met a taxi driver while I was eating my lunch. Wth the ketchup bottle, the toothpicks and the napkin holder he showed me that I was going out of my way. The shortest physical distance was to cross at Prom. From Prom, I need to get to Ban Paket, then to Chantaburi and then to Trat. It sounds complicated and I am sure that it will take as long as my previous plan. But what the heck. It is possibly my last adventure this time around.
The share taxi comes at 8:00 am. There are 3 people sitting in the back and one moves to the front seat when I approach. I have paid a whopping $10 to keep only 3 people in the back seat and to get a window seat. Two people are now sitting in the front passenger seat. One has his buttocks on the bucket seat and his torso shifted towards the middle. I am happy to have my seat in the back.
It takes a while to reach the border as the taxi driver keeps trolling for more customers. When one gets out, he stops and waits for another. At 10:45, we get to the border. I am the last passenger. Leaving Cambodia is straight forward. A young man on a moto offers me a free ride to the Thai border. Nothing is free. He wants to drive me to Chantanburi for $45.
At the Thai border, they want a photocopy of my passp0rt and a photo. They send me to window 6 to get a photocopy but the electricity is down. Luckily I have a copy in my suitcase. It is 11:30. I stand outside the border office. A heavy sweating man with poor skin offers to take me to Trat for $50. He is actually offering me his friend who stands there in sunglasses with a serious look on his face. When I say it is too expensive, he suggests Chantaburi for $40. As I continue to refuse, he offers smaller distances at incrementally smaller prices. He finally offers me a motorcycle ride to the nearest pick up station for 100 baht (around $3) I accept.
A young boy places my suitcase propped up in front of him on a very small bike and I hop on behind. It is a 10 minute ride down the road. He loads my suitcase onto the sang thiew ( pickup truck with 2 benches for passengers). I have just enough time to eat a green papaya salad and we are off. Two hours later we arrive in Chantaburi. I have to pay him $3 because I have no baht. I try to get baht at the bus station but the ATMs are not working. The big bus is leaving for Trat in 10 minutes. I have just enough to pay the bus fare. 52 baht ($1.50) It takes an hour to get to Trat. The Trat bus station is deserted. The sangthiew is waiting to fill. It may take some time. Two monks are waiting onboard. They are willing to pay 100 baht each to get the driver to take us to the ferry dock. I agree. One monk pays for me so we can get going. The driver stops at an ATM machine so I can pay back the monk.He motions to me to put the money down on the suitcase between us. I cannot hand it directly to him. I offer him a mango. He is very pleased. We arrive at the ferry station. It is now 3:35. We have just missed the ferry. At 4:00 we get on the next one and arrive at Koh Chang just before 5. Almost there. But yet again, the sangthiew waits to fill. I arrive at my guesthouse at 7:30.
The Bamboo Train of Battambang
4/3/10
My guide book mentions a bamboo train than runs in the outskirts of Battambang. It is used by locals to transport people and freight and is now also a bit of a tourist attraction. Its unique feature, that it can be dismantled and reassembled in moments, is an adaptation to the reality of a one-track system.
I have hired a motorcycle driver to take me around today. We have been to 2 mountains with different temples, old and new at their summits. We have stopped to see the hundreds of fruit bats roosting in the trees. (Katty tells me these are just the males. The females are in the jungle tending to their babies.) And now we have arrived at the tracks of this notorious bamboo train. We have come along dirt paths threading thru villages, rice paddies, banana plants and palm trees, jackfruit and mango trees. The wind feels wonderful when we are moving. Now we have stopped. It is easily 35 degrees in the shade. Across the tracks, a wedding reception is in progress and the music is blaring. We sit in the leanto and sip at tepid drinks. Katty goes to tell someone that we would like to ride the train.
A train assembles before my eyes. Someone brings 2 sets of iron wheels. They look like oversized bar bells. Then 2 young men carry a bamboo platform which they fit onto the wheels. Someone carries over a motor. (Katty informs me that 20 years ago, they switched from manual power to engine power. It is an 8 cc motor, the kind to pump water out of a small well.) A mat is placed in front for me. A stool is put by the tracks and the motorcycle is wheeled aboard. We clamber on. The fan belt of the engine is attached to the axis of the front wheels and we are off. We are going maybe 40 km an hour. Katty tells me that this is faster than the regular Cambodian trains which are notoriously slow at 20 km an hour. We barrel along, clickety clack. It is a pretty smooth ride except for the regular jumps every few seconds. I try to see what it is on the tracks creating the bump but I finally decide that it must be the engine. I feel like I am on a very bizarre amusement park ride. One set of tracks opens a path in front of me. Greenery flashes by me on either side. When we have gone several kilometres, we can see another train approaching us. Both trains come to a stop several metres apart. The other train is filled with local people and one foreigner. I am surprised to see them all get off. We win, says Katty. The motorcycle is heavier. Our engine driver hops off and helps the other driver dismantle his train. It is done in less than 2 minutes. Once we have passed him, they reassemble his train. We continue on. At our destination, the driver and Katty carefully lift off the motorcycle onto the ground. I give the driver $6 and we head back to town.
My guide book mentions a bamboo train than runs in the outskirts of Battambang. It is used by locals to transport people and freight and is now also a bit of a tourist attraction. Its unique feature, that it can be dismantled and reassembled in moments, is an adaptation to the reality of a one-track system.
I have hired a motorcycle driver to take me around today. We have been to 2 mountains with different temples, old and new at their summits. We have stopped to see the hundreds of fruit bats roosting in the trees. (Katty tells me these are just the males. The females are in the jungle tending to their babies.) And now we have arrived at the tracks of this notorious bamboo train. We have come along dirt paths threading thru villages, rice paddies, banana plants and palm trees, jackfruit and mango trees. The wind feels wonderful when we are moving. Now we have stopped. It is easily 35 degrees in the shade. Across the tracks, a wedding reception is in progress and the music is blaring. We sit in the leanto and sip at tepid drinks. Katty goes to tell someone that we would like to ride the train.
A train assembles before my eyes. Someone brings 2 sets of iron wheels. They look like oversized bar bells. Then 2 young men carry a bamboo platform which they fit onto the wheels. Someone carries over a motor. (Katty informs me that 20 years ago, they switched from manual power to engine power. It is an 8 cc motor, the kind to pump water out of a small well.) A mat is placed in front for me. A stool is put by the tracks and the motorcycle is wheeled aboard. We clamber on. The fan belt of the engine is attached to the axis of the front wheels and we are off. We are going maybe 40 km an hour. Katty tells me that this is faster than the regular Cambodian trains which are notoriously slow at 20 km an hour. We barrel along, clickety clack. It is a pretty smooth ride except for the regular jumps every few seconds. I try to see what it is on the tracks creating the bump but I finally decide that it must be the engine. I feel like I am on a very bizarre amusement park ride. One set of tracks opens a path in front of me. Greenery flashes by me on either side. When we have gone several kilometres, we can see another train approaching us. Both trains come to a stop several metres apart. The other train is filled with local people and one foreigner. I am surprised to see them all get off. We win, says Katty. The motorcycle is heavier. Our engine driver hops off and helps the other driver dismantle his train. It is done in less than 2 minutes. Once we have passed him, they reassemble his train. We continue on. At our destination, the driver and Katty carefully lift off the motorcycle onto the ground. I give the driver $6 and we head back to town.
spring rolls
04/03/10 Siem Reap
I go to my favorite stall in the market. It is in the centre where the food stalls are - surrounded by stalls with fruits and vegetables on display. I pass the raw fish stalls and step carefully on the dirty wet floor underneath me. I discovered this stall a couple of days ago. A woman sitting behind a counter, making fresh spring rolls. I was able to express to her that I wanted no meat in mine, just vegetables. The meat is white and rubbery. It looks like squid or octopus but is more likely pork. I am now able to signal how many I want and she will make them for me as I like. They are filled with lettuce, bean sprouts, noodles, mint. She will give me a little bowl of vinaigrette topped with shredded peanuts.
But she is not here today. There is somone else at her spot. The counter holds fried greens and meat. No spring rolls. The girl smiles hopefully at me but I move on.
I sit in one of the open restaurants on the edge of the market. Here the meals are $1.50 a plate. Within moments, the street urchins arrive: Buy postcards. Where are you from? Canada. Capital of Canada is Ottawa.They have memorized the capitals for the most common tourist countries and are able to reel off the names with great pride. A few days ago I bought a meal of fried rice with beef for three of them to share. The waitress brought 3 plates. They sat down around me and finished it off within moments. They thanked me politely. Today the same ones are here. One recognizes me but the others do not. The plate of fresh spring rolls at $1.50 is triple the price of my little market kiosk. I am paying for sitting at a table.
I go to my favorite stall in the market. It is in the centre where the food stalls are - surrounded by stalls with fruits and vegetables on display. I pass the raw fish stalls and step carefully on the dirty wet floor underneath me. I discovered this stall a couple of days ago. A woman sitting behind a counter, making fresh spring rolls. I was able to express to her that I wanted no meat in mine, just vegetables. The meat is white and rubbery. It looks like squid or octopus but is more likely pork. I am now able to signal how many I want and she will make them for me as I like. They are filled with lettuce, bean sprouts, noodles, mint. She will give me a little bowl of vinaigrette topped with shredded peanuts.
But she is not here today. There is somone else at her spot. The counter holds fried greens and meat. No spring rolls. The girl smiles hopefully at me but I move on.
I sit in one of the open restaurants on the edge of the market. Here the meals are $1.50 a plate. Within moments, the street urchins arrive: Buy postcards. Where are you from? Canada. Capital of Canada is Ottawa.They have memorized the capitals for the most common tourist countries and are able to reel off the names with great pride. A few days ago I bought a meal of fried rice with beef for three of them to share. The waitress brought 3 plates. They sat down around me and finished it off within moments. They thanked me politely. Today the same ones are here. One recognizes me but the others do not. The plate of fresh spring rolls at $1.50 is triple the price of my little market kiosk. I am paying for sitting at a table.
Monday, March 29, 2010
sick in siem reap
30/03/10
When I wake up in the middle of the night in Kratie with a sore throat, I think: oh oh. All those fans blowing on my face, perhaps a bacteria or two got forced in. I arrive in Phnom Penh, my head starting to fill. I had no plans to stay longer than 2 nights. I would see the Tuol Seng prison and the Royal Palace and move on. I manage to find a tailor as well to fix my ripped top.
Phnom Penh is a dirty, polluted city. The buildings opposite my balcony are grimy grey and brown. By evening, I have a fever and little appetite. I watch Rainman with a young Dustin Hoffman and a younger Tom Cruise on HBO, my head in a daze. I go downstairs and buy 2 tangerines and a mango from the reception clerk. And a package of Oreos for trip tomorrow. My throat is getting raw. I have her touch my forehead in case I am mistaken. It is so hot outdoors and the aircon is not strong. Yes, you have a fever, she confirms.
I splurge on the express bus. The aircon works, water and moist paper towel provided. An actual Western toilet at the back of the bus. We arrived in Siem Reap 6 hours later at 2:30 pm. The tuktuk from the hotel was waiting for me, my name printed on the held up sign. I had been here last year and had found the young men running it so kind. It is still a calm, quiet place. There is now free internet downstairs and wifi in the rooms.
At my request, Gamleung has brought me a teapot of hot water to infuse my gnger teabag. He has brought it up on a tray: A white china teapot. A tall cup with a lid to prevent cooling. A little china dish for my used teabag. Very civilized. I drink cup after cup of ginger tea. I contemplate the mango tree in the yard below and the coconut palms in the distance. I feel safe and protected I can heal here. Gamlieung talks about an excursion to visit his family in the country in a few days. He is 31, he tells me. I ask why he and his nephew are not married yet. He says, the wedding is around three or four thousand dollars for a small one. They have responsibilities to educate their family first. I ask him if there is anyone he is interested in. He mentions a young girl who is finshing high school this year. She is 18 and very smart. She is not beautiful but is very kind. She has loved him for 3 years now. I ask if he loves her. He laughs and does not answer.
When I wake up in the middle of the night in Kratie with a sore throat, I think: oh oh. All those fans blowing on my face, perhaps a bacteria or two got forced in. I arrive in Phnom Penh, my head starting to fill. I had no plans to stay longer than 2 nights. I would see the Tuol Seng prison and the Royal Palace and move on. I manage to find a tailor as well to fix my ripped top.
Phnom Penh is a dirty, polluted city. The buildings opposite my balcony are grimy grey and brown. By evening, I have a fever and little appetite. I watch Rainman with a young Dustin Hoffman and a younger Tom Cruise on HBO, my head in a daze. I go downstairs and buy 2 tangerines and a mango from the reception clerk. And a package of Oreos for trip tomorrow. My throat is getting raw. I have her touch my forehead in case I am mistaken. It is so hot outdoors and the aircon is not strong. Yes, you have a fever, she confirms.
I splurge on the express bus. The aircon works, water and moist paper towel provided. An actual Western toilet at the back of the bus. We arrived in Siem Reap 6 hours later at 2:30 pm. The tuktuk from the hotel was waiting for me, my name printed on the held up sign. I had been here last year and had found the young men running it so kind. It is still a calm, quiet place. There is now free internet downstairs and wifi in the rooms.
At my request, Gamleung has brought me a teapot of hot water to infuse my gnger teabag. He has brought it up on a tray: A white china teapot. A tall cup with a lid to prevent cooling. A little china dish for my used teabag. Very civilized. I drink cup after cup of ginger tea. I contemplate the mango tree in the yard below and the coconut palms in the distance. I feel safe and protected I can heal here. Gamlieung talks about an excursion to visit his family in the country in a few days. He is 31, he tells me. I ask why he and his nephew are not married yet. He says, the wedding is around three or four thousand dollars for a small one. They have responsibilities to educate their family first. I ask him if there is anyone he is interested in. He mentions a young girl who is finshing high school this year. She is 18 and very smart. She is not beautiful but is very kind. She has loved him for 3 years now. I ask if he loves her. He laughs and does not answer.
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Phnom Penh
27/03/10
Phnom Penh. A bit of a shock after gentle Laos and small Kratie. But it is a friendly shock. There is something within this hustle bustle of 6 million people that is very human. It happens every time I come to Cambodia. I feel like I can feel the heart. The Lao are gentle and cool. The Cambodians are warm and friendly.
I am sitting in the restaurant cafe of the Royal Guesthouse. I chose this guesthouse on the recommendation of an 84 year old Australian woman that I met last year, She was heading north in Vietnam and I was heading south We crossed paths on a tour to Myson out of Hoi An. She gave me the card. I missed it last year but here I am a year later.
The bus ride was long but not unpleasant. It was a local bus. I was the only foreigner. We started at 9:30 am and arrived at 4:30. The tuktuk drivers crowded around me as I stepped off the bus.
My room is another box with no window. An expensive box with a few perks: cable TV. Hot water. AC, which I have yet to find the remote for.
I sit in front of the street. The cars and motorbikes zoom by. It is a busy street. Just in front of me are two older Europeans. Scandinavian or German. One balding. Both easily my age or older. With them, 2 young and beautiful Cambodian girls. They are not the type, these Europeans, I would have thought. But who can blame them? These girls are beautiful and smiling, eager to please. Every man's dream. The men do not meet my eye. Either I am invisible or perhaps there is a trace of shame. I will finish my soup and leave them to their courting dance.
Phnom Penh. A bit of a shock after gentle Laos and small Kratie. But it is a friendly shock. There is something within this hustle bustle of 6 million people that is very human. It happens every time I come to Cambodia. I feel like I can feel the heart. The Lao are gentle and cool. The Cambodians are warm and friendly.
I am sitting in the restaurant cafe of the Royal Guesthouse. I chose this guesthouse on the recommendation of an 84 year old Australian woman that I met last year, She was heading north in Vietnam and I was heading south We crossed paths on a tour to Myson out of Hoi An. She gave me the card. I missed it last year but here I am a year later.
The bus ride was long but not unpleasant. It was a local bus. I was the only foreigner. We started at 9:30 am and arrived at 4:30. The tuktuk drivers crowded around me as I stepped off the bus.
My room is another box with no window. An expensive box with a few perks: cable TV. Hot water. AC, which I have yet to find the remote for.
I sit in front of the street. The cars and motorbikes zoom by. It is a busy street. Just in front of me are two older Europeans. Scandinavian or German. One balding. Both easily my age or older. With them, 2 young and beautiful Cambodian girls. They are not the type, these Europeans, I would have thought. But who can blame them? These girls are beautiful and smiling, eager to please. Every man's dream. The men do not meet my eye. Either I am invisible or perhaps there is a trace of shame. I will finish my soup and leave them to their courting dance.
border crossing
26/03/10
Such a different energy here in Cambodia. I am on the 3rd floor of a hotel facing the river. In the distance I can hear the music, fast and exciting. It is 8:30 pm. People are more lively here. They call to me, try to sell me things. Hello. Hello. More direct than the Lao. I am back in the world. Heading home.
We got on the boat early this morning to return to the mainland Our guesthouse owner was the boatman. He packed us all in, laughing. All 8 of us and all our luggage. The boat was low in the water. Luckily it had rained yesterday and the water level had risen.
We glided between the rocks and small islands and got to the dirty landing. The boatman divided us into two groups. He pushed the group heading north onto the side and gestured at them to wait. Those of us crossing the border into Camb odia, he motioned to get onboard the waiting bus. I found a seat and settled in. As we are pulling out, a knock on my window. The boatman is gesturing goodbye. I wave. He throws a kiss and goes. I am touched.
Crossing the border into Cambodia is a gentle affair. It is all about one dollar bills. At every stop, another dollar bill. Leaving Laos, one dollar. Entering Cambodia a dollar for the quarantine check . This is a new scam according to a fellow traveller. Put in place recently. The officer pushes a digital thermometer onto my forehead. 35.8, he shows me. He hands me a certificate written in Cambodian and asks for a dollar. The visa is $23 and then another dollar for processing. Everyone is getting his cut.
Such a different energy here in Cambodia. I am on the 3rd floor of a hotel facing the river. In the distance I can hear the music, fast and exciting. It is 8:30 pm. People are more lively here. They call to me, try to sell me things. Hello. Hello. More direct than the Lao. I am back in the world. Heading home.
We got on the boat early this morning to return to the mainland Our guesthouse owner was the boatman. He packed us all in, laughing. All 8 of us and all our luggage. The boat was low in the water. Luckily it had rained yesterday and the water level had risen.
We glided between the rocks and small islands and got to the dirty landing. The boatman divided us into two groups. He pushed the group heading north onto the side and gestured at them to wait. Those of us crossing the border into Camb odia, he motioned to get onboard the waiting bus. I found a seat and settled in. As we are pulling out, a knock on my window. The boatman is gesturing goodbye. I wave. He throws a kiss and goes. I am touched.
Crossing the border into Cambodia is a gentle affair. It is all about one dollar bills. At every stop, another dollar bill. Leaving Laos, one dollar. Entering Cambodia a dollar for the quarantine check . This is a new scam according to a fellow traveller. Put in place recently. The officer pushes a digital thermometer onto my forehead. 35.8, he shows me. He hands me a certificate written in Cambodian and asks for a dollar. The visa is $23 and then another dollar for processing. Everyone is getting his cut.
essence of maleness
24/03/10
Living and travelling alone, I tend to forget the feeling of male energy. Being a certain age now, with sex a distant memory, my most frequent encounters with others are conversations, sharing stories. But I stay in my own little energy bubble. I don't long for physical contact. I forget about it. Then a physical touch and it all floods back, the memory of strength and solidity. The Other.
Yesterday we went to the waterfalls. Two fishing boats with 2 foreigners in each. The other boat was manned by our guesthouse owner. Ours by a relative and his young daughter. The daughter, a girl of maybe 12 (turns out she is 15) stayed in the front of the boat to guide us thru the rocks. Then she went behind to bail water. She was always smiling and laughing and occasionally singing. Her father, small, wiry and dark, was quiet except for a frequent clearing of his throat.
The boatride was in itself quite lovely. We glided between small islands. Uninhabited. Sometimes only an outcropping with rocks and trees. The occasional lone water buffalo. We landed at a muddy shore and clambered out. A rocky path, strewn with roots and branches. We climbed over and around rocks and finally had to start jumping over the rocks and fording streams. At this point , I balked. The fear started rising. An old foot deformity gives me poor balance and images of falling and bloody legs were crowding my vision. Our boatman extended his hand and I took it. He was wearing flipflops but stood firm on the rock. He guided me over the different parts. pointing to where I should place my foot. At certain points I held his hand, at others I grabbed his forearm or leaned on his shouolder. His arm was taut and firm. I could feel his energy entering thru my hand. Male energy. I felt safe, protected. Infused with security and strength. It was immediate. It was pleasing and comforting. Memories of maleness came pouring in. I hadn't missed it. But how nice to remember it again.
On the way back , it ws the young girl who extended her hand. The man was gone ahead. Perhaps he had felt the infusion of female. I did not trust the strength in her hand tho she offered it to me smilingly. I took it only on occasion when necessary. On the boat ride home, sun setting in front of us, I felt peaceful and complete. It had been a long time since I had felt this gentle calm. I had planned to leave tomorrow but I will stay another day.
Living and travelling alone, I tend to forget the feeling of male energy. Being a certain age now, with sex a distant memory, my most frequent encounters with others are conversations, sharing stories. But I stay in my own little energy bubble. I don't long for physical contact. I forget about it. Then a physical touch and it all floods back, the memory of strength and solidity. The Other.
Yesterday we went to the waterfalls. Two fishing boats with 2 foreigners in each. The other boat was manned by our guesthouse owner. Ours by a relative and his young daughter. The daughter, a girl of maybe 12 (turns out she is 15) stayed in the front of the boat to guide us thru the rocks. Then she went behind to bail water. She was always smiling and laughing and occasionally singing. Her father, small, wiry and dark, was quiet except for a frequent clearing of his throat.
The boatride was in itself quite lovely. We glided between small islands. Uninhabited. Sometimes only an outcropping with rocks and trees. The occasional lone water buffalo. We landed at a muddy shore and clambered out. A rocky path, strewn with roots and branches. We climbed over and around rocks and finally had to start jumping over the rocks and fording streams. At this point , I balked. The fear started rising. An old foot deformity gives me poor balance and images of falling and bloody legs were crowding my vision. Our boatman extended his hand and I took it. He was wearing flipflops but stood firm on the rock. He guided me over the different parts. pointing to where I should place my foot. At certain points I held his hand, at others I grabbed his forearm or leaned on his shouolder. His arm was taut and firm. I could feel his energy entering thru my hand. Male energy. I felt safe, protected. Infused with security and strength. It was immediate. It was pleasing and comforting. Memories of maleness came pouring in. I hadn't missed it. But how nice to remember it again.
On the way back , it ws the young girl who extended her hand. The man was gone ahead. Perhaps he had felt the infusion of female. I did not trust the strength in her hand tho she offered it to me smilingly. I took it only on occasion when necessary. On the boat ride home, sun setting in front of us, I felt peaceful and complete. It had been a long time since I had felt this gentle calm. I had planned to leave tomorrow but I will stay another day.
raw food
24/03/10
Don Khon
I am in a little restaurant. 12 noon. It is very basic. 9 little tables on a verandah overlooking the Mekong. Chickens running around. Ducks in the water below. I am trying to explain to the owner that I just want some raw vegetables. It is easily over 30 degrees. My body is craving salad. People here eat salad with their noodle soup. I just want the salad. I go into the simple kitchen hoping to find what I am looking for. I point to the bean sprouts, the greens. I open the refrigerator and point to the cucumbers. They look at me perplexed. Finally I find Lao green salad with eggs on the menu. I point to this, my finger covering the eggs. No eggs, I say and hope for the best.
The orange juice I ordered has just arrived. They have added sugar. The salad finally arrives. It is slightly wilted. i think they dip it in boiling water. It is doused in a sauce which appears to be mayonnaise diluted with fish sauce. At least it isn't the well loved shrimp sauce which I find a little revolting.
Don Khon
I am in a little restaurant. 12 noon. It is very basic. 9 little tables on a verandah overlooking the Mekong. Chickens running around. Ducks in the water below. I am trying to explain to the owner that I just want some raw vegetables. It is easily over 30 degrees. My body is craving salad. People here eat salad with their noodle soup. I just want the salad. I go into the simple kitchen hoping to find what I am looking for. I point to the bean sprouts, the greens. I open the refrigerator and point to the cucumbers. They look at me perplexed. Finally I find Lao green salad with eggs on the menu. I point to this, my finger covering the eggs. No eggs, I say and hope for the best.
The orange juice I ordered has just arrived. They have added sugar. The salad finally arrives. It is slightly wilted. i think they dip it in boiling water. It is doused in a sauce which appears to be mayonnaise diluted with fish sauce. At least it isn't the well loved shrimp sauce which I find a little revolting.
a mickey mouse experience
23/03/10
Don Det. Everyone is talking about Don Det. 4000 Islands and Don Det. Granted, everyone is under the age of 30. So my expectations are not high. I take the early morning minivan. There are 10 of us foreigners crammed in. At the pier,a long wooden rowboat outfitted with a motor takes 2 minivans full. There are 25 people and their backpacks aboard. My trusty blue pull suitcase is not too efficient on sand. A young backpacker with his huge backpack on his back offers to carry it for me to the boat. One advantage of greying hair. I used to feel motherly to these kids. Now, I am starting to feel grandmotherly.
We arrive at the island and pile out. Everyone disperses to find accomodation. There are 2 dirt roads, Sunrise Blvd on the eastern shore, Sunset Blvd. to the west. I choose Sunset. I walk along the dirt road, pulling trusty blue. I am hoping for a river view bungalow with indoor plumbing. I have been hoping for too much. All the river bungalows have share toilets. It is around 11:30 am. I am hot and sweaty. It is 4 km. further to the "nicer and quieter" bungalows. I don't have the energy. I settle for one nearby where the young man speaks a decent English and the family seems kind. Peace and Love Guesthouse. Poor choice. Mid afternoon, Reggae music starts in the restaurant. I am 2 bunglaows away. Then at 9 pm the English boys come back from their adventures full of Lao Lao (the local firewater) and high spirits. Some girls have been waiting for them. They talk and laugh. At 11 pm, I wake from a fitful sleep. The volume has escalated by several decibels. I imagine there has been lots of Beer Lao by now and probably some "happy" shakes (fruit shakes with marijuana blended in). They are now very happy, excited and noisy. Earplugs help a bit. They disperse at 2 am. At 7 when I wake, the family is already up. The TV is already on. I notice that my sheets have Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck figures all over them.
Don Det. Everyone is talking about Don Det. 4000 Islands and Don Det. Granted, everyone is under the age of 30. So my expectations are not high. I take the early morning minivan. There are 10 of us foreigners crammed in. At the pier,a long wooden rowboat outfitted with a motor takes 2 minivans full. There are 25 people and their backpacks aboard. My trusty blue pull suitcase is not too efficient on sand. A young backpacker with his huge backpack on his back offers to carry it for me to the boat. One advantage of greying hair. I used to feel motherly to these kids. Now, I am starting to feel grandmotherly.
We arrive at the island and pile out. Everyone disperses to find accomodation. There are 2 dirt roads, Sunrise Blvd on the eastern shore, Sunset Blvd. to the west. I choose Sunset. I walk along the dirt road, pulling trusty blue. I am hoping for a river view bungalow with indoor plumbing. I have been hoping for too much. All the river bungalows have share toilets. It is around 11:30 am. I am hot and sweaty. It is 4 km. further to the "nicer and quieter" bungalows. I don't have the energy. I settle for one nearby where the young man speaks a decent English and the family seems kind. Peace and Love Guesthouse. Poor choice. Mid afternoon, Reggae music starts in the restaurant. I am 2 bunglaows away. Then at 9 pm the English boys come back from their adventures full of Lao Lao (the local firewater) and high spirits. Some girls have been waiting for them. They talk and laugh. At 11 pm, I wake from a fitful sleep. The volume has escalated by several decibels. I imagine there has been lots of Beer Lao by now and probably some "happy" shakes (fruit shakes with marijuana blended in). They are now very happy, excited and noisy. Earplugs help a bit. They disperse at 2 am. At 7 when I wake, the family is already up. The TV is already on. I notice that my sheets have Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck figures all over them.
Buddha's footprint
22/03/10
Yesterday I saw Buddha's footprint. Four of us had hired a tuktuk to take us to Wat Phu, ruins of Khmer Hindu antiquity from the 7th to the 14th century, The ruins were at the base of Phu Pasak known colloquially as Phu Khuai or Mt. Penis. Many linga about. The story goes, according to a notice board at the museum, that Brahma and Vishnu were arguing about who was the greatest and along comes Shiva with his shining and infinite lingum. Vishnu turns himself into a bird and tries to fly above it, Brahma turns himself into a burrowing animal and tries to get below it. Neither is successful so they both have to admit that Shiva is the most powerful.
The ruins themselves were pretty minimal. Six levels. Lots of crumbling stairs. A doorkeeper holding a mace, transformed into a Buddha with orange robes, all the ritual incense in front of him. Behind the sanctuary up on the hill was the footprint. Above an elephant, I was told. I looked and looked. On the ground. On the rock face. No footprint. Then I noticed the elephant in front of me, carved in relief on the rock wall. Above it a carved rectangular shape. Aha! The footprint. Very big. Box shaped. Yes, even 5 r
ectangular toes.
Yesterday I saw Buddha's footprint. Four of us had hired a tuktuk to take us to Wat Phu, ruins of Khmer Hindu antiquity from the 7th to the 14th century, The ruins were at the base of Phu Pasak known colloquially as Phu Khuai or Mt. Penis. Many linga about. The story goes, according to a notice board at the museum, that Brahma and Vishnu were arguing about who was the greatest and along comes Shiva with his shining and infinite lingum. Vishnu turns himself into a bird and tries to fly above it, Brahma turns himself into a burrowing animal and tries to get below it. Neither is successful so they both have to admit that Shiva is the most powerful.
The ruins themselves were pretty minimal. Six levels. Lots of crumbling stairs. A doorkeeper holding a mace, transformed into a Buddha with orange robes, all the ritual incense in front of him. Behind the sanctuary up on the hill was the footprint. Above an elephant, I was told. I looked and looked. On the ground. On the rock face. No footprint. Then I noticed the elephant in front of me, carved in relief on the rock wall. Above it a carved rectangular shape. Aha! The footprint. Very big. Box shaped. Yes, even 5 r
ectangular toes.people stories
All kinds of people travel. And everyone has a story. They are often fascinating. My favorite so far on this trip is the one of the Frenchman I met in Vang Vien. He was lying in a hammock airing his feet. He had severe lacerations between the toes from his recent adventure training to be a mahout in southern Laos. He told me that when he had been young and was expected to do military service, that being a doctor, he chose instead to practice medicine in rural Iran, It was a rewarding experience, he said. On his return to France, he learned "la voltige cossaque", that fancy acrobatic work on horses where you jump up and down and do different tricks as the horse gallops in a circle. He went back to visit the village in Iran a few years later. He was demonstrating one of his acrobatic tricks to an Iranian friend when the horse kicked him in the abdomen. Being a doctor, he knew that this could be a death sentence. If his liver had been punctured and he was bleeding internally then that was it. He hoped for it to be his kidney. Then it wouldn't be life threatening. He thought all this as he lay on the backseat and they raced him to the closest hospital. At the hospital, the attending doctor was less than knowledgeable. The Frenchman called him a "chien" of some sort. I didn't catch the subtle nuance in his description. He had to catheterize himself as the attending seemed to be incompetent. When he saw fresh blood coming out the tube, he was relieved. They rushed him to a second hospital where, he was happy to report, the level of competence was better. They removed a kidney and his equestrian career was over. He says that he has never wanted to ride again.
I asked him, what kind of doctor are you? A dermatologist, he replied. For 25 years. You can get rich as a dermatologist or you can travel. He chose to travel. Then after 25 years he became bored with his profession. He got psychoanalyzed and liked it so much that he became a psychoanalyst which is what he does now in Paris. And continues to travel.
Another person was an Irish woman, about my age, heavyset, draped in shawls and necklaces. She owns a fish processing shop in a small village in the southwest. Her husband a fisherman. All her 4 children in the business with her. The fishing industry is dead in Ireland. Her business imports fish from Norway, processes it and do home delivery in the village. When the tsunami hit Thailand, she had a strong emotional reaction and wanted to help. She had a bring and buy sale in her home, raised quite a bit of money and travelled to Thailand. She went to one of the sites badly affected and joined a European NGO. She gave the money she had raised and spent a month helping to build a house for a local woman. She was so proud of her effort.
She came back a few years later with family and wanted to show them the home she had helped build. She walked up and down the street looking for it. It wasn't there. Finally she asked at the local store - where was the house? They flattened it, she was told. There was no permit. The woman who was living in it was sent back to her village. Mary had thought the woman was local. It was a deep blow in the chest, she said. She has just come from there on this trip as well. She has made some good friends there and visits when she can. This trip was a birthday present from her children.
And what about the Australian man whose parents were Holocaust survivors from Poland? He now lives in England and is self employed. When I probed further, he was happy to tell me that he is a performer. He juggles crystal balls around his body at parties. Weddings. Bar Mitzvahs. Lots of Bar Mitzvahs. He has brought a ball with him and sometimes in villages he takes it out and does a little show.
And the German stewardess for Lufthansa in her early to mid forties. Works 6 months a year then 3 months of rock climbing at Krabie in Thailand. She says there is a community of around 200 climbers who meet there every year. A very friendly group. She feels like it is her 2nd home. Then she spends 3 months in Damascus, learning Arabic , studying and visiting the archeological ruins there. She is a trained archeologist and her focus has been mesopotamian archeology. But there is no money or jobs to be had in her field. This works for her. She has developed a happy balance of work and play.
And the Danish woman who wouldn't give her age. Maybe late 30's or early 40's . Says she hasn't had a home since 2004. She goes back to Copenhagen to work and save money. She stays either with family or friends, buys the food and cooks sometimes. Her friends are happy to support her but question her reality. She stays a few days here, a few days there, Never long enough to be a burden. She has 20 boxes at her parents'. She says that if she rents, she will have no money to travel. And she wants to travel. Her passion is travel. And motorbikes. She is joining a tour with 30 Germans in early April, mainly men, and crossing the southern U.S. on Harley DAvidsons. This is a practice run for her. She says she needs to develop "balls" to go out on her own on a big bike.
How about the 2 French couples with their 4 children aged 4 - 6 who are travelling thru Laos on bicycles. I saw them only briefly. Another avid cyclist told me about them. He, a 69 year old American, is traveling with his wife. They have been cycling in Southeast Asia for about 35 years now. He was in awe of the French couples. He saw them leave in the morning. The women pull the trailers with the gear. The men pull the children , 2 in each buggy.
And the young blond Rasta I met today. French. Very smiling and friendly. He bought a fishing boat in Thailand at the Thai-Lao border. He outfitted it with a motor and is cruising down the Mekong to Cambodia. Alone. Had he any previous experience manning a boat? Not really. Are you planning to sell it at the other end? I hope so, he smiles.
There are as many stories as there are people. People are happy to tell their stories. I am happy to hear them.
I asked him, what kind of doctor are you? A dermatologist, he replied. For 25 years. You can get rich as a dermatologist or you can travel. He chose to travel. Then after 25 years he became bored with his profession. He got psychoanalyzed and liked it so much that he became a psychoanalyst which is what he does now in Paris. And continues to travel.
Another person was an Irish woman, about my age, heavyset, draped in shawls and necklaces. She owns a fish processing shop in a small village in the southwest. Her husband a fisherman. All her 4 children in the business with her. The fishing industry is dead in Ireland. Her business imports fish from Norway, processes it and do home delivery in the village. When the tsunami hit Thailand, she had a strong emotional reaction and wanted to help. She had a bring and buy sale in her home, raised quite a bit of money and travelled to Thailand. She went to one of the sites badly affected and joined a European NGO. She gave the money she had raised and spent a month helping to build a house for a local woman. She was so proud of her effort.
She came back a few years later with family and wanted to show them the home she had helped build. She walked up and down the street looking for it. It wasn't there. Finally she asked at the local store - where was the house? They flattened it, she was told. There was no permit. The woman who was living in it was sent back to her village. Mary had thought the woman was local. It was a deep blow in the chest, she said. She has just come from there on this trip as well. She has made some good friends there and visits when she can. This trip was a birthday present from her children.
And what about the Australian man whose parents were Holocaust survivors from Poland? He now lives in England and is self employed. When I probed further, he was happy to tell me that he is a performer. He juggles crystal balls around his body at parties. Weddings. Bar Mitzvahs. Lots of Bar Mitzvahs. He has brought a ball with him and sometimes in villages he takes it out and does a little show.
And the German stewardess for Lufthansa in her early to mid forties. Works 6 months a year then 3 months of rock climbing at Krabie in Thailand. She says there is a community of around 200 climbers who meet there every year. A very friendly group. She feels like it is her 2nd home. Then she spends 3 months in Damascus, learning Arabic , studying and visiting the archeological ruins there. She is a trained archeologist and her focus has been mesopotamian archeology. But there is no money or jobs to be had in her field. This works for her. She has developed a happy balance of work and play.
And the Danish woman who wouldn't give her age. Maybe late 30's or early 40's . Says she hasn't had a home since 2004. She goes back to Copenhagen to work and save money. She stays either with family or friends, buys the food and cooks sometimes. Her friends are happy to support her but question her reality. She stays a few days here, a few days there, Never long enough to be a burden. She has 20 boxes at her parents'. She says that if she rents, she will have no money to travel. And she wants to travel. Her passion is travel. And motorbikes. She is joining a tour with 30 Germans in early April, mainly men, and crossing the southern U.S. on Harley DAvidsons. This is a practice run for her. She says she needs to develop "balls" to go out on her own on a big bike.
How about the 2 French couples with their 4 children aged 4 - 6 who are travelling thru Laos on bicycles. I saw them only briefly. Another avid cyclist told me about them. He, a 69 year old American, is traveling with his wife. They have been cycling in Southeast Asia for about 35 years now. He was in awe of the French couples. He saw them leave in the morning. The women pull the trailers with the gear. The men pull the children , 2 in each buggy.
And the young blond Rasta I met today. French. Very smiling and friendly. He bought a fishing boat in Thailand at the Thai-Lao border. He outfitted it with a motor and is cruising down the Mekong to Cambodia. Alone. Had he any previous experience manning a boat? Not really. Are you planning to sell it at the other end? I hope so, he smiles.
There are as many stories as there are people. People are happy to tell their stories. I am happy to hear them.
Friday, March 19, 2010
small is beautiful
After an 8 hour bus trip, we land in Pakse. In the dark. Again. The tuktuk is waiting to take us to the town 7 km away. He wants 30,000 kip each ($5). I say, that is too much. OK, 20,000 each. They load our bags on. My dusty little suitcase among the enormous backpacks. We arrive in town. Motorcycles all around. The city map is unclear and it is too dark to read it. The hotel I am looking for has closed down. Across the street is a huge monstrosity. 3 floors. My room is big enough to fit a single bed and a tiny tv in the corner. I have to move the waste basket to the bathroom to put down my suitcase. A laminated painting of what look like Canadian geese flying over a tropical river covers the light switch to the bathroom. (Do Canadian geese fly to southeast Asia?) No window. Fan above the bed. 70,000 kip. ($9). I think I will look for another hotel tomorrow in the light.
barbeque fish
On the road ten minutes out of Nong Kiaow, just past the school is an unmarked thatch and bamboo building. Someone said the food is delicious here so we have come to try it out. We are dubious. It is dark. There is no one there but a very smiley Lao man. He gives us a tattered menu, the same one we have seen all around town. We say: Barbeque fish? He repeats: Barbeque fish? We say: vegetables? He says: vegetables? We say: rice. He says: no rice. At this point, we realize that we are not in control of the situation at all. The language barrier is too great. We shrug and surrender to the moment. He goes to the back. We sit around a table in the cold shack and wait. After a while, Marie and I go back to see the kitchen. There is no kitchen. Our host is feeding briquets into a wood fire. The fish is sitting in filet slices on a plate. Oh, we think, somehow he is going to grill the fish here. But no. He now takes the hot coals and places them in a clay container. He brings the container to a wooden table prepared outside. There is a hole in the centre and three plates around it. Each has a small bowl of red sauce. He puts the clay container in the centre hole and places an upside down homemade metal collander over the coals. He brings a big bowl of vegetables - cabbage, leaves, carrots tomatos, the fish on its plate and a container of broth. He lays some fish on the collander, ladles some broth around it and puts in some vegetables. He shows us how to continue. We cook and eat, eat and cook. The fish grills, the vegetables stew. The man plays petanque in the sand nearby. It is very tasty. What is that slab on top of the collander? I ask. It is a piece of pork lard. Gives the grease and flavour to the fish and vegetables. Oh, I say.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
herbal sauna
It has gotten very cold. I am wearing all my warm clothes, even my long johns and my fleece. A perfect moment to try the sauna. I have seen them advertised along the way. I don't know what to expect so I bring my soap just in case there is a shower.
The sauna is a little house on stilts. There are 2 tiny rooms and a large porch with a roof over it. Underneath the house, a man is burning wood in a big stove that heats a large metal tank filled with water. Into the tank, he puts cinnamon bark (lots of cinnamon bark), mint, basil, bay leaves. We go into the first room to undress and put on the sarongs that are provided. Then we step into the second room. A chimney from the metal tank below feeds into the floor here. Steam is billowing into the room and we cannot see anything. The man shows us where not to step. We sit in the steam. It is very spicy and strong on the eyes. After a while we take a break. We come out onto the porch. There is ginger tea waiting.We go back and forth until we are saturated with steam and herbs. It no longer feels cold outside.
The sauna is a little house on stilts. There are 2 tiny rooms and a large porch with a roof over it. Underneath the house, a man is burning wood in a big stove that heats a large metal tank filled with water. Into the tank, he puts cinnamon bark (lots of cinnamon bark), mint, basil, bay leaves. We go into the first room to undress and put on the sarongs that are provided. Then we step into the second room. A chimney from the metal tank below feeds into the floor here. Steam is billowing into the room and we cannot see anything. The man shows us where not to step. We sit in the steam. It is very spicy and strong on the eyes. After a while we take a break. We come out onto the porch. There is ginger tea waiting.We go back and forth until we are saturated with steam and herbs. It no longer feels cold outside.
river weed
You know that green moss that grows on rocks in rivers that move a little slowly? The stuff that feels slimy underfoot. The Lao harvest it, squeeze the water out until it resembles green threads. Then they pound it into flat sheets that when dry, look like nori. They sprinkle it with sesame seeds and sell it in the market. They prepare it in restaurants by cutting it into small pieces and then deep frying it. It is salty and crispy. Like overfried French fries. On the menu - rever weed 10,000 kip
bladder issues
It appears that 3 hours is the official timespan to accomodate the Lao bladder. Take a bus and after 3 hours, we stop for a pee break. No matter where we happen to be. Sometimes it is at a restaurant and the women line up at the back of the resto. A wooden door, the squat toilet, the big barrel brimming with water, plastic dipper floating on top, waste basket with pink crumpled toilet paper. Then again it could be on the curve of a road, no shoulder, the drop off on one side, the mountain on the other. The men line up facing the precipice. I see one Western woman trying to find a hiding place in the bushes. I see the Lao women squatting in the ditch, somehow staying covered as they pee. I too squat in the ditch. I have no shawl to cover my buttocks. As I rise, I see the Westerner's bare bum on the other side of the road.
sengtong
Sengtong sits by the road about 45 minutes out from Meung Noia. In front of him is a cave, behind him the Nam Song river. He sits there all day from 6 in the morning till dark. He charges 10,000 kip (just over a dollar) to tourists to walk further down the road. He is here every day, 7 days a week, 365 days a year. He has been doing this for over 2 years now. He likes the job.
He has a little transistor radio and a book for tourists to sign in. He has a hut across the way for chickens. He says there are about 10. He tells me that business is slow this year. There were more tourists in 2008 and 2009. As well, now there are "bad people" sometimes, the ones who refuse to pay. They have already paid their visa to enter Laos, they say, and don't think they should pay to walk on the road. What can I do, he laughs and shrugs. He lets them pass. There is a sign nearby that states that the money is for the village school.
I ask him if it is alright to ask him what he is paid. He says it is OK and tells me that he is paid 2000 kip for every 10,000 paid. Some days there might be 20 people who pass. Other days (especially in the rainy season) there are none. So his maximum daily salary might be $5.
He used to have a restaurant and a guesthouse in the village and used to do guiding as well. But there was some problem and he had to close his business down. He is content with his current job. He listens to the radio. He looks at the mountain. When I passed on the way back, there was a friend visiting.
He has a little transistor radio and a book for tourists to sign in. He has a hut across the way for chickens. He says there are about 10. He tells me that business is slow this year. There were more tourists in 2008 and 2009. As well, now there are "bad people" sometimes, the ones who refuse to pay. They have already paid their visa to enter Laos, they say, and don't think they should pay to walk on the road. What can I do, he laughs and shrugs. He lets them pass. There is a sign nearby that states that the money is for the village school.
I ask him if it is alright to ask him what he is paid. He says it is OK and tells me that he is paid 2000 kip for every 10,000 paid. Some days there might be 20 people who pass. Other days (especially in the rainy season) there are none. So his maximum daily salary might be $5.
He used to have a restaurant and a guesthouse in the village and used to do guiding as well. But there was some problem and he had to close his business down. He is content with his current job. He listens to the radio. He looks at the mountain. When I passed on the way back, there was a friend visiting.
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