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.
Monday, March 29, 2010
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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