Not everything went according to plan. After all, this is Thailand. There are bugs and bats, beggars and ladyboys, and scams and sales pitches abound. The cleanliness of food stalls and other such facilities are not always on par with Western standards. You don’t always get what you pay for (and unfortunately, sometimes you do). The climate is stifling. The mosquitos relentless. In addition, Jeff and I have been in “travel mode” for so long now that we have become accustomed and desensitized to so many of these travel woes and elements of culture shock. Things that would have caused some grief, from bugs in my food and dirty bathrooms to not knowing what tomorrow has in store, are now just a part of life. There are stark contrasts between being tourists on vacation and travelers on a budget. And yet, we were able to find a sort of balance, share our experiences, and best of all spend lots of time together. So for all these reasons and more, we are equally touched, impressed, and grateful that our friends took the leap across the ocean.

Dinner on Koh Phi Phi

We explored the Andaman Coast, spending some time eating and kayaking around Ao Nang, with a side trip to the beautiful Rai Leh Bay in Krabi. We took a ferry to Ko Phi Phi for a few days where we got in some beach time, went rock climbing up limestone karsts, did some snorkeling and swimming around the island, and partook in one night of beach partying with free buckets of alcohol. Good food, good friends, free drinks = best time.

After Peterson and Jenny headed back to Bangkok for their flight home, Eugene, Jeff and I hopped on yet another ferry to check out Koh Lanta. Laid-back hardly begins to describe it. Compared to Koh Phi Phi, Lanta is like a very shy, distant cousin. To liven things up for the Lunar New Year, the guys decided that fireworks were in order. While I was busy contemplating the fascination that males have with fireworks and worrying about burning faces, appendages, and buildings, Jeff returned with a large bag and a huge smile announcing that he had blown the day’s budget on the contents of the bag (which I am sure would not be legal in most states). Suffice it to say, after stuffing ourselves at a $3 all-you-can-eat hot pot buffet, we welcomed the Year of the Tiger with a literal bang.

Haad Rin. This is the beach on Koh Phangan where the legendary Full Moon Party takes place. So every 29 days people come from all parts of the world to the Gulf of Thailand. And every 29 days those people and more come from all over the island and from neighboring islands to descend on Haad Rin. Last night, about 30,000 people made the trip.
We arrived to a brightly lit neighborhood of storefronts and restaurants selling the standard fried chicken and pizza party food and buckets of alcohol. The streets overfilled with people in clown wigs or fluorescent body paint. The energy of the place was contagious as Mari and my excitement kept growing. We were about to join in and buy a bucket when we turned down another street and saw the beach. Masses of people drinking and dancing everywhere. On platforms, on decks and spread over the entirety of the beach. Turns out we hadn’t even entered the party yet, just the on-deck circle so to speak. As soon as we stepped onto the beach, a girl stumbled towards us, grinning goofily. Apparently, she decided she could no longer stand, and enlisted 3 strangers just to my left to aid her in her descent by tackling them as she fell to the sand. It was just before 10 pm. Looks like someone needs to work on her pacing in the future.

We walked the beach checking out the party, drinks in tow. At this point, we both were probably a little excited from the atmosphere, but also a little wary. Every once in awhile we would see a shady looking dude or two walking around probably waiting for an easy pocket to pick. And for 2 non-partiers, we felt a little old. But with each sip and then gulp, anxiousness gave way to excitement as the Full Moon lured us in. We came across a large gathering of people as they circled what looked to be an undulating light. As we edged closer, it turned out that it was not a light, but a fire. A huge rope was continuously doused in petroleum and set on fire, the alternating light coming from the ropes swinging. Turns out this was jump rope for the adrenaline junkies. People would happily go in and jump to the crowd’s delight. It would continue until someone’s rhythm failed and would end with drunk people stopping, dropping and rolling.
We walked down the beach more and saw the party’s bathroom facilities. People waded into the water and peed into nature at low tide. I saw a high stakes game of limbo, as the limbo stick, like the jump rope, was of fire. People would pass under it, lighting their cigarettes on the bar as they went. I was contemplating how low I can safely go when Mari ran up and high-fived me. She had just returned from peeing with the masses in the ocean. The rest of the night turned out to be loads of fun and consisted of more buckets, more fire games, and more stupidity. We eventually rolled into our bungalow about 4am, after I tossed my cookies just outside it. Looks like I need to work on my pacing too.

Making good use of the pool

First Koh Tao activity-snorkeling in Shark Bay, an easy walk from our room. So we grabbed our snorkel gear and headed off. The road leading to the bay had been closed, so we were told that the only way to access it was to swim from another bay farther up the coast. As luck would have it, I had brought along my new dry bag, purchased the previous night after a bit of bargaining. Into the bag went everything we had, clothes, towel, camera, money. We clipped our flip flops on to the outside. Jeff slung the bag over his shoulder and we dove in for the swim. The snorkeling in Shark Bay was disappointing, but the bag did its job. It was my turn to carry the bag on the return trip. For most of the swim, I was having a grand time pretending to re-enact the scene from “The Beach”, as a shorter, Asian version of Francoise, swimming her butt off to reach the legendary island. We found out much later, that had we stayed on the rocks and NOT swum to Shark Bay, we could have snorkeled with about 50 sharks. Bummer. Go figure.

Food in Koh Tao is expensive (in our experience more so than most anywhere else in Thailand). Our friends from home were on vacation, with Koh Tao as one of their stops, and aside from one amazing dinner which they generously treated us to, our pockets definitely took a hit. We resorted to dry packaged ramen again for a couple of meals (which is slightly more classy when enjoyed from the balcony of one’s room). Even the local non-western catering restaurants seemed to be in on it. Oh, would we like rice with our rice dish? Then that will be an extra 20 baht. Puh-lease. Time to head off.

Busy day

We are now on Koh Phagnan, the second largest island in the Southern Gulf archipelago, where the full moon parties are the stuff of travel legend. We plan on staying here for at least a week, which will put us right here for the full moon. The problem is, we’re not ravers, nor heavy partiers. I don’t like techno music. I really don’t like large crowds of drunk people (unless I am one of them). Okay, so that’s more than one problem. But, how could we be on Koh Phagnan during the full moon party in high season and NOT attend the festivities? This should be good. Stay tuned.

The day after the day that became known as the “Massacre of 64,” I went out and bought a mosquito zapper. I’ve been looking forward to this for months, but have held off for not wanting to actually carry it around. It’s a tennis racket shaped instrument that has a small electrical current running through the “face” of the racket. See a mosquito, show it your backhand (remembering to follow through with your body) and zap! Mesquite BBQ mosquito. The prey has become the predator.

The same day I bought the zapper we went to see another of the world’s top predators. This one however is warm, cuddly and a welcome sight (under the right circumstances). We visited a place called Tiger Kingdom and spent about half an hour inside the enclosures with the equivalent of toddler and adult tigers. Mari entered and was in heaven. I was somewhere in the SF Zoo around Christmas time. But my fears subsided and we were able to sit and touch the tigers if they were lying down. When they were up and walking around us, we happily stepped back and observed. Being this close to these animals was a real highlight for us.
And it was a highlight that almost didn’t happen. We originally planned to volunteer in Kanchaniburi, Thailand for a month working with tigers at a place called Tiger Temple. We were both really amped to work with animals that had been illegally poached and couldn’t be returned to the wild. However, our research into the program brought up some concerns about the animal’s treatment (even in a country where animal conservation has a different meaning from our own) and we had decided we couldn’t support it.

And Tiger Kingdom isn’t perfect either. Assuming “perfect” is only the wild in protected areas, free from illegal logging, human interaction and hunting, this is far from perfect. The tigers are in enclosures and are fed chicken daily. They interact with humans daily, from birth. They will never be returned to the wild. But, that’s not the goal of the kingdom either. It’s a breeding program, keeping a species from extinction from a world that is far from perfect. And in a country without government commitment around conservation, this agency has naturally turned to tourism dollars to fill a void. And they do seem to treat the animals well, especially by South East Asian standards. They are cared for by handlers who have known them since birth. They look healthy and happy. And even if we’ll continue to hope for an ideal world, and hope that one day there will be large scale sanctuaries set up for these majestic animals, in the present we’ll happily settle for a step in its direction.

I looked out the window as the bus pulled out of the station. It was hard to believe that last year at this time, I was staring out a tiny window…but crying my eyes out and simultaneously acting as an immediate buzz-kill for Jeff, who prior to my sniffling was totally amped. In case you’re interested, he does a re-enactment of this scene (badly). Maybe he’ll show you if you ask. As embarrassing as it is to recall now, this episode serves as a marker of how far I’ve come.

There are small differences and larger ones. As for the little changes, if there was some debate, it is now official. I can go an entire year without make-up (gasp) or heels (big gasp) and wearing only the clothes I can carry. There are a few more freckles on my face and the rest of me about twelve shades darker, however temporary. I can kill a cockroach and eat a grasshopper. The cravings for Western comforts, while greatly appreciated, have slowly become less necessary. Plus, I can pee anywhere, including off a tree or in the nastiest of nasty public toilets. Woohoo! But that’s all small stuff.

The best part of travel--making new friends

As for bigger differences….well, I think that remains to be seen. It’s easy to be affected and feel like a different person when you’re out of your comfort zone and being challenged everyday. But the other side of this experience is whether or not we have grown enough to make changes in our daily lives once we’re back home, where it will be all too easy to slip back into old habits. We’ll see how it goes. I hope this trip will continue to affect us always, and that we will go about our daily lives differently as a reflection of it. It is hard to say how or what form these changes will take, since we are still out here on the road. I can be a little extreme, a little bit “all or nothing” and as Jeff usually reminds me, it will be about balancing the changes we want to make, with the reality of our lives once we get back. As the months have somehow dwindled to weeks, the usual challenges of negotiating a fair price or securing lodging will give way to negotiating salaries or securing a parking space, but the long term challenge will be finding a balance between our “travel selves” and our actual selves. Or maybe they are now one and the same. It’s been a recurring dilemma, particularly for me. Good thing we still have several weeks to figure it out.

The pick of the crunchy bunch

The losers (there was no way)

“Maybe I’ll just try a leg to start…”  Very crispy.

One leg down, and look at the size of this sucker

Crispy on the outside, crunchy on the inside, tastes a little like fish

Do I have to eat the head too?? I think I'm done.

Ta-Daaa!

We crossed from Cambodia to Thailand at the Poipet/Aranya-Prathet land crossing. Just across an invisible line, lay our newest host country and while crossing was procedurally seamless, the difference couldn’t have been more obvious. Upon walking across the border to find a Bangkok-bound bus, the first things we noticed were a couple of shiny casinos at border’s edge, and outdoor bars and ATMs galore. We’re not in Cambodia anymore, Toto. Welcome to Thailand!

First meal in Thailand

We arrived into Central Bangkok that evening and were welcomed by the sight of bright signs and neon, traffic lights and jams, street food vendors, and well-heeled ladies (and lady boys!) passing by the taxi window. Instead of playing our usual game of “find-a-guesthouse”, we were extremely fortunate to stay at the condo of a friend of mine. It was awesome and we almost didn’t want to leave. The views alone could have kept us entertained for a few days. I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again, when you’re on the road, there is nothing like than getting to stay in someone’s home and appreciating the creature comforts. We’ve been lucky enough to be hosted a handful of times throughout our journey, and for us, the opportunity always seems to come at the right time. Thank you again. All of you.

After prying ourselves away from Bangkok, we made it to Nakhon-Ratchasima (aka Khorat) to see some pre-Angkorian ruins (guess we didn’t get enough at Angkor??), and where we also celebrated the New Year in local style. An outdoor festival with tons of great food (heavenly) and live music (less heavenly) and other surprises (such as an actual snow-filled dome and holiday displays). We enjoyed the atmosphere and took it all in.

Bag of coke at Chatachuk Market (doubles as an icepack when done)

A couple of nights ago in Surin, while waiting for our meals at an outdoor street table, Jeff grabbed my arm, staring over my shoulder. My first thought was that there must be a cockroach on the back of my chair, but luckily for both of us, it turned out that Jeff was merely staring at a baby elephant walking around with a couple of handlers. For a few cents, we got a bag containing several sticks of sugar cane (or something resembling sugar cane) to feed to him. The little guy was a bit impatient (referring to the elephant), trying to get the sticks out of the bag on his own, but it was a great bout of evening entertainment. Plus, how often do you get to feed a baby elephant during dinner? I have a feeling Thailand will be full of surprises.

And in Asia, it’s the temples/pagodas/wats that you burn out on.

I hope none of this sounds like complaining, or that I’m taking our experiences for granted. I’m not. It’s just human nature, isn’t it? To adjust, to process and adapt, and eventually to move on. So a year of ruins and 5 months of wats have taken their toll on us. Hmmm, 5 tiered pyramid, it’s cool, it’s no 7 tiered pyramid, but it’s cool.–This Buddha statue has his eyes crossed.-There’s more ruins but they are all the way on the west end of the complex? Do they look that different? No, I’m aiiight, you go ahead.
So without realizing it, in my mind Angkor Wat had a near impossible task if it intended to impress me. I dared it to astound me. “Wow” me Angkor, if you can.

Wow.

Seeing Angkor turned out to be like seeing the Sistine chapel. You walk through a limitless museum with paintings and murals by Rapheal, Bernini, Rodin on every wall and ceiling. And you do this for hours all while following signs directing you to the Sistine Chapel. And your mind can’t possibly appreciate or process everything you’re seeing so you start to glaze over. You want to just get there, see it to say you saw it, and go take a nap. But then you get there, and everything you saw before simply fades. You and the hundred other people staring straight up are silent because however great you thought it was going to be…this beats it. And you need the silence so that all your energies can be directed to the sense of sight. If you could breathe it in, if you could taste the Sistine Chapel, you would. Well seeing Angkor was like that.

It overwhelmed on the macro scale as well as in the minute details, shaking any feelings of burn out from me. Spread out over 1000 sq. kilometers there were nearly 1000 temples built over a 400 year period. We walked, biked, took motos and tuks-tuks to them over a 7 day period. And throughout the exploration, the temples remained able to show us each one’s unique nature whether it was climbing through the ruins in Beng Melea, photographing the overgrown trees of Ta Prohm, looking into the stone faces of the Bayon, or walking the endless walls of bas reliefs. And though they are now ruins, slivers of their past glory, the temples fulfilled their intended purpose for me just as a chapel had done for me years ago; my visit ended not with my feeling burnt out or desensitized but rather renewed and a little in awe.

So far, it’s been a mixed bag. As you know, we tend to frequent the street stalls and local street vendors, where menus are unheard of and the food is (almost) always more than worth the cents spent. In other words, street food has been good to us. So we expected more of the same in Cambodia. Maybe we’re not hitting up the right stalls. Nothing’s been horrible, but there’s nothing to write home about either. Lots of instant noodles with various toppings, rice porridge, and bland soups, and the ever present fried rice or noodles. However, we have slowly discovered that some of the restaurant prices are only slightly higher than the streets’. Once this discovery was made, we’ve taken to hunting down cheap restaurants with good food and have had some great success. Where Khmer street food may have fallen a bit flat on our palates, Khmer restaurant food has been outstanding.

Garlic pepper chicken (with famous fresh Kampot peppers)

The best curry to date (albeit a Thai style curry), has been had in Sihanoukville. Best fruit salad? Phnom Penh. A garlic pepper chicken that was so good, we went back and ordered it for lunch the next day. A couple nights Jeff even treated himself to barbecued barracuda (with salad and baked potato) for $3….which he thoroughly enjoyed, even if he didn’t enjoy my sneaky fork tactics. And if anybody is wondering about the “happy pizzas”…ours was a better than average pizza, but we have decided that a more appropriate title would be “relax-y pizza”, since shortly after polishing it off, I fell asleep in the middle of a conversation discussing how relaxed we were feeling. This, thankfully back at our guest house, not in the restaurant!

Neither of us has encountered the highly anticipated tarantula, scorpion, or other such fried nasty on a stick, and other than for a photo op, I’m not really looking forward to that moment. In the meantime, I’ll be happily digging into what may be my next new favorite Khmer dish.

Happy Jeff with a "happy pizza"

Note: Shortly after writing this blog, we have had great luck with street food again in Siem Reap.

We have been in Cambodia for two days now. It is everything and nothing like people have said, which is why we are grateful for the chance to see it for ourselves (more on this in an upcoming blog). After visiting the Tuol Seng Museum (aka S-21 or Security Prison 21) where an estimated 17,000 Cambodians were held, tortured, and killed during the Khmer Rouge regime, we headed a few miles out of Phnom Penh to the Choeung Ek Genocide Center, simply and bluntly referred to as “the killing fields”. There are no words that can fully describe the terror or the pain and suffering that occurred here. I could try, but I would fail to capture the horrific magnitude of what took place in recent history. Just like I can try, but fail to understand how human beings can do such things to other human beings, and how we continue to fail to learn from history.

Classroom turned prison cells

The brief knowledge I had of the Khmer Rouge was pretty ummm…shall we say, basic. By that, I mean all I really knew was that they were a political party that terrorized Cambodia during the 1970s and tortured and killed thousands of their own people in order to build a self sustaining communist country of workers. But knowing the “basics” is not enough. That knowledge gleaned from a few lines of info in some news article or textbook does not do justice to the victims and their families. Some people wonder why places like these are preserved and made into tourist sights. It’s a valid question. Particularly for victims or surviving family members whose only wish is to forget or who want their loved ones’ remains respected and properly cremated, in order to honor them according to Buddhist tradition. But as a tourist, I can say that the value of preserving and maintaining such places is necessary. Change can only come from education. And the lessons gained from visiting the very site where unspeakable acts took place have far reaching effects.

We stood inside the cells and walked through the halls of the former high school-turned-prison in S-21. Even now, there’s a ghostly sadness all around. We stared at the gallows, really gymnastic high-bars turned into torture devices, complete with the original jugs that were once filled with fecal matter into which victims heads were submerged. We read about the ideology and practices of the Khmer Rouge. You were killed if you were a doctor, teacher, student, monk, military or government officer, artist, writer, singer, actor, “intellectual” (or if you wore glasses) or city dweller. Only peasants were spared in order to create a population of self sustaining farmers. Money was abolished. Cities evacuated. Buildings destroyed. The regime created such a sense of distrust among the people, that no one could trust a living soul. They separated men from women, parents from children. If you were suspected or reported as doing anything against the rules, you were taken to one of the “security centers” and tortured into giving a false confession, then executed. Friend betrayed friend, neighbor killed neighbor, and in many cases sibling turned against sibling.

Today at the “killing field” we came face to face with the mass gravesites. In some areas, there are still piles of bones set aside. We saw the stupa filled with level upon level of the nearly 20,000 skulls that have been exhumed thus far. We saw the “killing tree” where children and babies were killed by holding their ankles and smashing their heads against the tree. There were even faded articles of clothing in a small heap at the base of the tree along with some bones. It crushed my heart.

In the shadow of the "Killing Tree"

To say this blog entry is depressing would be an understatement. But to not blog about it at all would fail to capture our experience and would be unfair to the people who lost their lives and those who continue to suffer. It dawned on me during our tuk-tuk ride that every single person we come across in our Cambodian travels who appears to be at least our age or older, is a survivor of the reign of the Khmer Rouge. This astounds me. That this is all so recent that it’s barely classifiable as history. And with the trial currently taking place, it must be opening some old wounds for much of the population today.

The Holocaust. “Ethnic Cleansing”. Somalia. Haiti. Rwanda. Darfur. There are no comparisons to be made when it comes to crimes against humanity. Only shame…anger…disgust….and also hope. We can’t change the past. Green grass now covers the pits of the mass graves, but that doesn’t change what happened there. If we learn from the mistakes of the past, then there is hope. Given the state of the world today, we are still a long way away. But for each museum or site of this nature that we’ve visited, I have not been the only tourist with tears in my eyes. And despite the outside daily clamour, it is respectfully, sometimes shockingly silent. People emerge changed. There is hope.

Tadlo is a teeny town in Southern Laos, known by tourists for its waterfalls and as a place where one can trek through the forests atop an elephant. To get to Tadlo, we took an overnight bus from the capital, Vientiane, to the town of Pakse. Having now been on our fair share of overnight buses, our expectations were pretty much set. At best, we figured we were in for individual clean-enough reclining beds and maybe even a stinky but working on-bus toilet. At worst, we geared ourselves up for not-so-clean, semi-reclining chair-beds, middle of the night pit stops, and loud Lao music blaring out of the speakers all night long. Maybe the stars aligned, because the bus gods were kind to us, and our 11-hour trip turned out to be the best overnight bus journey to date. As we entered the upper deck, semi-private double beds awaited us. If you happen to be a solo traveler, this is a potential hazard, but for us, it was perfect. The sleepers were clean, the toilet was only slightly disgusting, but best and most surprising of all (in addition to a peaceful music-less night), we were given dinner, bottled water, then dessert, and packaged towelettes (for freshy!). We were reluctant to get off the bus in the morning.

From Pakse, we ventured out to Tadlo. After hearing animal abuse horror stories, particularly from Thailand, I was wary of hopping on any old elephant. We had heard of elephants at the very least being bribed with food, and at the worst, having hooks through their ears, or being kicked and beaten. My hope for Tadlo was that the elephants were treated respectfully and humanely. We asked a few questions before signing up for the morning walk and it turned out to be a good experience. Jeff and I both rode in a hand-made basket, stuffed with a couple of rice sacks and cushions, atop the elephant. Our non-talkative guide sat on a blanket straddling the elephant’s neck. No sticks, poles, hooks, or even treats. Aside from the occasional verbal command, we only witnessed him using his feet to push on the elephant’s ears in order to guide her. Moon (our elephant) seemed happy enough and got to eat lots and lots of vegetation all along the way as we loped through the jungle, through a village, and even forded a couple of rather strong streams. I got a chance to see our surroundings from a different point of view and it was just pretty darn cool. Blue sky above. Water, ground, people and animals below. And canopy all around. It was nothing like our camel ride in Africa where I was teetering back and forth with each step and holding on for dear life. This was leisurely and peaceful and I enjoyed my high ride. I’m hoping Moon did too. Several times, she raised her trunk very slowly back over her head, as if to say hello or make sure we were still there. I’m no expert in elephant behavior, so I hope that’s what she was communicating, as opposed to “get the heck off my back” or some similar sentiment. After we climbed down, I wanted to give her a pat and hoped to share a moment or something, but she had already started in on a huge bunch of bananas.

Hanging out with Moon

In the middle of Lao rattan woven bungalows pepper both sides of the Mekong river as teetering bridges seemingly made of driftwood crisscross the water. Here, hammocks are a way of life, as sunsets unfold between limestone karsts that nestle the small town in peaceful isolation. This is the Vang Vieng we hoped to experience.
We arrived into town just after sunset and our first sight was a tuk-tuk full of blonde hair, board shorts and bikinis. Mud was smeared across sun-burnt skin as college-age foreigners struck superstar poses as flashes from their digital cameras popped off all around. The scene was repeated as we passed more and more tuk-tuks bringing back drunk hordes from the town activity of tubing. They, barefoot and loaded, then flooded the town restaurants and bars to keep the good times rolling. And rolling…and rolling. After we found a guesthouse we continued to hear those good times throughout the course of the night as the riverside bars lived up to their location and kept the liquids flowing. The morning came with the sounds of a rooster and of a partier that had partied too hard and needed to chuck his/her cookies. Repeatedly.
Ok, Vang Vieng was not what we had thought. We realigned our compass of expectations by moving to a rattan bungalow overlooking the water. Another guest came up to us and told us about the tubing. “It’s too expensive if you rent a tube. Just grab a tuk-tuk to the first bar with us, and when the crowd moves on, float to the second and you can swim to the third and fourth.” And though tubing without a tube was a novel idea, we decided to pass on the invitation. Instead we sought out the other side of Vang Vieng. We hiked a nearby mountain, along the way passing scattered villages and farms. A boy ran up to us, carrying with him two puppies he wanted us to see. We went to a bright blue lagoon and cave. And, we tackled a limestone karst. Mari and I tried rock climbing, going up 24 meters on one of our climbs. It was fun and exhilarating, minus the spider I almost grabbed who was hiding in one of the holds I reached for. Ugh. We stayed in Vang Vieng four nights in all as it proved to us day after day that expectations aren’t always a bad thing or even misplaced. Sometimes you just have to look a little harder (like past the nearest bar).

Everywhere we go, we are greeted with a smile and a warm, “Sabaai-dee!” which we return in kind. The most refreshing part about this ritual is that it is rarely followed by any solicitation, with which we have become so accustomed to almost everywhere else. Those who do ask us to look or buy usually do so quietly and politely and often react with humor when we decline their offers, which makes for a pleasant experience all around.

Monks and bikes in Luang Prabang

Food has been outstanding, and of course, this is huge for me. With the exception of one dish made with an overpowering, nose tingling, gag reflex inducing local herb, everything has been delicious. In fact, we want to stay in each town a bit longer just for the food (among other things), just in case the next town doesn’t have the same dish, prepared the same way. Most dishes are spicy, but in a mouth-watering tasty way, as opposed to the it’s-so-spicy-i-can’t-feel-or-taste-anything way. And we choose to accompany most of our meals with awesome Lao fruit shakes which sometimes are a meal in themselves at a mere 60 cents. Still trying to figure out the secret that makes them so darn good. See ya, Jamba Juice.

When it comes to nature and the environment, Laos is the least altered environment in Southeast Asia. This is in large part due to the danger that exists as much of the land is dotted with unexploded ordnance (UXOs), which are a danger for all. As an unintended consequence, this means Lao has a greater concentration of wildlife than Thailand and surrounding countries that have been ravaged by mass tourism. Even in the cities, it’s hard to get over the number, size, and colors of the butterflies that dart about. While poaching, deforestation, and other hazards occur, conservation efforts are in effect and in force to protect the country’s natural resources, which makes eco-tourism even more important here.

At the Kuang Si waterfalls near Luang Prabang

I’ve also gotten favorable impressions of the larger towns, which so far really is just Luang Prabang, but wow…what a place. It is described by one writer as the most photogenic city in all of South East Asia. Sure, it’s geared toward tourists-the main areas are packed with tour operators, guesthouses, souvenir shops, bars and restaurants. But it’s also lovely and lively, with several markets and wats cared for by the many monks.  French colonial architecture, local vendors, and the Royal Palace turned museum, all sandwiched between the Mekong and Nam Khan rivers. A turn down a side alley takes you through peaceful, dusty pathways, where local people dry rice cakes, do daily chores, and school kids walk home in small noisy packs with dusty uniforms. We get a good feeling being here.

Getting through Laos in less than a month requires some long bus rides, but the scenery makes it worth it. We’ve been taking the local buses that drive through the mountains and villages, and I find myself gazing out the window more often than dozing off in my seat. I can’t help smiling every time someone gets off the bus at one of the interim village stops and is greeted by a welcoming committee of friends and family (and sometimes dogs and pigs), eagerly awaiting their bumpy arrival. The houses, many made of tightly woven rattan and some on stilts are simple but beautiful. We pass by women and girls in sarongs, showering and washing their hair outside their houses. Children (some clothed, others not) running around rolling bike tires with sticks–the first time I witnessed this, I thought to myself, “Wow. Kids actually do that.” In a country where the average annual income is $400, there is beauty everywhere. I don’t mean to glorify poverty in any way, as there is no question that theirs is a hard life and a hand-to-mouth existence for many (not to mention the very real risk of encountering unexploded landmines, which kill approximately 200 children every year as a result of the US-led “Secret War”). But what I also see are incredibly strong families who are very close and the value in that. Watching them gather at all times of day for a game of badminton, volleyball, or soccer never fails to warm my heart. It reminds me of a simpler time, even if I have never lived it, and that in my own life maybe, sometimes, less is more.

• Udomxai was a jumping point to Luang Nam Tha, an NPA (National Protected Area) with supposedly great hiking. We thought we would have the chance to see Black Asiatic Bears, elephants, or ligers. We were disappointed to find out that it was unlikely to see any animals without doing expensive 4+ day hiking trips. We opted instead for our own free 14 kilometer walk through stilted thatched villages to a waterfall. We bolted down to Luang Prabang the next day.

• Luang Prabang is an UNESCO World Heritage City. With its old French architecture, flourishing temples and location between the Mekong and Nam Khan rivers it’s easy to lose yourself in its beauty. Unfortunately, as it seems with UNESCO protected cities and the catering towards package tourism it spawns dilutes the city’s charm. In spite of that though, the city still speaks to us and we’ve been finding our way through it to the things we think of as its gems. The nearby Kuangxi waterfalls are beautiful, producing turquoise blue pools that seem almost unnatural. The Hmong night market houses a food alley where a vegetarian buffet goes for about sixty cents. And today, Mari and I volunteered at a local English teaching program called Big Brother Mouse. Mari worked with a 21 year old man who was trying to learn English so that he wouldn’t have to be part of the family business as a farmer. He reminded us how much Luang Prabang, and it’s bubble directed towards wealthy foreigners, is not reflective of the average living conditions in Laos by mentioning in conversation practice that he didn’t know if he liked eating at restaurants, since he had never been to one before. For my couple of hours of volunteering, I was matched up with a young man who took me to an internet café because he wanted me to help him communicate with a doctor he had met here before…through Facebook of all things. We spent the whole time setting up his account, posting a picture to his profile, and sending out his 1 friend request. In the end, he thanked me and asked if I would be his second friend. Something tells me he’s getting the hang of it.

Still happily going to town

Not to brag (because I probably should be ashamed), but this is what I consumed in less than an hour and a half at Fanny’s First Friday of the Month All-You-Can-Eat Ice Cream Buffet in Hanoi. You should have seen my reaction yesterday when we walked by the sign. As for my ice cream appetite, Jeff said he has never felt more proud and horrified. To his own credit, he put down 16 scoops, which is fair, but he had nothing on me.

Heaven on a sign

If not for the crowds of fellow ice cream freaks getting a little too pushy, I would have had a few more scoops. But after Jeff got shoved out of the way by a pudgy little girl on her way to the chocolate syrup fountain and my numerous attempts to muscle my way to the front of the crowd, it seemed like a good time to make our sticky exit. At $4 a piece, it was a bit of a splurge, but not a bad way to spend our last night in Vietnam.

At the counter again.

If you know me well, then you know the details surrounding my fear of anything on two wheels. For those of you that don’t, all you need to know is that I was in a bicycle accident in college. I took the brunt of the fall with my face. The result was an eye patch, a false tooth, a couple of scars, and consequently bike-a-phobia. Sure, I can laugh about it now. Once, several years later, I was even able to hop back on a bicycle (albeit the back seat of a tandem on an empty bike path in Tahoe).

However being faced with the prospect of hopping on the back of a motorbike was no laughing matter. I had a feeling it was going to happen at some point, and the time had come. If we wanted to get to the Marble Mountains and China Beach, motorbike it would have to be. I have been observing people on motorbikes for months now. The way the passengers nonchalantly hold on to packages of all sizes, kids and babies stowed between, up to four on a bike, as the vehicles and streets and hazards fly by, where the rules of the road are that there are none. Jeff and I each had our own motorbike, complete with driver and helmet. If I didn’t already have reservations to begin with, what definitely did the trick was the fact that printed in familiar font on my driver’s helmet and bike were letters spelling out “HONGDA”. Despite the fact that my driver was really a complete stranger, I had to resist the urge to wrap my arms around his waist and hold on tight. After all, in my analysis of motorbike passengers, the only ones I’d ever seen clutching their driver were likely also dating or married to them. So, the 15-minute ride was spent with white knuckles gripping the skinny bar behind me, legs squeezing both sides of the seat and bike, and body so tense, I thought for sure I’d be sore afterwards.

Fueling doubt

Anyway, since then I have been on a motorbike three more times. It doesn’t matter that for two of those times, I had no idea a motorbike trip was involved until it was too late (once to get to the bus station and once to get to the docks-both sans helmet, and the latter trip with all my luggage!). Good thing I had one ride under my belt because who knows how many more motorbike rides lay ahead. In fact, just today we rented our own motorbike for a day trip to a national park. And despite the inexperience of my driver, at least I was able to hold on to him for dear life without shame. Jeff said that it was fun to drive and towards the end of the ride I realized that playing passenger wasn’t as terrifying anymore. It was even fun…almost.

Hypothesis
Remarkably, 10 months in and we haven’t been robbed, pickpocketed or beat up. We have the things we set out with (minus only a few things we’ve carelessly forgotten along the way), haven’t had any major health problems or other major issues. All in all, it feels like we’ve been extremely fortunate. And that’s led me to be a little reluctant to write about how we have been faring to date—for fear of our fortune changing by me jinxing it. And I surely don’t want to be the jinx, since I’m not the cause behind our good fortune. But for today, science trumps superstition.
For some time, I’ve been convinced that much of our good fortune is directly linked to Mari. She’s the equivalent of a scientific secret weapon. There’s a school of thought that says that mammals all have an instinctual affinity towards mammal babies. And because of that mammals will want to take care of them. It’s called the Biophilia Hypothesis. Think about how warm and cuddly you feel when you see kittens or puppies. Or calves or piglets for that matter. It’s the reason there are urban myths about people being left in the woods and raised by wolves, and why Tarzan was…well, Tarzan. Mari, thanks to her impish size and Asian youthfulness, seems to have fallen into a little natural selective niche with this one. Her oversized backpack only accentuates the issue.
Despite not speaking the language, local peoples love trying to communicate with her. They pat her on the head and grab her cheeks. I’ve seen men pick her up and carry her across streams and then put her down as gently as if she were being lowered into a crib. Every time we get off a bus or train, someone is helping her with her backpack. Last week the guesthouse owner, a woman actually about the same height as Mari but older looking, took Mari’s backpack for her and then held her hand to help Mari cross the street. For whatever reason, people want to baby this 31 year old woman, which has been ok with me.

***note****

12 hours after I wrote this, we lost our camera.  Way to go jinx.

Day 2 in Ho Chi Minh was spent walking around the city and visiting the War Remnants Museum. After our free breakfast at the hostel, we walked toward the museum. As we navigated the city streets, I tried to prepare myself for exactly what it was that were going to see. No amount of mental prep would make taking in the exhibits any easier. It was heartbreaking. What I came away with was that regardless of politics and beliefs, to see the war through the eyes of the country where it all took place was horrifying. The pictures were hard to look at, but I forced myself to look at each and every one, to read each and every name. Some may argue that the museum does not provide a balanced view of the war-that it is weighted with propaganda, and maybe that’s true. But to be fair, maybe that’s justified, given that the museum is housed within their homeland. Although Vietnam as a country is recovering, many of its people are still reeling and the effects of the war continue to be felt and seen everyday. I walked through several exhibits with a lump in my throat, and at times the tears spilled over. As I learned more about the personal stories of the war, I couldn’t help but feel what we all know as fact-that in war there are no winners. It’s one of those simple truths that we all take as a given, but at this moment I actually felt it to my core. In this museum, the way it was portrayed, my heart broke for the people of Vietnam, but also for the Americans, the French, the Laotians, Japanese, Australians, and everyone else, military and civilian alike, who had no choice but to see and experience what no one should have to-the consequences of war. One of the most touching pieces was a recent addition to the photo exhibition, an enlarged copy of a letter written by a young Vietnamese man to President Barack Obama. In his well-penned letter, he commends our current president for his beliefs, and his hopes for his children to live in a world of peace. He also asks for assistance for victims of Agent Orange, including the author himself. Despite the best of intentions, I had a heavy feeling of hopelessness, knowing that in all reality his pleas may not be answered, at least not in his lifetime. The museum closed for an hour, just as the afternoon deluge began. But we bought ourselves ponchos, had a pensive lunch, and went back to the museum to see the rest.

Exhibit in War Remnants Museum

Day 3-4 were spent not in Ho Chi Minh, but instead on a tour of the Mekong Delta. I feel a bit hypocritical after the stance we’ve taken on tours, but sometimes they are truly unavoidable. Plus this two-day tour was $20 including transportation, hotel, and most meals. The first day was worth-while and included a boat ride to several smaller islands, a canoe ride through the delta, a trip to a bee farm and candy and wine making factory where we sampled the wares and Jeff drank snake wine.

Snake wine

We enjoyed some live local music and dancing, and took a bike ride through one of the villages. The best part of the bike ride other than hopping off, was that I didn’t crash into anything, since it has been well over a decade since I’ve ridden on one of those things. That night we stayed at a hotel in Can Tho where we tried snake for dinner (chewy), and woke up at 6 in the morning to go to the famous floating market, Cai Be. It was slightly underwhelming, compared to what I had conjured up in my head, but nice seeing the fruit and vegetable-laden boats floating around selling their wares. What was less fun was the two-hour boat ride after to the ferry, and the five-hour bus ride back to HCMC to end the day. The one-day trip would have been the better option. We had a great cheap dinner at the night market in Ben Tranh (my favorite meal so far) to wrap up our stay in HCMC. Now it’s off to Mui Ne to get away and back to beach life.

Yummm....snake

Guitar (Un)Hero

Most days we do a lot, and see even more. We’ve been racking up the passport stamps and entrance tickets to world heritage sites and historical landmarks, while trying to eat and do as the locals do, engulfing ourselves in the culture of whatever country we happen to be in. But today was not one of those days.

Our day began with a warm chocolate banana muffin-half for me, half for Jeff. Next up, a free foot massage (the first of four each in the span of 24 hours). Then we weighed our options and decided to take in a movie. We walked over to the movie theater and caught a showing of The Transporter. On the way back, we passed a fun zone, so I tried my hand at guitar hero and a video game. I couldn’t quite grasp the concept of either one, so both attempts were relatively short-lived (although I’d love to give Guitar Hero another shot one of these days as I sense the potential for much fun to be had). We realized our lunch options were limited, and ended up having Western food (Burger King, to be exact), which turned out to be embarrassingly good, given the rarity of eating good old American fast food. After our meal, we strolled through some shops. The selection was overwhelming and too high-end for our needs, so we just browsed around and moved on. I’m sure if you’ve managed to read this far this has all the makings of a cheesy high-school date, rather than a day in the life of a world traveler, but do read on (if you are so inclined). We saw a large banner advertising a Tribute to Michael Jackson event scheduled for the evening, and we were just in time-lucky us. We hopped on the tram and made our way to the event, just ahead of the crowds. I was even able to find a space near the stage. The performer/impersonator was Edward Moss. Never heard of the guy, but apparently he is famous on the circuit and has stood in for Michael Jackson at several events, as well as played his likeness in movies. The guy put on an entertaining show and even from the second row, the resemblance was probably as close as you’re gonna get. After the show, we grabbed a quick dinner and yet another foot massage, checked our email, and found a clean, comfortable, and quiet place to lay our heads down for the night.

Tribute to the King of Pop

The next morning we awoke to the sounds of the early morning hustle and bustle, but continued to lounge around for a while and took in a couple of episodes of “The Simpsons” and “Seinfeld”. Then we got up and visited some gardens within walking distance. The Sunflower Garden was cute, the Orchid Garden was beautiful, but my favorite by far was the Butterfly Garden, full of live colorful butterflies of all sizes, fluttering about, drinking, resting, and one even emerging from a cocoon.

From the Butterfly Garden

As we exited the garden, I glanced around for a clock and discovered that our time stuck in the transit terminal was almost up. Who knew one could have such a busy day of fun trapped in an airport? After having spent two full consecutive days and nights in airports–Manila and Singapore, we were glad to make our escape. Still, if we are ever stuck in transit again, we could do worse than Changi International in Singapore. Next stop-Vietnam.

Sleeper bus to Shenzhen

Not surprisingly, the carriage was full and the underbus luggage compartments so jam-packed that our backpacks only made it on due to the conductor’s brute force. But that’s where the familiar stopped. We have grown accustomed to the eating, drinking, shouting, and smoking on the trains, but stepped onto this bus to the sound of quiet, with the conductor asking us to please remove our shoes and place them in the designated bag. Jeff took his space on the top berth window bunk, while I was stuck with the top bunk in the middle aisle of the carriage. I think they assign small people to the middle. After fluffing my pillow and arranging my bag and shoes and self into position for the night, I was amused to find a seatbelt attached to the bed. I laughed, but there was a short portion of the ride where I put it to use in order to remain in bed while the bus took some sharp turns. During bathroom stops, passengers quietly tiptoed through the aisles off and on the bus. I kept waiting for a loud phone conversation or music, but the ride was peaceful and uneventful.

Anyway, our friend Terrence, has been generous enough to host us for our entire stay in Hong Kong. We’ve been spoiled again with the comforts of home, a refrigerator, a washing (and drying!) machine, cable TV, wifi, and an amazingly awesome view of the Hong Kong harbor and skyline (ok, the last one is not actually a comfort of home, just a pretty cool comfort). It’s been months since we’ve been able to stay with a friend, and while some of the hostels might be nicer than we expected, they can’t compare with the feeling of staying at a friend’s place and the benefit of their company and hospitality.

View from rooftop bar

We have been in Hong Kong for a few days now. I like this place. Maybe not so much as a backpacker, but I imagine for vacation or business or residence, it could be great. I wonder if they need speech therapists here. I’m told they do. The tough thing about traveling through trendy cities is the effect it has on the small amount of vanity I have left. The skyline is gorgeous. The people are beautiful. The malls are ridiculous. Last night after a delicious Shanghainese dinner, we went out for a drink. We took an elevator up to the top of a high building, and when the doors opened to the rooftop bar and view of the city lights sparkling below, I actually gasped. Then I remembered to try to act like this is where I hang out every Thursday night. I’m feeling a bit like a country bumpkin, which I assume might be uncomfortable already if that was true, but despite being a “world traveler” (I guess I’m allowed to self proclaim that now?), I am also a city girl at heart. I don’t yet know how to reconcile these two people and respective ideologies, but I hope to find a way.

Looking all innocent

After that, it is safe to say that I did not enjoy the rest of the hike through the Ecological Monkey Zone. I tried to remain near any groundskeeper at all times, with their sticks and slingshots. And despite my indignation several minutes earlier, any time a macaque came too close (which was often), I found myself whispering to myself, “Get it! Hit it…hit it!!!!” which sadly they often did. Some of the ladies appeared to take a perverse pleasure in chasing the monkeys with their sticks, and playing games of monkey slingshot. Even though I was still a bit shaky from the incident, it made me really sad to see that several of the monkeys were a bit bloodied. I would like to think it was all nature, part of living in the wild, maybe a rivalry between packs, but I also think I know better.

A macaque monkey (not the culprit) and one freaked out girl

Mari has become a fan of….
1) Hostels in China - Contrary to popular and belief and all expectations, every hostel (and even cheap hotel) has been awesome. Surprisingly clean, as well as backpacker-friendly (with free wifi, book exchange, café/bar, free train/bus station pick-up, the works!)
2) Blue sky - never realized how much I love seeing blue, until going three weeks without (mostly due to smog and pollution as opposed to weather)
3) Street food - ‘nuff said
4) Signage in what has become known as “Chinglish”. Quite amusing. Here are a few examples: “Deformed Man Toilet” = Restroom for the disabled; “Slip carefully” = Watch your step; “Don’t stroke the works” = Do not touch.
5) Personal space - Not that I have ever NOT been a fan, but after spending any amount of time in lines/buses/malls/streets/etc. or having the lady next to me on the train put her nylon-clad feet all up on my legs and alternate that with using me as a backrest, I am all for personal space.

Mari has become NOT a fan of…
1) Spitting - especially in confined indoor spaces OR when point of contact is on or near my shoe
2) Long nails - Particularly long fingernails on men, and long toenails on women (this is not exclusive to China…just a general pet peeve of mine)
3) Macaque monkeys - see future blog on this subject
4) Censorship - I had almost forgotten some of the rights we have at home that get taken for granted. In addition to blocked websites, such as Facebook and YouTube, there are quite a few other websites that are not allowed/censored, but you only find out after waiting and waiting while it fails to load. Also, one of our fellow travelers gave us a copy of a banned book about China, but we have to hide the cover when reading in public places.

Mari has yet to make up her mind about….
1) Sleeper trains - entirely dependent upon one’s cabin mates and length of journey
2) Crotchless pants for tots - Not the cutest look, but functional.
3) The “half shirt” look - Men have no qualms about rolling up their shirts to expose the belly (and I have yet to see a six-pack). More power to them, I guess. It is hot, after all. But if they can, why can’t I??
4) Hot pot - so good, but soooo hot. Worth it?
5) Stairs (never had anything against them before, but they are everywhere….after climbing thousands of stairs, seeing them makes me cringe).

Quail eggs on skewer

Last week we found ourselves on a side street in the polluted transit city of Shijiazhuang. The Lonely Planet states that there is no reason to go there, except to pass through, and unfortunately we could see why. Here were our food options for lunch: A California Beef Noodle King USA. A Yoshinoya/Dairy Queen (a common pairing in China). And several over-priced looking restaurants, one called Sushi Beef. Hmmmm. Or….a trip down a tiny, dirty, alleyway lined with food carts.

Food cart alley it was. No menus here. No English either. We walked slowly by each cart, some set up with as many as twelve different dishes in trays, looking for something appealing. We passed over the pig noses and vat of chicken feet. We slowed down in front of the next cart and started pointing. We got a heaping plate of three different dishes (an onion dish, a bean sprout dish, and a tofu dish). As there was no seating outside and no apparent eating area inside, I had figured we’d get a take-away container of sorts. So when I was handed the heavy plastic plate, I just stood there and did my best pantomime of “Where to eat?” It became evident that we were to go inside. Behind the food cart, past a heap of dirty buckets and trash were a couple of steps leading down around a corner. As I rounded the corner, I spilled an enormous amount of sauce on the concrete floor. I looked back apologetically, but even though they witnessed it, no one seemed to mind. I looked up and it became clear why. There was a pile of black dirt, about waist high on my left, heaps of debris, garbage, and old food on either side, and through the dump there were four tables in a dimly lit concrete compound. There was food all over the floor. No décor whatsoever. The tables and floor were covered in sauce stains (evidently both freshly made as well as days/weeks old). It was the kind of place where you just know you will see a roach or rat if you look hard enough. There were a few middle-aged men, sitting around and drinking, who stared as we entered. Toward the end of our meal, a fly dropped dead and landed upside down on our table. But the food was delicious. Really really good. The three dishes, plus two bowls of rice the man brought over, were 60 cents total. It was so good that I told Jeff I would consider coming back for dinner, but that I might have to eat with my eyes closed.

This week we tried hot pot in Sichuan the night we left Chengdu with our friend, Cat and her friend, Chris.  Luckily, their Mandarin is better than ours and although “not spicy” was not an option, we were able to order a safe selection of items for our pot.  It was HOT, but good.  The real deal.  Like shabu shabu, but with a giant pot of deep red spicy broth with a layer of Sichuan and chili peppers covering the surface, instead of plain boiling water.  A little intimidating, but I’m glad we got to try it.  Plus, it gave us an excuse to go for ice cream immediately after dinner to soothe the burning in our mouths.  Awesome.

Hot Pot and some fixin's

Message on cartoon cat in park

up to my expectations and that was that. Clean. I could literally count the amount of litter I saw on one hand (maybe two). Not bad for a modern city in Asia. Nothing hugely surprising in the way of architecture or culture. Just a lot of polished urbanity. Sparkling shopping mall after shopping mall. Amusing signage on buses, trash cans, and other public places, kindly reminding its citizens to be kind and helpful to one another. The airport was probably the highlight, since we stayed overnight in the movie lounge on the second floor. Cushy, comfortable, relatively quiet (despite the movies), dark, and best of all….free. Also, no bugs.

What we probably enjoyed most about Singapore was that despite its lack of character, it was a refreshing reminder of things we hadn’t experienced in the last month. Western comforts and sights that under normal circumstances, we take for granted, or sometimes even try to escape. Flush toilets and toilet paper. Air conditioned buildings. Signs in English. Recycle bins. Food courts and Coffee Beans. Multi-plexes. People who actually wait in lines in an orderly fashion or for the light to cross a street.

While we made it to a temple or two and a museum, I’m still not sure what would draw people to travel here other than for business or a serious addiction to shopping. But it is definitely pretty, especially by the river and when lit up at night. The weather was similar to a nice day at home. There was a nice mix of cultures and religions from different parts of Asia. And it was pleasant and easy travel, which was what we appreciated the most, given that China is next on the list. It’s not the easiest place to travel in, and will be even more difficult considering we don’t speak the languages. We are gearing up for lots of drawing and charades ahead.

Green sea turtle hatchlings awaiting their release

*Side note: I would have felt a little better about this, but my google search on handling hatchlings revealed that although there are all sorts of pictures of people holding baby turtles (even on the conservation websites), the majority state that this is a serious no-no. Apologies to all those conservationists and animal rights activists out there.

After arriving and having our Oreos, we wondered what exactly we were going to do to occupy our days here. A walk around the perimeter of the entire island took half an hour. The only electricity comes from generators that power up from 6 pm to 6 am daily. Aside from a few warungs and restaurants that operate out of homes, the only forms entertainment seem to be an outdoor volleyball court and stage area, an indoor badminton court, and a concrete mini-golf course (of all things). And 360 degrees of ocean. The snorkeling is out of this world–we see new creatures each time. There are coconut, banana, and palm trees dotting the white sand, and of course the water is a crystal clear aqua blue that fades to a bright royal blue at the drop offs. But what makes it paradise, is that it doesn’t try to create authenticity. There’s just no need. We spend hours just watching island life going on around us. Men fish, do repairs, smoke in the shade. Women sit in small groups after completing their many chores. The children are some of the friendliest, funniest bunch we’ve come across. They are everywhere! They ask us our names over and over. We watch them as they climb trees (or anything climbable), sing Indonesian pop songs at the top of their lungs, play games with whatever has washed up on shore, and get a good scolding or two. The calm is periodically broken by the sound of their voices, a motor boat, a falling coconut.

Eel swimming around can of sardines (seen during our lunch)

It may be tiny. It may be quiet. But we have experienced highlight after highlight, and moments that take our breath away everyday. Now, here we are seven days later and trying to figure out a way to stay just a few more days.

The one and only day trip we have gone on was an excursion to “jellyfish lake” as we like to call it, as I don’t know if the lagoon has an actual name. This might be a good thing because it is one of those secret places that you want to keep all to yourself (although it was one of the major reasons we came to Indonesia and something Jeff has been talking about for the past seven months now). As our speed boat approached the island, I silently hoped it wouldn’t disappoint. Here’s the deal with “jellyfish lake”. At some point way back in time, there was a shifting of the tectonic plates that resulted in the creation of a lake in the middle of this island. Without any predators, the jellyfish that remained in the lake multiplied as well as evolved, losing their ability to sting. The island setting itself is picturesque, both from the outside as well as from within. The lake was larger than we expected and surrounded by mangroves. We wasted no time putting on our snorkels and fins and jumped right in. What can I possibly write that might capture the experience of swimming in turquoise waters among thousands of jellyfish? At worst, it was still magical. At best, it was practically spiritual. And if nothing else, it was therapeutic. As I moved slowly through the first few clusters of jellyfish, all I could do was try to stay at a safe distance (because who knows, what if they can sting afterall?), and stare. But within minutes, I was (gently, of course) poking, pushing, and holding each of the four species of jellyfish that inhabit the lake. Some areas of the lake were so chock full of them that I could feel them bumping into my shoulders and arms and sliding down my stomach and legs as I tried to swim through. It was like being inside a jellyfish screensaver. We stayed for hours. We stayed until the “crowds” (consisting only of a few other small families and groups) left, and we were the only two people on the lake. On the way back to Derawan, our boat driver let us out for a snorkel on the outside of the island–clear with beautiful reefs and a huge drop-off, which would have been a treat in itself, except that we had just snorkeled with jellyfish!!

Anyway, we’ve developed a basic routine for the rest of our days on Derawan. Wake up whenever it starts to get hot. Have tea and eat breakfast. Sit around, chat, take it all in. Swim with the sea turtles that come to shore daily. Snorkel. Have lunch. Snorkel. Lay out in the sun/shade. Read. Snorkel. Walk around the beach, look for seashells, other wildlife, or try to catch the sunset. Have dinner. Sit around on porch, hang out and chat with fellow guests. Take bucket shower. Go to bed. Repeat.

5:32 pm Friday—I’ve just overpaid the boat captain by 50,000 rupiah. He knows it and I know it. We both knew I would pay it the moment Mari and I dragged our sweaty, worn selves out of the van in the middle of nowhere as the sun was beginning to set.

5:30 pm Friday—After the 2 hour drive, we finally pull into Tanjung Batu. I smile out at the villagers who are returning home from work and all of the people on their porches. Blank stares or outright sneers are their responses. I turn to Mari and say, “Whatever it takes, we’re getting a speedboat and getting there today. I don’t think we’re welcome to stay here tonight.”

4:12 pm Friday—We just went over a huge pothole in the road. The driver had no choice but to swerve to avoid going into a part of the road that had previously collapsed. The pothole though, makes my backpack jump in my lap and it comes down on me heavy. The baby is jarred and stops breast feeding in the front seat. Why is it immodest for this Muslim woman to show her hair in public, but able to let her boob hang loose? I’m just asking.

3:27 pm Friday—I’m in the middle of the street in Berau and staring at the driver as he’s staring back at me. In front of us is the boot of the van, and it’s filled with eggs. At least 90 dozen eggs, stacked from floor to ceiling. I laugh because he seems to think I can put our backpacks on top of them. What the hell?

3:15 pm Friday—We just passed a turnoff to Tanjung Batu. Looks like we’re doublebacking.

1:46 pm Friday—My car buddy says something to me in Indonesian, which I assume means move. I oblige and we all exit the car that’s pulled over to the side of the road. And then we all take a few steps into the rainforest and pee. I find some plants whose leaves, as a defense mechanism, instantly close up when you touch them and aim my stream at them in attack mode.

12:53 pm Friday—Road trip! That’s what this feels like. I don’t know the driver or the other three men in the car that exists somewhere between a taxi and a carhire, but there’s some feeling of companionship in listening to the same music and having a shared destination. They’re my car buddies; they just don’t know it yet.

11:40 am Friday—Are we there yet? Are we there yet? I’m 55 minutes in to this boat ferry and starting to feel sick. Maybe it’s being cramped in a small boat with 29 other people, maybe it’s the low roof that’s making me feel like I can’t breathe, maybe it’s the small dirty windows that don’t allow me to see the horizon, except between the bounces of the boat.

10:38 am Friday—I repeat the Indonesian word for “head.” Then, “mouth, nose, and eyes.” The man that sold us our boat tickets has taken a liking to me as evidenced by this impromptu language tutorial and by the fact that his hand is on my thigh. My upper thigh. It’s a nice moment except for his hand.

9:59 am Friday—I’m still holding out hope there’s another way…a shorter way. But our hostel receptionist and the taxi driver both confirm that if we want to get to Derawan, our route is as follows: 1 ½ hour ferry from Tarakan to Tanjung Selor-3 hour taxi to Berau—2 hour taxi to Tanjung Batu—30 minute speedboat to Derawan. Damn you Lonely Planet!

7:30 pm Thursday—Mari and I think it’s best to eat someplace simple and quick as it looks like we might be in for a long day of travel tomorrow and need a good night’s sleep. So, we’re eating at a mall foodcourt, which turns out to be more interesting than expected as it has a karaoke performance going full blast. Funny Asians.

4:07 pm Thursday—”How can you not know how to get to Derawan but your travel agency advertises itself as ‘Derawan Travel?’” I ask the woman across from me. She mutters something to us and returns to her paperwork. Mari says, “Thanks…for nothing” as we turn to leave.

2:00 pm Thursday—”To Derawan? No, not from here. I think you have to go to Berau.” answered our taxi driver, giving us the first inkling that I’ve read the signs wrong.

12:21 pm Thursday—Our plane just landed in Tarakan. Hopefully we’ll be in Derawan by the end of the day!

11:44 am Thursday—We checked in, paid our airport service tax and got through security in eight minutes. Record time. And with a minute to spare, I buy some strawberry oreos and jokingly tell Mari, “We’ll save these as our reward for getting to Derawan.”

11:36 am Thursday—I’m in front of the ticket office of Sriwijaya Airlines and they’ve just assured me that if we buy now we can still catch the flight that is scheduled to leave in exactly nine minutes. I take it as a good sign, since we’re supposed to be able to get to Derawan from either Tarakan or Berau and this flight leaves forty minutes earlier than the Berau ones. Could it be any easier?

Mari and I were reflecting on this after having just secured our next day’s plans of visiting an off the path village and temple hopping. With the rest of the day free, we decided to just walk around the beach the rest of the afternoon before heading back to our hostel. There are times when we have time to kill in spades and this was one of those afternoons. We passed a group of uniformed guys who asked us if we had a minute. And we’re used to usually just walking right by them (Mari after politely refusing, and me usually without any acknowledgement), but today decided to give them a chance to do their spiel. One of the guys gave us two prize cards and asked us to open them. Mari opened hers and “won” either A) a digital camcorder B) a week free in a resort or C) $500. In sing-song English the guy exclaimed how excited he was for her and told her if we went to listen to a holiday club presentation, we were guaranteed one of the three for free. We balked a little, but he threw in a $20 food voucher for us. We balked a little less and he threw in free drinks, and a free taxi ride back to our hostel. Sold.

As we entered into a van to go to the resort where the presentation was Mari started to freak out a little and exclaimed, “for the record I don’t like this one bit.” I asked her what record she was speaking of and tried to calm her down by telling her it sounded like we were going to sit through a timeshare pitch and come away with some freebies. She said fine, but she wasn’t talking at all throughout the pitch. She yelled her last words of, “we are not giving you any money!” to the sales guy as we pulled into the resort.

It turns out, the Royal Resorts are the largest Holiday Club in Australia and expanding almost exponentially after its 18 years in business. With luxury apartments or suites in Goa, India; Phuket, Thailand; and Bali, Indonesia we had the opportunity to OWN a studio for a week a year in India if we purchased that day. And if we did that, we’d receive airline and cruise discounts up to 50% off public prices, and be tied into a network of partners that offered luxury holiday stays for about $200/week. I smiled through the presentation sipping my cold coca colas and asked a few questions to seem interested. It seemed too good to be true, but I was assured people from all walks of life made the jump and took advantage of it. In fact, it was pointed out to us that we could sell our week or even the cheap holiday stays and make our money back within 6 months. And despite the numbers not adding up, us knowing nothing about this company, not even knowing where Goa, India was, and us not having gainful employment, their pitch did get our minds turning. Do we have friends and family who we could share this wonderful gift with? YES… Did we think we could travel enough to take advantage of this remarkable savings? YES! Could we put just $1500 down today to start cashing in on these guaranteed rewards for the next 25 years? And see, that’s the sticking point we keep coming back to…no.!

In the end, we wizened up maybe because of cash flow and maybe because it was a silly dream to begin with, and told them no. We finished our drinks, took our food voucher and free week in a resort in Phuket, Thailand. And we left to return back to our hostel in our air-conditioned taxi ride. And as I looked out the window, scooters rushing by, I caught myself barely and nearly inaudibly, but definitely, singing.

We took a short flight out of Jakarta and into Bali earlier this week. It feels like an entirely different place and it is. We had a hard time choosing where to stay on the island, but chose Sanur as our home base. When we first arrived in the late afternoon, we dropped our bags off in our room and headed straight for the beach, less than five minutes away on foot. When we got there it appeared we had made the wrong decision. The “beach” was a long stretch of sand with boats haphazardly moored here and there. There was no crashing of waves. There were no waves at all. Instead, there was a grayish-white film covering kelp and debris a few inches deep resting on the shore that gradually became the dark gray-blue of the ocean. Down the length of the beach was resort after resort, each marked by their signature lounge chairs and pools which were deserted. The staff were getting ready for dinner, and despite the fact that it was sunset, we saw only a couple of tourists wandering around and all the dining areas were empty. This was supposed to be high season. We each made our guesses as to what was the matter. The economic crisis. The recent bombings in Jakarta. The less recent bombings on Bali. Whatever the case, we were bummed. This was not the Bali we had envisioned.
Yesterday we took a taxi to Kuta, the next beach town over. It was as touristy-beachy as anything we’ve seen. Surf shops and flip-flop stores fought for space with designer sunglass and clothing boutiques. The restaurants with outdoor seating had their misters on and the mist floated at regular intervals over their customers and towards the crowds at Starbucks. I was tempted to stop in at the Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf for my favorite drink, but had to remind myself that I am still supposed to be in “Travel Mari” mode, and something like an English Breakfast Tea Latte will have to wait until I’m home. We made our way to Kuta Beach and breathed a sigh of relief, wishing we had chosen to stay there. There were waves and surfers catching them, soft sand, couples snorkeling, sunbathers, and lots of people but not enough to call it “crowded”.
But on our way to catch a taxi back we had second thoughts, as the streets were just a little too packed with everything we had been trying to escape.

Today, we gave Sanur beach one more shot and were quite happy to discover that it was a perfectly pleasant little beach, now that it was high tide. It was transformed. Sanur was the calm version of Kuta. The waves were not as big, but the quiet was both relaxing and invigorating. There was enough of a breeze to pull the kite surfers and windsurfers trying out their skills, and the only noise was snippets of conversation of beach-goers and the occasional roar of a jet ski. This is more like it. And a yummy dinner at a little warung cost us a total of $1.70. I like this Bali.

That was when I decided to forego watching a third movie, just enjoy my chocolate truffle cake, and polish it off with my wine, crackers, cheese, and single piece of dark chocolate, and try to sleep it all off. I reclined my chair and was surprised to see that the roof of the cabin had been artificially darkened and there were twinkling stars and constellations overhead. A little too Disneyland-ish for me, but a cute touch. The rest of the flight was quick; breakfast equally impressive. We landed at five in the morning in Dubai and had six hours to kill before our next flight. We spent half of it walking the airport in awe. It felt like being in Vegas, but taken to another level (as if that was even possible). Even though it was just the airport, it had the vibrancy, name-brands, and feel of a place where the world’s wealthiest come to play. And although it was barely six in the morning, it could have been any time of day. Amongst all the fancily attired people (who dresses up to be at an airport anyway?), and their jewelry, watches, sunglasses (again, indoors…at daybreak??), and roll-away luggage, we looked distinctly out of place with our backpacks, wrinkled and slightly dirty clothes, and my static-charged travel hair. Oh well. After attempting to sleep on a bench made of rock overlooking the blue lagoon in the zen garden, we found a more comfortable spot in the reclining chairs nearer to our gate. That’s when we realized we were actually looking forward to getting on the plane. Jeff had already picked out which movies he was to watch ahead of time.

All in all, the flight was just like the first (except no toiletry kits, and no wine for me). Including our first flight, Jeff watched six movies, three episodes of Chuck, and two of My Name Is Earl. I watched a total of four movies and a couple of NCIS episodes. As I enjoyed my lunch (spicy beef strips with ginger and onion sauce over rice, with an appetizer of salmon pate and shrimp, and chocolate brownie with boysenberry and crème fraiche soufflé), propped up with my pillow and covered with a blanket in the climate controlled environment, I wondered just how different it would be once we were on the ground in Indonesia. I had made the executive decision to sleep at the airport upon landing, as opposed to finding a hostel in the middle of the night. The plan was to take the earliest airport bus straight to downtown Jakarta in the morning and find a place to stay. I spent the last hour of the flight enjoying the safety and luxury of the plane and wondering whether or not this was the right play. You just never know.

Anyway, Great Whites here range from 1.5 to 6 meters. Separating us from them are 2 inch steel bars. But despite the stupidity of those numbers, Mari and I were excited but not scared of the trip. We boarded the boat with about 25 other excited people and set off towards Shark Alley. The ocean though, was rough this day and rocked the boat, constant like a heaving breath. About 1/3 of the excited boat stopped smiling pretty quickly with this motion, myself included. Ten minutes into our 4 hour viewing session and the first of us was over the side of the boat, heaving up her complimentary breakfast. More people followed suit. I stared at the horizon hard in an effort not to join them. About 2 hours out at sea, we spotted our first Great White as it swam up to the tuna heads placed as bait beside the boat. People rushed into their wet suits so they could jump into the cage and get a better look. I sat hunched on a bench with my wet suit pants on unable to will the rest of it up. Mari was a trooper, and in between sessions of throwing up she went into the cage and got close and personal with a Great White. It stayed around for another hour or so before we headed back to shore. I turned green, from the seasickness and from envy at those not affected by seasickness. I never was able to get into the cage and left the day disappointed— not with the shark adventure, but with myself.

Maybe it was an effort to redeem myself, but two days later in Cape Town I was at the Two Ocean’s Aquarium, signing up for a Predator Dive. That’s a dive in their 2 million liter tank which includes five ragged tooth sharks, two sea turtles, stingrays (the largest was bigger than a queen-sized bed), and numerous fish.

Three of us were going into the tank. The Dive Master would tell us when to enter into the tank to avoid descending onto one of the sharks. He entered with what looked like half a broom stick and told us it would deter the sharks if they got too close. I looked at the sharks, saw their 2 ½ meters of length, and thought that must be one special stick. But he jumped in the water and we followed. He told us to watch out for the Mussel Crackers and then he descended. Having no idea what a Mussel Cracker was, I watched out for everything as I went to the bottom of the tank. And for the rest of the dive, every time a fish came towards me, my hands instantly withdrew to my armpits. But the dive itself was amazing. I even found some shark teeth during the dive, which the aquarium let me keep as a souvenir.

Before the trip I emailed a South African friend of mine and told her South Africa was one of our destinations. She replied back that the country is beautiful and a ton of fun—just be careful because it can be dangerous. I quickly replied back to her asking what the hell the dangers were. She, um, never did write me back.

But after having driven through it I think I understand her and the country a little better. Adventure. Unique landscapes. Wildlife. Adrenaline and danger. This is South Africa. Nature at both its rawest and at its shiny display best. Car jackings and muggings are as much a possibility as a shark attack or the bungee line breaking. That is to say that all seemed equally unlikely, but nevertheless a possible reality. But there’s also a better respect and maybe even harmony (even the commercialized versions of it) with nature that allow us to fold ourselves into it, even for a short time. And there’s a rush here that you can’t experience anywhere else. And that’s why we came. We wanted extreme experiences in the most fitting of settings.

In between the cage diving and the predator dive we drove to Betty’s Bay. Here exists one of 3 colonies of an endangered species, the African Penguin. We walked close to these beautiful creatures and watched as they waddled in front of us, returning to the water or back into their homes. A mother kept watch of her baby, whose feathers were still like down. About a thousand remained in the colony and allowed us to hang out with them as they went about their day. One was curious of me and let me within a few inches of him before I moved on and let him be. We left there that day feeling fortunate to have visited them, sad for their future, and in love with the most awkward of animals.

We came for the sharks. We came for the lions and for the elephants. It was the 216 meter bungee jump and the opportunity to ride an ostrich that made our palms sweat. But in between all of the quickened heart palpitations South Africa offers something else. Quietly, it is encountering an endangered species and in doing so becoming more invested in it. Or more loudly and resolutely it is Robben Island, where Mandela was locked away during apartheid. It is the education of both nature and in a social experiment which is every bit as interesting as the USA. Eventually reflecting back on South Africa as one of our favorite countries, I have a feeling we’ll remember the moment our feet left the safety of a bridge and what a shark’s teeth look like from a meter away, but it will have been the moments in between those which will have made the impact on us.

• Two days in Kruger National Park doing our own version of a safari and animal tracking through the park in our little rental car. Spotted just three of the “Big Five”, but saw more than enough wildlife and close encounters to make up for the elusive two. Still hoping to spot a leopard and a black rhino one of these days, but for now we are happy to substitute cheetahs and white rhinos in their place, of which we were lucky enough to see several.
• Driving through South Africa on our own (on the left-hand side), seeing the landscape for ourselves, stopping whenever, wherever and for as long as we please, has been a new and refreshing way of travel for us. South Africa seems as if it was designed for backpackers, and the hostels here have most other countries’ beat. Even the most basic places have kitchens, pools, bars, lounge areas, laundry, etc. Knowing this, we bought some cheap camp gear (a tiny tent and two sleeping bags) which gives us the flexibility to stay almost anywhere for a fraction of the cost of a room or dorm, while still getting to use the amenities. We did end up spending one freezing night in what we thought was a B&B, where we set up camp after arriving close to midnight, only to discover the next morning that it was someone’s backyard! Luckily, they made light of the situation and even invited us in and offered us the use of their shower. (And for anyone traveling through Ladysmith, Boer & Brit closed a year ago and is no longer in operation.)
• Apparently surfing is big in South Africa. After one surf lesson (the cheapest in the universe–$5 for two hours!!), I have caught the bug. Was even able to ride one wave all the way into shore. Santa Cruz, here I come…
• Visiting the Nelson Mandela Museum would be an incredible experience in itself, but visiting the museum on his birthday felt even more meaningful. The man is a hero in every sense of the word, respected the world over and adored by his people. His birthday is celebrated by all in South Africa. When we arrived at the museum, there were balloons and people dancing at the entrance, and everywhere we drove that day, we saw signs saying, “Happy Birthday, Madiba!”, with all the radio stations broadcasting birthday wishes from celebrities and locals alike throughout the day.
• I have fulfilled a life long dream. We stopped off at Lion Park near East London, where we had the chance to play with a 5 month old lion cub-an experience that, if you love animals as much as me, is hard to put into words. I could have stayed forever. They practically had to kick us out of the park.
• Bungee jumping off Bloukrans Bridge–the highest bungee jump in the world….again, there are some moments you can not put into words. When you are standing 216 meters on a bridge looking down into a canyon, the word “scary” does not quite do justice to the experience and thoughts running through my head the moments before taking the plunge. It’s a good thing the fun-loving and well-trained staff push you off, otherwise it might not have happened at all. The most surprising aspect for me was how fun the freefall portion was-after the first split second of mind and leg-numbing fear, it really was a freeing feeling. And for a few seconds I felt like I was flying (versus the stomach flipping falling to my death feeling that I had anticipated).
• The Little Karoo area of the country provided us the opportunity to get up close and personal with its natural inhabitants-ostriches. They may be dumb and curious, but to make up for it, they are fast. Jeff and I each took a bumpy turn riding a speedy ostrich around the farm. If anyone is curious as to how to ride an ostrich, you jump on its back, remove the hood, steer left and right by pushing and pulling its neck in the desired direction as it careens around at breakneck speed (no pun intended) and stop by yanking its head backwards. That’s how you do it if you are an ostrich jockey. For me, I was helped on, told to squeeze my legs around the base of the poor bird’s neck, lean back, and hold on to its wings while two jockeys ran alongside to catch me before falling off. It was hilarious. Ostriches must have strong wings because I was holding on and pulling for dear life (and even ended up with an ostrich feather upon dismounting).

*In response to some comments regarding this video, the screaming/crying/laughing heard is not me.  While I may have let a minor scream or two escape, what you hear on the audio is the girl sitting next to Jeff and the camera.
• Shark feeding while scuba diving is next on the adventure agenda, as we make our way towards Cape Town. We will do the very best we can to stay safe and check out the city for ourselves before flying out to Indonesia at the end of the month.

Travel Lesson #1: There is no substitute for common sense, gut feelings, and being appropriately cautious and wary. There is a fine line between being overly cautious and appropriately so, which I am learning to navigate.

Travel Lesson #2 (Lesson one aside): Remembering the selfless generosity and acts of kindness that we have been shown in all countries by friends and strangers alike. This fact is to be recalled during all the other times I start to lose faith in humanity.

Travel Lesson #3: While we may have most of the best and the brightest (people, schools, gadgets, infrastructure, etc.), the United States is not either of these adjectives. We are simply an infant country, albeit one with power and riches, that has, is, and will make mistakes that will need fixing. What happens in the US truly affects every country in the world and their opinions of us as Americans vary from one end of the spectrum to the other. In some countries, learning I was American has garnered marriage proposals (two, to be exact), while in another country caused a police officer to refuse to help us with the simple task of directions.

Travel Lesson #4: I don’t have to love it, but I CAN live with only what I can carry on my back. Read: It is possible, although maybe not attractive, to go without make-up and hair product, wearing the same clothes for days.
Travel Lesson #4.1: Do not pack an ounce more than you can comfortably carry.

Travel Lesson #5: When bargaining, show no weakness (although a little humor can go a long way). Also, do not attempt to have a side conversation in another language that you are not yet fluent in, especially since everyone else speaks more languages than your average American.

Travel Lesson #6: Carry toilet paper and small change at all times-both worth their weight in gold. Keep ziplock bags and duct-tape handy-ziplocks for storage of liquids and leftovers; duct tape for fixing pretty much everything.

Travel Lesson #7: Climate change is real. There is no doubt about it. It is sad and scary to know that many of the places we’ve seen will be diminished or non-existent in the not too distant future. The fact that people can either turn a blind eye, or worse, claim it’s not happening is unbelievable.

Travel Lesson #8: While it is not necessary nor practical to eat as I do back home, I get irritated if I don’t eat for a long period of time. Snacks and the occasional ice cream have prevented many an outburst.

Travel Lesson #9: Always ask and be sure of the price before agreeing to anything (cab rides, rooms, entrance fees, food, etc) and always appear sure of yourself even if you have no clue where you are.

Travel Lesson #10: Despite the whole purpose of getting away, having frequent internet access is a must, not only in terms of planning and uploading photos, but for keeping in touch and staying connected. Honestly, I do miss home-some days more or less than others, but what keeps me going on the tougher days are updates from friends and family.

Thanks for following along on our travels thus far. Stay tuned!

To say that the tour was disorganized would be an understatement. The amount of miscommunications were too numerous to count. We did our best to be understanding, given the fact that most were based on cultural and linguistic differences, but by the end, we were fed up. We were able to see all the major sights, but between or after were subsequently driven to workshops, galleries, or specialty stores where we were sat down, served beverages and then “strongly encouraged” to buy whatever items were on display. As irritating as this was, it became even more so when we would see the same items being sold for a fraction of the price in the bazaar or elsewhere. Most of our issues with our tour company boiled down to money-that appearing to be the only factor of any real value to them (not customer satisfaction, nor genuine desire to share the best of their country). Of course, Egypt is not a rich country and people need to make a living. Understood. However, being a foreigner, one is an easy target. And to top that off, being on a tour apparently automatically means that one has lots of money and wants to spend it. I felt trapped between a rock and a hard place. It is impossible to explain that we are on a tight budget, and yet be on a tour (with a guide and transport and all the luxuries that come with). Add to that, the fact that we don’t have jobs, yet are able to travel for an entire year, and that lends itself to quite a contradiction. Obviously to the locals, we must have loads of money, and comparative to the general population of Egypt (and most of the other countries we’ve been to), it’s true. Joining a tour just added to this conception-for most of the experience, I felt like a walking dollar sign and felt little genuine warmth or reciprocity from everyone we dealt with, and there were countless times where I wished we were on our own with only our packs. Typically, everywhere else we’ve been the locals (at the very least some) have shown such kindness and interest in who we are, whether we like their country, and want to share their knowledge and culture. The fact that we never felt this way this time around, I blame mainly on our decision to experience most of the country through a tour (…and partly on the tour company itself). Once the tour ended and we were left with three days on our own in Cairo, we felt that the city and the people fully redeemed themselves. Despite the warnings, we were not hassled and the locals were helpful, friendly, (and only a little pushy). Our last three days (as well as the first few tour-less days in Dahab), were by far the best in Egypt.

Needless to say, some people never learn. We are again with a tour guide in Kenya. This however was planned months and months ago, when we were fortunate to meet someone in the Bay Area with a contact in Kenya who could tailor a tour to our budget. It has been outwardly much better than our tour in Egypt, but inherently the same issues are underfoot. This is going to be the last time we “tour it”. I have surprised even myself a little by how strongly I want to be an independent traveler again.

Cairo is a city with a population exceeding 18 million people. The metro system underwhelms with 3 lines of operation. The city is spread out so people will tell you that you need a car to get around. This is LA…if you took away some of the infrastructure, aged the buildings, crammed 14 million extra people into less than half the size of it, and added 40 Fahrenheit degrees. The result of such a city is that the streets overflow with cars and people and visible order appears only to physicists who study chaos theory. Drivers are aggressive in the way they switch lanes, in the way they defend their own lanes from others cutting in, in the way they create new ones entirely. But more or less, there are other areas of the world where drivers act like this. What adds though to the chaos and complexity of street traffic here are the people that walk across these same streets (and highways). Initially I was nervous in the streets sitting in a half a ton vehicle. Crossing the street brought images of Frogger to mind. But there they were…men, women and children as young as 7 walking between 5 lanes of oncoming traffic in ways that would make New Yorkers look like complete pansies. One night we watched the cacophony of traffic from our balcony and eventually it began to unfold into, if not a symphony, a dance between people and cars—ebbing and flowing in a way that made total sense to the people below. We watched for about an hour, surprised by the beauty we found in it.
Like I mentioned before though, I am not one of those people. If you want to find a way to emasculate someone, make them insecure about something they’ve done their entire life, and is done with a daily mundaneness all around him…like crossing the street. I felt like that kid who walks around the block for hours because they’ve run away from home but remember that their parents don’t allow them to cross the street by themselves. Now that I think about it, Mari and I did find our meals at restaurants around the right corner of the hostel we were staying at…coincidentally.
By contrast to the lack of self-confidence Cairo knocked into me was President Obama’s visit here a month prior. When he came to see the sights here, the city cleaned the streets he was to visit and replanted trees along them. But that’s not what should have given our president an ego boost. Egypt wanted to impress so much that when Obama visited, the day was declared a national holiday and people were urged to stay home so he wouldn’t experience the traffic of the city. And for the most part, people took their paid holiday and watched Obama give his speech in Technicolor instead of in person. Our president was able to effectively shut down 18 million people by simply showing up. And me? I’m gearing up to tackle the streets soon enough. Maybe just a few more laps around the block first.

For instance, we arrived via ferry from Jordan into the little port town of Nuweiba, located in the Sinai region. The whole ferry process was confusing and a bit of a headache. Luckily we ran into some equally confused backpackers, two of whom were from the states and spoke enough Arabic to get us where we needed to be. We settled in for what was a surprisingly comfortable ferry ride, despite the fact that we were never told the scheduled departure time, but whatever it may have been I am fairly certain we left hours after. The exciting part came upon disembarkation. The ferry had arrived in Egypt and had docked for at least half an hour. Jeff and I calmly waited in our seats, seeing no reason to get up since the doors were not yet open and boat security were standing in front of the exits with arms crossed. Despite this fact, other passengers began to get impatient. A couple of women accompanied by approximately six kids a piece, somehow herded their way to the front, which is when the pushing, shoving, and yelling began. Finally, before it got too ugly, the security guard stepped in and shouted long and loud in Arabic and everyone calmed down. A few long minutes later, the doors opened and the calm was shattered. I have never seen people clambering over each other the way they were on this ferry. One would think the boat was sinking. Men were shoving old women and children out of the way, old women were yelling and pushing, children were elbowing anyone while trying to scamper ahead. When we made it down to get our luggage on the cargo deck, it was even crazier. Now the challenge was to weave our way between the hoards of people, but also the tour buses and trucks with engines running. This was not the kind of baggage claim where there is order, decorum, nor any person in charge collecting baggage tags. You just dive in amongst the enormous pile of suitcases, crates, bags, and parcels, and hope your bag is somewhere in the vicinity of where you left it. We found our stuff, wrestled our way out, made it through some type of security checkpoint and found ourselves at immigration, which looked like a big open warehouse, with a metal roof on stilts. Now we had to jump, sidestep, and/or run out of the way of baggage carts, horses, men in uniform (customs officials?), and the front lines of aggressive taxi touts. In the desert heat, this could easily qualify as an Olympic sport of the crazy sort. Quite the introduction to Egypt.

Several hours later, we arrived at our first Egyptian destination in the town of Dahab, a sleepy beach town on the Red Sea Coast. As far as contradictions go, compared to what we had just experienced getting to Dahab, the town itself was the opposite. It being the slow season, all the restaurants and shops were empty, the beaches nearly deserted, and we enjoyed several days of leisurely morning brunches on the beach, sheesha, and diving, snorkeling, and swimming in the Red Sea.

Other confusing and contradictory things are as follows. Pricing. First there is the fact that all prices are written in Arabic (of which I can recognize a total of three numbers and thus already at a disadvantage), combined with the fact that there are usually two prices, the local price and of course the tourist price, which is anywhere from four to twenty times the actual price. Prices and services that one would expect to be cheap are often ridiculously expensive, while other times it is the other way around. Some items that are expensive at one establishment turn out to be next to nothing someplace else. There is no rhyme or reason that I can see and I have no doubt that we have had our share of being ripped off. When people say things are “free” and “no money”, that means you will definitely have to pay. Cairo is considered a very safe place, yet some of the areas look quite sketchy. Upper Egypt refers to the southern region, while Lower Egypt is north. On a tour to the Pyramids, we were told it was safe to leave our bags and cameras, etc. in the car, but to make sure we took our money with us. There are usually two to three designated lanes for traffic, but somehow they are transformed into five or more, creating a parking lot scenario. When standing in line, order does not matter the way it should when in a line, as lines here are more like moving crowds.

Maybe “contradiction” is not the exact term to describe our experience of Egypt. There has definitely been chaos and a disorderly feel to our travels here, but only because we are foreigners and therefore by definition everything here is foreign to us. All the things we view as contradictions I’m sure make complete sense to the locals. And as much as I’d like to get it, I doubt I’ll ever get to walk like an Egyptian.

Little thirsty

“Ignorance is bliss”. Often true. At the risk of sounding like an airhead, there are times (maybe more than I’d like to admit) during travel that I am almost grateful for the lack of previous knowledge I hold about particular destinations. There are people who do some serious research before arriving at their chosen site, and for those who do, I commend you. There is great value in understanding, or even having some awareness of the history behind what it is that you are going to see. We do our fair share of research for the most part, but there are times when we don’t (or one of us doesn’t). Jeff and I have been sharing planning duties, usually with one of us doing the major research for a certain area or country at a time. And although Jordan was left to me, since we were only going for a four-day stint, all I really did was figure out transportation to and within the country and entrance fees to Petra. I’m kind of glad that was it. No google imaging, no trip advisor reviews, no expectations other than the little I knew.

What I knew of Petra was this:
#1- cool looking ruins (this knowledge courtesy of scenes from Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade)
#2 - Jeff had wanted to see it for years
#3 - it would be HOT

After spending the night in ‘Ain Musa, we woke early and took the free shuttle down to Petra, where we had decided to purchase the two-day tickets. Within seven minutes of walking down the entrance path (armed with two liters of water and my cool-tie) with the morning sun beating down and no clouds in sight, I was already regretting this decision. Even with the heat, which only became progressively worse as the day wore on, there were those moments where the sights combined with the weight of centuries of history made me forget my discomfort. And rather than focus on frying in the sun, bask instead in the glory of the lost city. Petra is one of those rare places where even though there are specific tombs, monuments, and other types of ruins, you don’t need to be standing in front of one to be overwhelmed, only to then hurriedly rush to the next marker to be overwhelmed again. No matter where you are in all of Petra,

no matter where you look or which direction you face, it is incredible. Even on the climb to the Monastery, as I plodded along mentally cursing every other one of the 800 stairs, when I stopped to catch my breath, I was rewarded with a stunning and changing view. I was happy to just stop at any point, out of fatigue, but also just to stare and take it all in.

As for ignorance being bliss, I can no longer claim not to know Petra. There are places that inspire and this is one of them. Seeing it for myself, as with seeing so many of the places we’ve been, has only served to make me want to learn more about it. I feel maybe more ignorant now, having seen that something like this could exist and still knowing just the tip of the iceberg about the who, why, and how. So maybe I’m doing the process in reverse, but whatever the case, let the research begin.

Serving up the raki--Jeff not feeling it

In tandem with my last blog about what we were able to see and do in Istanbul on our own, I feel it is equally if not more important to recount our last few days in one of the world’s great cities as shared through the generosity of our friend in Turkey. Our meeting started out simply as an email exchange with a friend of our friends who is from Turkey and happens to live in Istanbul. The result was an unforgettable experience in the “real” Istanbul in addition to us making a friend of our own.

We stayed with our host, Kerem, in his apartment with a beautiful panoramic view of the Bosphorus Sea and surrounding districts. Aside from the many creature comforts that come with being lucky enough to stay in an actual home (fresh towels and linens, a washing machine, not having to wear flip flops while showering, sitting down on a couch…the list goes on), we had the privilege of meeting and getting to know our host, who freely gave up a few days to take us out and about and show us Istanbul in a way we never would have been able to see on our own. We enjoyed a complete Turkish breakfast along the waterfront. In addition to the mix of olives, cheeses, breads, tomato, cucumber, and tea that we have grown accustomed to and love, we also got to try some meat-filled pastry, honey and cheese, and Turkish omelet (soooooo good). Let me tell you, I could have kept on going and out-eaten both of those boys, but since they were stuffed (as was I), I decided to check it as well. After breakfast, we drove up to see views of the Bosphorus leading to the Black Sea with Europe and Russia far out towards one side and Anatolia (the Asian side) off to our right. As happens time and time again during our travels, I once again had the feeling of being so very small (hold your comments everyone!). We also went to and through Taksim Square and spent the afternoon walking through Beyoglu, where I had my first Turkish coffee and not-so-first puffs from the nargile, which the guys also enjoyed with a couple of beers at one of the many outdoor cafes, while watching the crowds go by. It was both relaxing and invigorating at the same time to chat and sip and puff (sorry mom, you know I don’t smoke, but when in Rome…), while watching Istanbul’s young and old literally working and playing in the midst of the hustle and bustle of the area. There were a handful of tourists sprinkled in among the locals, some doing as we were, business men in suits walking past, a group of trendily dressed young women chatting over tea, a couple playing what seems to be the national game of backgammon, and vendors darting about selling their wares. We had dinner (mezzes, seafood, and our first taste of the Turkish liquour, Raki) at another outdoor restaurant in an alley awash with similar restaurants, Raki-fueled customers dancing between the tables to the music along with the clapping and shouting of the other patrons. It was like nothing we have in the states. We had heard that if you haven’t been to Beyoglu, then you haven’t been to Istanbul. And now we know why. We had wanted to come on our own and had been unable to get here, but in the end it was much better to experience it with our generous host and friend, and go out with a bang. Once again, thanks Kerem!!! Serefe.

Men fishing from Galata Bridge (one of several mosques in background)

6/8/09

We are slowly wrapping up our Turkey adventures in the city where they all began. After flying into Istanbul five weeks ago and hanging out at the massive otogar (bus station) for several hours only to begin our land travel across western Turkey, we are once again in Istanbul (not Constantinople….sorry, ever-so predictable, but I couldn’t resist).

Istanbul is by all accounts once again a world-class city. By our account, we would have to agree although unfortunately due to a round of sickness each, I can’t say we’ve been able to experience as much of it as we had planned. It’s never fun to be sick, but much less so when you are traveling. Even though you’d rather stay in bed, you feel obligated in a way, to each other, to yourself, and to this astounding place that you came all the way to see and will possibly never get to experience the same way again. Therefore, we’ve managed to get to some of the major sites, albeit walking very slowly (Jeff) and stopping every few feet to pull out a tissue and blow (Mari). All in all, it’s all part of the travel experience. When else can we roll out of bed at noon and decided which UNESCO World Heritage site to visit first?

We are staying in Sultanhamet in Istanbul, which fortunately is quite central to almost everything we want to do. So far we have shuffled over to Hagia Sofia (elaborate and grand), the Blue Mosque (not that blue), and taken short strolls around Sultanhamet and the surrounding districts. Today we will attempt Topkapi Palace and maybe the Anthropology Museum (but maybe not). If we are brave, tomorrow the Grand Bazaar (which is guaranteed to be awesome and intense) and Miniaturk, a mini scaled-down version of famous world sites where we can walk around doing Godzilla impressions (which I’m guessing will not be crowded at all).

Being sick has small advantages though. For one, it offers a convenient excuse to get away from overly friendly merchants, but more importantly helps with our food budget. This is nice, since lodging in Istanbul is much more expensive than elsewhere in Turkey. Even though our travels here are coming to a close in a world famous city on a slightly less than stellar note, I am grateful. Five weeks in Turkey has given us a chance to get a feel of much of the country, make some new friends, sample the local foods, and see the most amazing sights, all of which have made me certain that I will be back here someday.

Note: We have also added new pictures to our Turkey Album.  For those of you who have not done so, from our Photo link, click on the Flickr page link and then Details so you can see all pictures with descriptions/captions.

He led us into the communal bath area, the relatively cooler air almost convincing us that maybe the sauna wasn’t that hot. As we tried to tell him that the sauna felt good, he led us into a steam room and closed the door before we could protest. Mari’s face that had just been exhibiting relief, now was a mixture of sadness and fear. We sat in the steam room, wondering how we could have offended our attendant for him to treat us like this. Mari started to count. We talked a little to keep our minds off the heat. 1 minute… We talked about previous steam room experiences at the gym. We talked about how nice the communal area looked. 2 minutes…we wondered whether our attendant forgot about us. 3 minutes…We talked about symptoms one feels before fainting. 5 minutes…We asked each other where the hell our attendant was before finally giving up and exiting the steam room prematurely.
In the communal bath area, we laid out on the marble center, or goebektas, as our respective washer, or tellak, went to work on us. Alternating between cups of water and a scrub mitt, or kese, they scrub your body down. After my tellak was done, I looked at the amount of dirt and dead skin that had come off of me. Disgusting. I wondered whether I was actually lighter now that I wasn’t carrying all of that on me anymore. I was rinsed off using one of the sinks and bowls, then laid out again on the marble and got soaped down. A pillowcase-like device created unreal amounts of bubbles of the olive oil soap. After I was rinsed off again and shampooed and rinsed off again, the experience wound down with my being wrapped up in multiple towels to chillax a little more. I’m not sure why, but Mari started her bath first and ended way after me…go figure. We left the hamam clean and as soft as a baby’s butt.

Today, in a river town called Dalyan, we went to one of the city’s principal attractions—the hot springs and mud baths. The mud pools and thermal pool areas contain slightly radioactive mineral waters good for the skin and rheumatism.
As we arrived at the mud pools, the smell of sulfur hit us first. Then we saw them—the mud people. They were covered head to toe in a greenish-gray slime, camouflaged into the mountains behind them. But they looked happy—smiling, laughing. So we ventured nearer and worked up our courage to join them.
The pools themselves were warm and squishy. You float to the top, in spite of your efforts. After swimming in the mud awhile, we exited the slippery pools slowly doing our best Toxic Avenger impressions. We rinsed off and topped it off by hanging out in the thermal pool. We left the mud pools dirty, but smooth as a baby’s butt.

The mud pool/hot springs made me think back to Nicaragua. A couple of months ago we were swimming in the crater of a volcano, Laguna de Apollo, said to have a similar mineral composite as the hot springs here with some of our Spanish language classmates. Our French classmate exited the lagoon, impressed with the sulfur’s effects on his skin and proclaimed to the rest of us “I feel French again!” …as French as a baby’s butt.

The Locals
I do not presume to make sweeping generalizations about an entire population of people, and at the same time, as always, there are exceptions. That being said, the Turkish people we have encountered have been polite, friendly, and truly wonderful. I can’t even keep track anymore of how many people have stood up to give us their seats, offered us tea, given us directions, or just wanted to chat or share a laugh, all without expecting anything in return. Really. After traveling for four plus months, this has come as a bit of a shock. Initially, we were suspicious, waving away offers for help and dismissing those we assumed were touts with curt replies. But here we have found that most of these advances are genuine and even the touts back off quickly and politely once they know you aren’t interested. And we have made friends with a few strangers, despite the language barrier.

Our first encounter upon arriving in Istanbul, was with two young men who wanted to practice their English. After ignoring their multiple attempts to say hello, we finally stopped and made guarded small talk and declined when they offered us a smoke, until it became clear that they had no other objective other than to talk to the Americans. As they walked off, after pointing us to the bus station, I frantically checked all my pockets and backpack, and felt only slightly ashamed of doing so.

That night we took the overnight bus to Izmir. Not only was this our first overnight bus, it was also our first major bus ride outside of Central America. It is hard to compare the two, because there is little comparison to be made. In fact, it may not be quite fair to do so, since Central America’s “chicken busses” are so named because the locals can bring aboard live animals, including live chicken. Anyway, we found our assigned seats on this large clean fancy new-looking bus, and settled in. The guy seated across the aisle saw us looking at the controls, TV monitors, and refrigerator like country bumpkins and showed us how to work the armrest. As we have learned, busses in Turkey have a “helper”, just like in Central America. In Central America the helper collects the fare, yells the stops out the window, and opens and closes the door. In Turkey, the helper is more or less like a butler. This being our first ride, we tried to figure out what was happening as he swiftly made his way down the aisle, carrying a small bottle and splashing some of its contents in the hands of those who indicated for him to do so. On the second round several hours later we thought we’d try it out and found that it was hand sanitizer. This in addition to him spraying down the carpet with something like Febreze between stops, the washing of the bus at rest stops, as well the individually packaged handi-wipes that came with our choice of drinks and snacks, was our first introduction to the cleanliness standards here. At one point, our friend across the aisle, asked us something in Turkish, and through pantomime we determined that he was asking us if we wanted water. As we stared back, trying to figure out how to ask if it was free, he got up and returned with three cups of water, handing us two with a nod. After the bus drove onto a ferry, we were allowed to get out and walk around the boat. During this point, I made friends with a very sweet Turkish lady, using nothing but gestures, as we waited in line for the bathroom. By the time we made it to the front of the line, we were sharing a laugh and she was pinching my cheeks and patting my face. When we re-boarded the bus, the very same guy had bought us a packet of snacks, which he tossed to Jeff with a smile. We just sat there smiling gratefully, wishing we knew how to say “thank you” in Turkish. It’s a good thing we soon learned how, because with the way we continue to be treated by the people here, we say it a lot.

In our short time here, we have been the recipients of random acts of kindness. There were the semi-truck drivers who saw us walking a long road in the mid-day sun who gave us a lift (to our destination, and another ride back). There were the guys at the market selling olives, of which we taste-tested several varieties before deciding what to buy, but when I handed them the money, they insisted I keep it and enjoy the olives. And there was the guy at some tourist trap who gave me one of the necklaces he was selling for free “as a gift”…just like the bag of mixed Turkish Delights I was given today (yum!). They say that nothing in life is free, but our friends here are proving that wrong everyday with their kindness.

The awesome olive guys

Tree house cabin

Turkey has offered us some of the most unique experiences to date. I’ll save the landscape, culture, cuisine, comments for a future blog, because they are worth it. For now I will concentrate on our one day spent at Olympos (yes, the Olympus of Greek fame). We were planning to spend some time in Antalya, but after bussing through, decided to keep going (not for any reason in particular as the old part of town looked spectacular, but that seemed just about all there was to see). So we hopped on the next bus headed for Olympos. Today the majority of lodging options there are “tree houses” scattered out along one stretch of road. Unlike our previous tree house experience in Guatemala, the ones in Olympos are not actual tree houses, but rather bunches of one- and two-story cabins or bungalows–lots of them (400 at the most popular locations). As luck would have it, ours turned out to be the one establishment that appealed to mainly Turkish vacationers. If I had ever attended a summer camp for Turkish adults, I can assure you that this was it. There was a main lodge, housing the kitchen, dining tables, TV area, and general store selling drinks and snacks. The bar and dance floor took up the entire second floor. Surrounding the lodge was a volleyball court, campfire pit, ice cream cart, cabins, and cabana-like structures for hanging out and smoking the nargile (the Turkish water pipe). Each structure had a low table, surrounded on three sides by a booth stocked with large colorful pillows with people strewn about smoking, reading, napping, or playing cards. When we arrived, all was calm, but we were warned by the bartender that the nights could get pretty rowdy. Luckily we met a young Australian couple upon arrival, and we latched on to each other immediately since we appeared to be the only English speaking guests. The four of us opted to do the night tour of Chimeara (also the one of Greek lore). We were driven to the nearby town where we climbed up the hillside and were able to spot several patches of fire blazing out of the rocky hillside. They resembled little campfires and were only made more interesting knowing that they burn continuously from the gases contained in the ground and the fact that they were a part of the Greek myth. We arrived back to our tree houses a little before midnight. Before the van slowed to a stop, we could already hear the pulsating beat of early 90’s pop music, and when the doors opened, the sounds of the Turkish guests singing along at the top of their lungs, presumably while dancing. We walked quickly past the bar and up to our rooms, hoping against hope for a good night’s sleep. With each change of song, came an excited roar from the crowd, displaying their satisfaction and familiarity with the song choice and the singing continued, interspersed with my less than all time favorite genre of music: techno. Although we had been told that the party typically moves on to another spot after midnight, midnight came and went, as did the next several hours with hits by Ace of Base, Lady Gaga, whomever it is that sings “We will, we will, rock you”, and techno beats playing into the morning hours. As annoyed as we were, we had to admit the whole scene was just plain funny. I was again grateful for my ability to fall asleep in a matter of minutes, while Jeff eventually nodded off at some point in the wee hours. The next morning, we decided one night was enough for us at the Turkish tree houses, hastily ate our breakfast (the usual Turkish fare of olives, cucumber, tomato, bread and jam, but here also omelets!) and headed off for the coastal town of Kas.

Double fisting at the dessert buffet

We spent the past 12 days crossing the Atlantic on a cruise ship in order to get to Europe. It is amazing how easy it has been to fall back into old habits. After over three months of adjusting to a backpacker lifestyle, I experienced a moderate degree of culture shock upon boarding. At first I felt like the proverbial kid in a candy store. I enthusiastically commented on everything–the hot water that came out in an even stream with adequate pressure in a spotless shower, the fluffy bleached white towels that were changed twice daily, and of course the fabulously ridiculous excess of the buffet, among many other of the ship’s amenities. I am ashamed to say that a mere few days into the cruise, these luxuries quickly became expected. We joked about how “deprived” we had been, and I had to make a conscious effort to remind myself that no matter what our travel style or budget, we have not been and are no where near deprived, especially compared to people we have encountered during our travels-people who would justifiably take offense as being described as such, as many are just living simply and within their means.

Cruising is just a completely different reality. However, what made this cruise meaningful and worthwhile, was the fact that my parents were able to join us on the cruise and for a few days in Barcelona. They also brought us replenishment in the form of new toiletries, clothing, and other odds and ends that we had requested from home sweet home. So as embarrassing as it is to admit to doing “the cruise thing”, and as much as it diminishes our street cred as backpackers, it was more than worth it for me to be able to spend so much time with my mom and dad.

Now that the luxury portion of the trip is over, the next challenge for me is to make the conscious readjustment back to living like a traveler.

After leaving Central America, we flew to San Juan and spent a couple of days in Puerto Rico. It was a little strange at first. It was a comforting and appropriate transition in that it was nice to be back in the United States (or territory of) again, but also where Spanish continued to be spoken everywhere. We were lucky enough to stay as couchsurfers with our very cool host in San Juan. His apartment was surrounded by similar high rise condos, and just a few blocks from the beach, museums, restaurants, and stores so we got to do a little exploring.

The day before we left, we were able to get reservations to go on a kayak tour of Fajardo Bay, a bio-luminescent bay in Puerto Rico. A friend had recommended we check it out if we had a chance, and it was worth it. We were instructed to meet our tour guide and fellow kayakers at the Ritz Carlton Hotel at sunset. Jeff and I decided that we might as well make the most of it and went several hours early. We took a cab and walked straight through the lobby to the pool area. Coming from the type of environments that we have become accustomed to, the Ritz Carlton was like an oasis, a beacon of luxury. Since we were already in our swimming suits (in preparation for the tour), we blended in as best we could. Jeff brazenly grabbed a towel and an ice water infused with orange, and we did our best to walk nonchalantly toward some empty chairs. We set up shop and lay out by the pool for the rest of the afternoon until it was time to leave for our tour.

A bioluminescent bay is exactly what it sounds like—a bay that glows in the dark naturally. This phenomenon occurs due to the microorganisms in the water. With movement or upon being touched, the water lights up, becoming a neon blue-white. This only occurs in two places in the world. I wish we could have taken pictures because it was an unbelievable experience, one that I can not do justice to with my writing. The sight of the water illuminating in the dark was awesome. Fish jumped out of the water, creating shooting comets. With each stroke of our oars a bright fluorescent light would shine for as long as the movement continued simultaneously highlighting both our path and showing us where we had just come from. I scooped up handfuls of water and watched as a tail of electric blue followed and I tossed brilliant blue droplets back into the bay.

I feel justified in blaming our kayaking abilities (or lack thereof) on the fact that we were so in awe of the bioluminescence all around us. We ran into some communication difficulties, leading our kayak in a zigzag, running into trees and the riverbank, and eventually needing to be towed out by one of the guides. Just as we began to get the hang of things and build confidence in our ability to maneuver our kayak, the tour came to an end. By then, our clothes were wet, we smelled like lagoon water, and my arms felt like they were about to fall off. Still, the experience itself was well worth it.

I had wondered what it was going to be like, not only being Asian, but Asian American, during our travels. I wasn’t exactly sure what to expect, but so far, it has been a mix of moments that have either been humorous, cultural, and educational, with only a few incidents based on the ignorance or curiosity that stems from lack of exposure to people like us. In general, if we don’t happen to be having a conversation, most locals tend to assume we are from mainland China (or Korean, Japanese, Vietnamese or Thai, usually in that order), and therefore we are greeted in some fashion in any one, or a mix of, these languages. If we are overheard speaking English, I’m sure it is assumed that we are from the United States (aided by our Western looking travel duds). This usually elicits the following reactions: 1) nonchalance, in areas where Western tourists are fairly common, 2) solicitations to purchase something, 3) unabashed open stares or 4) calls of “Chino!” (pronounced “chee-no”) or “China/chinita!” (pronounced “chee-na” or “chin-ee-ta”), meaning something close to “Chinese guy/girl”.

In Nicaragua, we were told by our friend, Mark, whom we stayed with, as well as later by several of our teachers that “chino” and “china” are not meant to be offensive terms-that culturally they are simply descriptive words, used the same as “skinny guy” or “tall girl”. One of our grammar teachers even went as far as to say that these terms are actually terms of endearment and affection, which initially I was a little (really, a lot) skeptical about. We often overheard mainly children, but also plenty of adults calling out “China” or “Chino” as we passed or over their shoulders, in what wasn’t always necessarily in a friendly, nor “affectionate” way. However, my skepticism decreased somewhat over time. For instance, we were on a night tour of some caves with a large group from the Spanish school, during which the tour guide had taken some pictures with my camera. After which, I had found myself at the back of the group when she called out, “Where is the Chinese girl?” This drew some awkward looks from many of the socially conscious, politically correct fellow Americans, but to me it was a kind of proof that my ethnicity (aside from the fact I am not Chinese) is simply a visible fact, at least it is here. That Asian is asian (or simply “Chinese”) to most people in Latin America-that it’s not meant to be derogatory, the way it would likely be taken in the United States, where by now, it is assumed that people are aware that there are different ethnicities and cultures within the broad classification of Asian Americans. The equivalent of this would be how people might say “Mexican” in regards to anyone who appears to have ethnic roots in Latin America, regardless of whether they are Nicaraguan, Guatemalan, Panamanian, Chilean, Argentinean, etc. Another example that comes to mind is one of the staff members at our school, a local Nicaraguan whom Jeff befriended. As a daily greeting he would shake Jeff’s hand and say, “Tranquilo, chino!” (the rough translation being, “It’s cool, Chinese dude”), with the same amount of respect and affection of a typical friendly greeting. Our teacher even told us that everyone in the town refers to his 4-year old as “chino” because “his eyes are on the small”, so to speak. The local gas station attendant is greeted as “Chino” (although he is clearly not), simply for the same reason, as well as the fact that no one knows his name. We also spent part of a lesson learning popular jokes in Spanish, where the punchline is a Spanish phrase made up of a combination of “asian” sounding phonemes. This may be totally politically incorrect, but given the circumstances, I just had to laugh.

For me so far the lowlights have occurred during times where we have been walking through markets or towns and locals, most likely as I mentioned before out of ignorance or mere lack of exposure, have started spewing what can only be described as “asian word salad”. They start shouting out any and every word related to anything that might be considered “asian”. For example, on my way through some stalls at the market in Managua, I was followed in one instance with shouts of, “Ni hau…..Konichiwa?…..Chow mein?……Ho Chi Minh!!”, none of which I bothered to acknowledge. While heading out of a tiny town in Honduras, in the back of a pickup, Jeff and I were treated to a some martial arts moves, complete with sound effects including “ching-chong, ching-chong” and a hand-on-crotch pelvic thrust in our direction by a couple of young boys. Jeff, at this point, was ready to sling something back, but refrained. As I said, lowlights.

Anyway, I have come to the conclusion that what really matters, at least here and for now, is the spirit in which things are done and words are used. It is different from what I am used to and how we are groomed to think, and the way we perceive similar behavior at home, but I am learning to accept, and in some instances embrace, these cultural differences for what they are-differences and cultural realities.

I started my first patrol at 11 pm under an almost full moon, the black sand beach still dark to my maladjusted eyes. The unevenness of the beach, coupled with the washed up driftwood made my first minute’s steps small and unsure. Only the constant sound of the ocean and the white of the waves kept me steady with their rhythm. About 45 minutes in, I caught up with another person on the beach, a Research Assistant sitting close to where the beach met the forest. We started talking for a couple of minutes in the dark, when she asked me how it felt. I responded with, “what?” to which she answered, “to see your first turtle,” as she leaned to the side, revealing a Leatherback a foot away. I had missed seeing this animal as big as a clown car. But now it sat there preparing her nest as those before her had been doing for nearly 200 million years. For the next hour we worked with her; measuring, relocating the eggs, and camouflaging the tracks—-but mostly just connecting with the experience. I watched her return to her element and continued my patrol.

As the night wore on, my steps gained confidence, getting used to the slope of the sand and eager to come across another sighting. Shooting stars and fireflies broke into the monotony of the trek and made me feel nature was encouraging those who tried to aid her. At 4 am, walking back to the lodges, we came across another nesting turtle. We worked with her till nearly 6 am, the sun rising as she finally made her way back to the ocean, enabling a rare site—seeing a Leatherback by day.

Since my first night, Mari and I have gone out patrolling nightly, doing what we could to help, and feeling closer to nature in the process. We were scheduled to leave on April 10th, Good Friday, but have extended our stay through Easter. So while the rest of Central America will be observing Semana Santa, we’ve opted for a subtler communion, right here with the turtles.

Since our flight to Costa Rica departed at dawn, we opted to spend the night in the Guatemala City airport. Apparently, although it is an international airport, people simply do not stay overnight. We arrived close to 8 p.m.-all the airline counters were dark and deserted. In the food court restaurants above, the “late night” shifts were wiping counters and storing food. Even Pollo Campero would not let us order any pollo. Fortunately, trusty old McDonalds was still serving the last of its fast fried goodness, which served as our last meal in Guatemala.

We found a row of leather seats and settled in for a long night. There was not a passenger in sight and the only people we saw were the occasional guard, janitor, or flight attendant heading home after a full day’s work. I fell into an uncomfortable and restless sleep, each set of footsteps convincing me that we were seconds away from being kicked out to spend the night outside on the streets. When I had finally fallen into a sound sleep, I awoke to an airport security officer asking for our passports. He asked us a series of usual questions (Where were we going? For how long? Where did we come from? What time was our flight?), and then asked us to follow him. Anxious and groggy, we followed him to the entrance of the airport where he conferred at length with the woman guard at the door, trying to make sense of what to do with these stupid foreigners who apparently were camping out after hours at the airport. Fortunately for us, they allowed us to stay, albeit in significantly less comfortable plastic chairs attached together by metal armrests, making lying down impossible. Jeff courageously asked (in Spanish, no less) if we could possibly move back to our leather seating area, to which the guard replied, “Solamente aqui” (”Only here”). So there we remained for the rest of the night, staring at the shiny floors, empty kiosks, the vast empty silent space of the concourse, and the darkened food court above. When the doors to the airport opened at 4 a.m., employees appeared behind their now illuminated stations and a slow but steady stream of passengers began filing in. We grabbed our bags, headed to the ticket counter, checked in, and then proceeded to our gate as we watched the duty free shops and cafes open their gates to serve the early bird travelers and to wait for another two hours to board our plane.

So last week when Mari and I were told of a $5 volcano hike, not only was the bar not raised, we didn’t even pick it up. But the guide told us it would take 5-6 hours, so we thought if nothing else we’d get some exercise and save a little on the day doing it.

Our first inkling that we were going to get our money’s worth was when our bus stopped at the foot of the volcano, and 2 men got on the bus to try to sell us walking sticks. The French people beside me purchased them, which did nothing to persuade me of its need. As we got off the bus, a dozen horses met us and were being offered as taxis up the mountain. Mari and I said no. Instead, we lined up behind our guide, a man who looked to be in his late fifties and topping out at about 5 feet. In Spanish he told the group to go at our own pace, take rests if we need it, and to walk carefully. Then he turned around and sped off up the mountain. We followed suit, racing up the hill, at a pace too fast to take in our surroundings. Instead, I concentrated on 3 things: not slipping on the thousands of Pumice stones lining the path, trying to catch my breath, and not falling to the very back and becoming “that guy.”

About an hour into the hike, a Spanish mother of 2 overtook me for the final time catching up to her daughter as she ran up the hill back and forth on the trail because the hike in itself didn’t offer enough of a challenge to her youth. Behind me was an American, one of the few people having a more difficult time than me, in full Under Armour outfit, sweating ridiculously. A European boy near me constantly asked his dad if he could get off his horse taxi and walk the path. I almost asked the dad if I could have his son’s horse ride if he didn’t want it. Mari overheard near the back of the group an American accent say, “I’m already walking as fast as I possibly can!” 2 hours in and the French couple with the walking sticks passed in front of me. Damn.

Every once in awhile I would turn to Mari to see how she was faring. The length of the hike seemed inversely proportionate to the length of her answers and the fairness of her face. Near the top of the volcano, Red Mari made an appearance and was only answering that she was OK by nodding her head.
Eventually though, our ascension up the mountain turned into an even-leveled hike as the terrain turned to a volcanic black sand with sharp rocks jutting out. The fog rolled thick here, giving an other-worldy sense to all the fast-walking Euros, Mari and myself.

Finally, we got to a steep hill entirely made up of loose volcanic rock. And to our right was a slow flowing river of lava. There was no guard, no fenced off area, no rules besides those of common sense. So, people made their way to the lava, scrambling in every direction. Some ran up the hill sending mini-landslides of loose rocks on others, some went directly across to the lava eventually standing on recently cooled magma, red hot lava still visible through cracks a couple of feet below where they stood. Above me I heard an American yell “dude, it’s so hot…it’s so hot!” as he ran back from the lava sending rocks flying down the hill. His walking stick was on fire, a foot from the lava where he had just been.

My barometer had me sensing that this is so cool, and would NEVER be allowed in the United States.

Right now we are in one of the lakeside villages of Lago de Atitlan, called Panajachel (also known as “Gringotenango”, 1) because of all the tourists and 2) the fact that many of the nearby towns end in something “-tenango”. After arriving and looking around for a place to stay (wow…have I reached the point of not having to have reservations?? Stay tuned.), we settled on the third option, Villa Lupita, slightly off the main drag. First option-too expensive; second option-too grungy (the shared bathroom was gag-reflex inducing). At this point, I have developed travel standards. They are that the room be relatively clean (spotless is not something you get at the places we are staying), and in a relatively secure area or building. TV, internet, soft pillows, clean towels, mirrors, and additional furniture other than bed and occasional shelving unit are serious luxuries. I have learned that there is no such thing as a mattress pad, which is why I love my sleep sack, and that “hot water” means that at least sometimes there is hot water.

Aside from the dual bouts of food poisoning, we have been lucky so far with food. Very few places we’ve been to have had anything extraordinary, but when you’re aiming for under $4 per person per meal, you don’t expect it. My problem is that I love food and living in San Francisco has spoiled me beyond belief when it comes to variety and cuisine. We found a little place here in Pana that serves dinner; a piece of chicken, coleslaw, rice, tortillas, and beverage for 10 quetzales (roughly $1.25 USD). It’s nothing fancy, but filling and a decent meal for an unbeatable price. Jeff said he could easily eat there every night of our six day stay (and in all seriousness, he really could). I wanted to say “Me too!” It’s not that it’s a bad meal, but after our third night in a row, and looking at all the other menu items that are available, not to mention the row of restaurants across the street, it’s the lack of variety that gets to me. But I remind myself that I am in “Travel Mari mode” now, so I will suck it up and enjoy the especial de la semana (”weekly special”).

On Tree Houses
I checked another of life’s to-dos off my list this past week after staying in a tree house. There was just enough room in it for the twin size mattress, our upright backpacks, and Mari and myself to stand. We rigged our flashlight on a karabiner for a DIY chandelier. But despite its unvarnished nature, the experience was fantastic. It was living a Disney movie (at least when I liked Disney). Swiss Family Robinson had nothing on us, as Mari freshetted off the side in the middle of the night. In truth, it was more Peter Pan than Swiss Family Robinson, as it felt like a chance at childhood again—an opportunity to remember back to wanting to be an astronaut, or imagining having superpowers. It was a glimpse where 22 ft. in the air, lofted in a tree, we refused to grow up—at least for 5 days.

It has been a couple of weeks since we have been able to post, due more to lack of consistent (free) internet access than lack of activity. We weren’t able to leave for Belize as planned via ferry, due to rough seas, so we hung out with a group of fellow stranded travelers, discussed alternate plans, and ended up staying as a small group in the nearby town of Omoa. The five of us took what I felt to be a semi-arduous hike, through ankle-deep mud (in flip-flops no less!) in an attempt to reach a waterfall, which turned out to be more like a small babbling brook. We must have taken a wrong turn, but it was a fantastic hike and we were in good company. The next morning we got on the ferry and made it to our respective destinations in Belize, where we parted ways (if you guys are reading this, hope you enjoyed the rest of your trip!). We spent one night in Placencia, a small, very quiet, beach town with seemingly not much more to do than snorkel, swim, and lie around. Luckily a couple of local girls befriended us, giving us the local lowdown, and we had a fun evening at happy hour (with free nachos!) at the new Rumfish bar in town. Spent the night at Deb and Dave’s Last Resort, cabin-style lodging, and my first shared bathroom experience. But shared baths are really only such if you actually have to share them, and in our case, it was always open and vacant when needed (yay!).

The next morning we caught a water taxi (getting used to these now) to take us across the lake to catch a chicken bus from the town of Independence to Belize City. Four and a half hours later, of which half the ride was spent sitting three persons to a seat, we arrived in Belize City, taxied to the ferry building and took another ferry to Caye Caulker. Apparently, if you go to Belize you either go to Caye Caulker or Ambergris Caye, as they are pretty much set up for tourists. That being said, we did pretty well staying on our limited budget, found a guesthouse cabin for $10 a night per person, complete with private bathroom and porch with hammock. Aside from Jeff experiencing backspasms towards the end of our stay, which rendered him bed-bound, we had a great time. We completed our first scuba dive (technically second, but really the first dive done without the security blanket of our instructors in Roatan, upon whom I had developed an incredible amount of faith in). Needless to say, the dive was spectacular. Within seconds of descending, we saw several nurse sharks swim by, followed later on in the dive by giant green eels (I’m sure there is a more scientific term), lobster, stingrays, and varieties of colorful fish that I have never seen.

We had been planning to go back to Placencia to experience the whale shark migration with our two new friends, however after doing an indepth cost analysis, and with Jeff’s back going out, we had to make the decision to keep heading in our original direction. After another ferry-taxi-bus combo, we made our way to San Ignacio, where we found very spare and semi-clean lodgings at a hostel. By the sheer coincidence that sometimes occurs during travel, we spotted a couple whom we had met as stranded ferry companions back in Honduras. We arranged to take the much talked about ATM tour together the next day. I have to say I was a little wary, given that everyone had said it was “the coolest tour ever” and all the guidebooks herald it as “the one must-do experience in Belize”. All I could hear was a little voice in the back of my head saying “overrated”. Luckily, I was wrong. Splashing, slipping, swimming, crawling, and climbing through ancient caves, seeped in Mayan culture, shadows, shining stalagtites, and rock formations, through clear cool waters was, I cringe to hear myself say it, magical. Totally NOT overrated. Definitely one of those moments I had hoped to have during our travels.

We are currently in Flores, Guatemala, a beautiful island town with views of the water, shops, restaurants, hotels, tour companies, and not much else. It feels almost like a ghost town during the day, as most visitors take day trips out with the various tours to places like Tikal. We did just that a couple of days ago. Instead of going with a tour company, we took the advice of our friends and tried it on our own. We arrived at mid-day, stayed at one of the only three hotels in Tikal, and bought a park ticket that was good for the late afternoon as well as the full next day. Our afternoon at the ruins was awesome. For some reason, we ran into only a handful of people during our entire stroll, sat atop Templo IV as the sun went down (but not set, as that would have cost us 50 more quetzals), gazed in awe at the well preserved ruins in the Gran Plaza at dusk, then raced out of the jungle as night fell. We had planned to enter the park again at six a.m., but a debilitating case of traveler’s diarrhea and food poisoning prevented that from happening. Instead, after some time spent on and above the toilet, I attempted to shuffle my way out of the room and through the park (I should also mention that I had somehow managed to strain a leg muscle the day before), armed with a roll of toilet paper. We saw some cool wildlife, but I was feeling too crappy to learn their names. As expected, I did not enjoy much of the day. We took off soon after, somehow managing to survive the one and a half hour ride back to Flores, where I now appear on my way to recovery while Jeff gets his turn to experience the full wrath of Montezuma’s revenge.  This has been only to the benefit of our budget, as we have subsisted on Gatorade and crackers for the last two days.

02/28/09
Still trying to get used to the constant shifting between chaos and lulls of this new travel life. Roatan, while admittedly touristy, was fabulous. Our stay on the West End, despite a few days of rain was pretty much perfect. To offset the inflated costs that came with staying on an island for a week and a half, we opted to make extra good use of the rental’s kitchenette, and the local produce trucks and mini-mart. We had our daily menu of fresh fruit and eggs for breakfast, Cup O’Noodle or ramen for lunch, and pasta or quesadillas for dinner. Not bad, actually…we were feeling pretty resourceful.
From Roatan, we took the ferry back to the mainland of Honduras, and stayed overnight in La Ceiba with a friend of a friend. Then back on a bus the next day to the city of Tela, which has turned out to be a pleasant surprise. It wasn’t ever on our initial itinerary (as are many of the places we are going or have already been), but we found an airy, clean, well decorated hostel purely by chance, and it has worked out. When we initially arrived a bit after sundown, the first man we asked, an older armed guard, pointed us to a Chinese restaurant across the street. After trying to politely decline his help and explain that was not what we were looking for, we found this hostel half a block later. Took a trip out to the Lantecilla Botanical Garden (the second largest tropical garden in the world) and then spent the rest of the day at the beach, just a couple of blocks from our hostel. So far, in my opinion, the best beach yet. Clear, warm water, no large crowds, and soft smooth sand, free of those nasty sand flies! Perfect. Dinner was, embarrassingly enough, at the same Chinese restaurant that we had been directed towards last night, due to my growing craving of Asian cuisine, which we haven’t had in nearly two months. Chinese food in Honduras is a little different from Chinese food in San Francisco. The two dishes we ordered, in Spanish no less, were chicken chop suey and fried rice (hey, options were pretty limited). They were preceded with a basket of white bread and butter, and the dishes themselves were enough to feed a party of 10. Despite the size, both dishes were mediocre and did not curb my craving. Tomorrow, it’s back on the road. We are headed to Puerto Cortez, where we hope to catch a ferry to Belize.

02/19/09
The last three days have been something else. We arrived in the West End of Roatan Island, and settled into our comfy new digs which are clean and cute and absolutely lovely here at The Mariposa (not to be confused with La Mariposa, our past digs-something about that word, “butterfly” in Spanish, has become a running theme so far on this trip, but I digress). We spent the afternoon, walking around this beachfront town with the surf a few meters to our right and the shops and restaurants to our left, and watched the sunset from the docks.

Monday morning we wake up early and head down the beach strip to Coconut Tree Divers to begin our first day of SCUBA lessons with our very cute and very charming instructor Adam. He has our group of four (me, Jeff, and two other guys) watch some videos and go over some basics, and for a brief moment I have a thought that this is going to be a piece of cake. Sometimes I can be so wrong. After an hour or so of videos and knowledge reviews, we get suited up to prepare for our Confined Dive. However, as we are on a tiny island and there are no swimming pools (that I know of) we head straight into the ocean for this “confined dive”. Maybe this was the start of the nerves, I don’t know. Anyway, I get through all of the basic skills, with lots of instruction and minimal anxiety. However, breathing underwater just feels weird. I can hear the hiss of the regulator and feel the oxygen coming in and see the bubbles coming out, but none of this is natural to me. From the surface we practice our descent and our instructor takes us down to a sand patch to practice some new skills. I just keep reminding myself that we are only submerged under 10 feet of water. Everything is marginally fine until it comes time to flood and clear our mask after which we are to completely remove our mask and put it back on. I watch as Adam demonstrates, and then as each student performs both skills. Then it’s my turn. Let me just say, I have no fear of water or getting my face wet or anything like that. There is just something about having to purposely fill your mask with water, not to mention take the whole thing off, and then clear it by breathing out your nose, all while continuously mouth-breathing through a regulator with your eyes closed that is a little too much multi-tasking for me…and fine, just plain scary. Somehow I get through the flood and clear decently enough, but run into a mess of trouble when I have to remove the mask. At one point, as I begin flailing about, snorting, and hyperventilating, I give the sign for “Go UP”. But instead, I feel a firm tug down! Since I apparently have no choice, I somehow regain control of my breathing and get it together. By the time I cautiously take a slow breath and peek my eyes open, Adam is in my face giving me the “OK” sign. After we surface, he says he was tempted to let me ascend, as I was clearly having some issues, but knew that if he did, I would likely never get back in the water again, and I have to say he was right.

Day Two starts with me significantly more anxious than the day before, due to the mask incident and my newfound irrational fear of taking it off. However, I am determined to get past it and move on….until during our morning videos, our instructor announces that we will be demonstrating the same skill and then some under 30 feet of water. Noooooooo! I think about it all morning, all through lunch, and during the boat ride out, during which I purge the contents of my stomach overboard three times. I don’t usually get seasick, so I’m attributing that whole embarrassing event to nerves. Anyway, while everyone else in the class is performing each task with little to no trouble, I have now clearly become the weakest link. I have a difficult time controlling my buoyancy, either floating upwards into the blue yonder or hitting rock bottom, and Rinaldo (dive master in training) at this point has pretty much become my personal safety assistant, pulling me down, finding my lost fin, putting on and removing my weights, and giving me all kinds of underwater reminder signals. Mask flooding time approaches, and again I have what I feel to be a near drowing panic-filled experience. Adam later tells me that this time he really was going to let me up when I started choking and sputtering, but by some force of nature I was able to regain control. We had time to swim around the reef and check out some cool stuff, but I was too wound up and frustrated with myself to fully enjoy it.

Day Three - It’s our final day!! Swim test, float test, written test. I was dead last by a mile with the swim, but no problem. Then we learn the last few skills that lie ahead. This includes mask removal. Of course. My heart sinks. On our lunch break, I go out to about 2 feet of water and practice and practice until I think I’ve got it. After lunch we get on the boat to take us out to the dive site. We practice putting our gear on in the water (little tricky), switching between our regulators and our snorkel (more tricky), free diving with our snorkels, and then swimming to the surface on one continuous exhalation. I run into some trouble with this one. During my first ascent, I run out of air about two-thirds of the way up. We break the surface and I decide to try my luck. “Did I do it?” I ask. Adam gives me a weird look and says, “No. Let’s try again”. After my third try, I do it. I perform my mask removal with high anxiety but no trouble. Yay!!! I can see Adam beaming at me around his regulator as he gives me underwater applause and a high 10. We have time to swim around the reef and it is nothing short of awesome. I feel myself finally start to relax and take it all in. When it’s time to go back up, I realize that I don’t want to. I think I’m going to love scuba diving. Finally.

View of roadside into Granada from car

As we gear up to leave what has come to feel like a home away from home at La Mariposa in Nicaragua, here is some of what I have come away with.

I can’t say that I miss working, but I definitely miss my work-a lot. So who would have thought that I would come across an opportunity to practice a bit of speech and language therapy in a local clinic? There is a physical therapist who works with children with disabilities, doing home visits, working at the clinic, and a school as well. However, according to her, the closest speech therapist is probably in Managua. A fellow student, Mark, accompanied me twice, and aside from being a physical therapist himself, also served as translator. Meeting Juanita and getting the opportunity to meet and work with her patients was a tremendous learning experience for me, but equally frustrating given that I was trying to do therapy in a language where at this point, I could be diagnosed as having a major language delay myself. What also struck me, but of no surprise, was the amazing work she is able to do with such limited resources…more on this later. I was reminded of what my old grad school professor used to say-that we should be able to do quality therapy with nothing but a pen and paper and to heck with the bubbles, games, toys and stickers. I agree for the most part (although there have been days where a sticker has saved a session and my sanity!) and it was humbling for me to see the room in this clinic.

Being in one country for over a month was an effective reminder that we are NOT on a vacation. The fact that we were able to spend so much time in one place gave us the chance to learn more about and connect more meaningfully with the country’s history and the people who live here. We got to visit the major tourist sites and cities such as Granada, Managua, and Leon (my favorite), as well as local markets, fiestas, schools, and internet cafes, and have traveled by microbus, taxi, Jeep, pick-up truck bed, boat, on foot and by horse. We were able to see and experience the astounding beauty of the landscape. We swam and hiked, zipped over trees, walked through caves, and peered into volcanoes (those sulfur fumes are no joke…thank god for the gas masks). I have learned that I quite enjoy Nicaraguan cuisine (never tried the iguana soup, but no big deal), and that drinking the water or other beverages with ice won’t kill you. We even took salsa and merenge lessons (thank you, Bergman for not laughing-for the rest of you, sorry the pictures seem to be missing). There are malls and mansions, and often a few feet away, a house made of sticks or cardboard, or corrugated tin, but both the houses of a family nonetheless. Nicaragua, like most places, seems to be a medley and mix, and not all the pieces seem to fit, but it is what it is. I highly doubt we would have come to appreciate the complexity of Nicaragua and make such wonderful friends (both locals as well as other travelers like us) had we only been able to come for a few days or a week. Our time here is over, but I already want to come back.

Finally, I never quite realized just how easy it is to forget, ignore, or simply be unaware of how other people live, while we go on with our day to day lives. I am used to reading an article, or seeing a TV special, or hearing about Brangelina’s efforts to save the world, but never have encountered anything first-hand enough to make it personal. I’m used to finding myself feeling sorry for the subjects of these news stories, and thinking how sad I am for them and how fortunate we are, as I turn the page or change the channel and enjoy the luxuries of home. It is almost ridiculous how convenient it is living in a country where food is available in limitless options; where basic needs like clean air and water are not only present, but demanded and produced; especially now with the knowledge that one of our teachers wakes up at midnight somedays and walks for seven hours to get water for his family before coming to teach us our Spanish lessons. We, here as foreigners, talk about where we’ve traveled and what country is next on the list, while our other teacher tells us his dream of visiting another country, any country. Nicaragua has a history of being taken advantage of and stolen from and lied to. It has had most of its resources stripped against their consent by countries, especially the United States, and its people the victims of war, purposeful use of poisonous pesticides and numerous other atrocities. The people we have met and encountered have every right to hate us, or at the very least treat us neutrally or warily. So much of what we have and why we live our lives at home has come directly at the expense of what we have taken from these people. However, even knowing this, everyone has been kind, patient, interested, and welcoming.
Even given the hard facts about the unfair and exploitative relationship between our countries, rather than being blamed or made to feel ashamed, there has only been tolerance and a certain sense of quiet acceptance of the circumstances that have contributed to their current place in the world. As one of our first teachers put it during a discussion about his life, “A life without troubles is not a life” and also simply that “Nicaragua has not had good luck.” From here he went on to teaching us a new verb tense. It is for reasons like this and people like him, that Nicaragua is going to hold a special place in my heart and I am determined to remember everything about my time here. And someday soon, I would like to do something real about it, however small. The wheels are turning……

Here are some resources for anyone inclined to learn more:

Blood of Brothers (by Stephen Kinzer, recommended by our teacher)

The Whiteness of Power: Racism in Third World Development and Aid (Paulette Goudge, our friend who is the owner/director of the La Mariposa where we stayed)

The Jaguar Smile: A Nicaraguan Journey (Salman Rushdie)

www.fundacionisla.blogspot.com (our friend Jason is involved in and working with this community)

www.affectedmovie.com (another project of Jason’s)

We arrived at the Mercado through an unassuming street with no inviting fanfare.  The road was dusty and embedded with petrified garbage.  A fruit stand marked our entrance into the market, followed by 30 or 40 more.  It was crowded and the boundaries between venders, walkways, customers, product, and stands blurred endlessly.  I saw a girl slip on a banana peel. Really.

The produce section eventually gave way to the home appliances section, which gave way to the clothing section.  Some how in between we passed weight loss tonics and machetes of the usual sort.  This is Walmart before Walmart.  You can get literally everything imaginable at reduced prices in one space and it seemed to employ all of Nicaragua.

Some section we were in gave way to the meat section.  There were tables of beef parts laid out for display.  Children took naps on the tables adjacent to the meat.  Wait, let me be clearer.  Children took naps on the same tables as the meat, a few inches from flank steaks and mutton and underneath what looked like hanging bacon.  A table of cow eyes stared back at me in disbelief.  A woman stood behind her table, bent at the waist, head fully buried in what looked like beef shoulder, taking a nap.  I said hello to a man who was patiently removing the last remnants of flesh from a cow’s skull.

Mari walked up to me, eyes concentrated elsewhere, and whispered, “I think the guy in the white shirt is casing us.  I’ll watch him.” Promptly, she walked off, eyes still fixed a couple of rows beyond us.  And with Mari electing herself security monitor and apparently offering her protection, I was able to feel completely safe in the Oriental Mercado and take in my surroundings.

Class begins at 8:00.  Two hours of conversation, a break, and then 2 hours of grammar with another teacher.  All the classes are held outdoors or in open classrooms.  Since the weather has been perfect, it doesn’t get better than that (unless you happen to be sitting next to the plant that on occasion produces the most foul smelling odor, and has disrupted a class or two).  We were in for a shock yesterday (our first day of week two), to find that our conversation class with our new teacher was 100% en espanol.  I guess that means we are improving, but by the time it was over Jeff was mute and my head was about to explode.

After a satisfying lunch, we have several options; participate in the afternoon activity (anything from lectures/discussions, day trips, cooking classes, etc.), study our Spanish, explore the town and nearby towns, chill out in a hammock and read/nap, or walk around the garden and hang out with the monkeys, pigs, turtles, birds, and dogs (I finally can tell all seven of them apart!).  The staff is incredible, the guests/students are all super nice with awesome stories to share.  We often hang out on the terrace and have a beer before dinner.  Then it’s usually off to bed fairly early to start the process again.

Thank you for showing us Nicaragua in every sense; its culture, its natural beauty, its kindness and its humanity.  We didn´t know what to expect in coming here, but you´ve helped us experience your world in such a way that despite the relative short time we´ve been here and with you, we´re saddened to be leaving it but grateful.  Grateful for the sightseeing, the fiesta, the cuisine, and the overwhelming hospitality you´ve showered on us, but even more grateful for the conversations, the willingness to create shared experiences (like zip lining) and the sense and comforts of home.

We feel forever indebted to you two personally, as wellas to Diriamba and Nicaragua, for all that we have gained through our visit and we hope to repay it to you all if even in some small way.  We also hope to see you all( people and country) soon enough.

Your “Chinita y Chinito,”

Mari and Jeff

Once we were all earthbound again, we headed back to Mark and Nannette’s where they and their extended network of friends surprised me with a delicious pineapple birthday cake, complete with candles and singing…in English. Thank you everyone. What a day. 

Our first Spanish class in Nicaragua was…interesting. We’ll be here learning for a month in what has promised to be a pretty intense learning experience; 4 hours of instruction daily, low teacher-student ratios for extra attention—immersion. And classes start at 8 am in whatever time zone this is.
There are five of us in the Beginner Class today and it’s clear that regardless of our adulthood, professional degrees, and perceived status, the full range of emotions that accompany the first day of school are on full display. Anxiety, excitement, fearfulness, angst. Mari’s as giddy as, well, a schoolgirl. We learn introductions and typical responses. And then about twenty minutes into our 80 hours of instruction our teacher indicates that we should follow him on a walk into town. Field trip. Viaje de campo.
The five of us followed our teacher trying to stay close to him in case he tried to give our walk a purpose by bridging the Spanish words to what our eyes were seeing. Instead, we walked in a drainage ditch, mostly in silence—past the burning garbage, past the blooming native flowers, past the smoking Volcano Masaya seen in the distance.
We ended up at the house of our teacher’s friend, an open welcoming man. It was a typical Nicaraguan home made of cement blocks, the walls unpainted. We were described as Spanish students and the man proclaimed that he was also a student, trying to learn English. Our teacher translated for him, “if only there was a way for us to learn faster. Maybe I can exchange my Spanish for your English.” We responded, wanting to communicate with our host and continue this conversation (really any conversation) and so almost all in unison we replied with uncommon gusto “si!” as utilized from our earlier lesson. The conversation, despite all of our best efforts seemed to come to a lull after that and so there we sat, in silence, looking around the room for anything we knew and could translate to start a new line of dialogue. Como se dice “nice floor tiles” en Espanol? There’s a lovely ceramic Virgin Mary statue that’s always a solid ice breaker, if only I knew how to say “virgin”…or “statue” and assuming Mary stays constant across cultures.
We were all temporarily relieved when the man wanted to share Nicaraguan culture with us through its music and played a dvd of music videos. For the next half hour, we sat there watching the equivalent of the Nicaraguan boy band and women dressed in bikinis shaking it. Our teacher translated the music for us for full effect, “I touch her here. I touch her there.” We dutifully looked on at our improvised curriculum and responded “si.”
Our next lesson, via the next video from the group Los Bandititos had our teacher employing teaching by rote. “Loco, loco, loco para vos, chica” he recited from the song. “Loco, loco, loco para vos, chica <crazy, crazy, crazy for you girl>” we repeated. “Loco, loco, loco para vos, chica.” he corrected us with the annunciation on “CHI-CA.” We repeated.
Eventually it was time for our break, so we thanked our host for his kindness and left. He told us how happy he was to be able to open up his home to us.
As we began our walk back to the school, our teacher stopped us and said, “Please, I must ask you something, and please, don’t be offended, ok?” We responded with the tools we’ve been taught thus far—”si.” “Do you like to drink Cerveza?” he asked at what was now 10 am.
I tried to reply that I do like to drink in the social sense, but that I tend to wait later in the day, but you know, when in Rome I’ll do as the Romans do. I tried to tell him that I didn’t wish to drink during class time, but that I believed this really was good cerveza weather and that I hoped we all could grab a round in the future. Instead, I answered “si.”

It took several transfers and a one-hour bus ride to get to our day trip to see the ruins of Teotihuacan, the ancient Aztec city. I remembered studying the Aztecs in 5th grade, and wondered if the group of elementary students we saw in their green plaid uniforms knew just how spectacular this field trip was. Between the two mile walk into the city, the almost vertical climb to the top of the temple, and the altitude itself, I was forced to stop and gasp for air at several points on the way up. Luckily, everyone around us was too, so maybe this was not as indicative of my being out of shape, as it was the nature of the climb. And it was worth every huff and puff. It’s impossible not to appreciate the workmanship and the grandeur of the site and what was once a city, and I tried hard to imagine what it would have been like in its glory.

For lunch, we tried the local market, had enchiladas verdes and enchiladas mole mainly by default, as they were again a few of the menu items we were able to decipher. We got a few looks of disdain mixed with humor from the couple seated across from us, but for the most part the majority of locals we’ve encountered have been patient and helpful, either through gesture, offer of pen and paper, or simply jumping in to translate. This being said, I can not wait until we start our Spanish immersion program in a couple of weeks.

This being a Friday night, Jeff took me out on a $3 date to the Coliseo Mexico for an evening of local entertainment. It was pretty much WWF Mexico style, with muscular, masked, spandex-clad athletes/actors throwing each other around the ring (and outside the ring), complete with taunting and crowd-pleasing acrobatics. I tried making the mental comparison between the Mexican wrestling heros, with names like Stuko and Mistiko, with their American counterparts (like the Undertaker and Jake the Snake Roberts…yeah, I know a little thing or two from back in the day!). The best part for me was seeing the local children walking around masked as their favorite characters. It was awesome to attend a local event and experience the culture in this way. The low point-seeing a midget in a blue, pink, and yellow monkey suit get beat up by one of the contenders and carried out of the ring. Overall, an entertaining night, but maybe not one that would warrant a second date.

We were looking forward to seeing the luchadores flipping off the ropes in the matches known for their athleticism, and choreography.  And for certain, once it began there was no shortage of aerial attacks or creative counters which elicited the “ooo” and “ahh”s from the 15,000 Mexican fans…and us.   Well, actually my “ahhs” weren’t  on par with my fellow spectators, because for some reason I couldn’t get fully into it.  Even with the $4 I spent to rock my own  luchador mask. Maybe the feeling of something being a little off had  stayed with me.  But it wasn’t the vendor’s pricing.  I think it was not knowing what to quite make of this odd juxtaposition displayed in front of me.  The machismo of one-on-one combat, incredible athleticism and pain tolerance, bikini-clad women ushering them into the ring, and HGH grown muscles seemed somehow at odds with the bright colors and sequined masks, the effeminate names of some of the luchadores and the women wrestlers and their HGH grown muscles.

As I watched, Magenta Purpura won his match by disqualification because his opponent, Starman, had removed his mask. That’s when it became clear.  The arena.  The ring. These were places that demanded with its 30 pesos a ticket fee, you leave your preconceptions and gender roles at the gate (along with any cans or glass bottles).  And instead, just enjoy the moment, the wrestling moves, the spandex.  It’s the suspension of outside influences. That’s why within the gates they didn’t allow cameras.  That’s the reason for the masks and why Magenta Purpura’s mask being pulled off was such a big deal.  It was the equivalent to the wizard’s curtain being pulled back.

So by the time Lady Apache entered the ring to Cher’s “Do You Believe?”  I had accepted the realization as truth,   and when Euforia back flipped off of the high rope pinning his opponent and whipping the crowd into a frenzy, I was fully with them, ooo-ing away as I peered at the ring through the two cut out holes of  my luchador mask.