Cambuchia

Even though I had set the alarm on my $2 Casio watch, my eyes didn’t believe that I was actually waking up at 4:55 AM. Leaving enough time to brush my teeth, I was out the door and quickly hailed a motorbike to the Ancient City of Angkor. At the turn of the first millennium, King Suryavarman I united the warring clans of Indo-China into the Khmer Empire, establishing his capital in present-day Siem Reap. For over five hundred years, Khmer rulers expanded their glorified capital into an entire city of lavish temples and palaces of carved stone. I fumbled by way to Angkor Wat in the dark, among hundreds of other travelers. With a cup of hot tea, I sat beside a pool of lily pads and watched the sun, and its reflection, rise behind the acclaimed temple. Although a bit cloudy, the sky is sponged with powdery pinks, blues, and purples. As the sun peeked from behind the haze, I ventured inside the Angkor Wat ruin. Amid the incredibly detailed stone carvings, stacked pillars, and corn-cobbed steeples, I imagined the king’s doting ladies, floral garnishes, and lute players. Both Hindu and Buddhist deities mind the ruins and birds fly overhead like faithful guards.

I met some Israelis and we toured the other temples for the remainder of the day. The Bayon temple featured graceful faces on every stone steeple; Tah Prohm, the jungle temple, sprouted with massive centuries-old trees; and Angkor Thom, “Great City,” was the most impressive for its magnitude and grandeur. After climbing exhaustingly steep stairs in the Asian sun, we left antiquity for more modern attractions like the markets and the War Museum.

An advertised free tour guide showed us around the arsenal: a proud display of landmines, grenades, tanks, and machine-guns from the Cambodian civil wars. With one prosthetic leg, our guide limped around the military yard and served up dubious stories about personal casualties: “This is the type of landmine that killed my child in our rice field. I manned this tank in ’76. This was the gun that put me in the hospital for three months. After being shot before by an M-16, I didn’t think I could survive another. Here! Feel it! You can still feel the cap in my side!” I was horrified that a country of such antiquated peace and prosperity could drive itself toward and genocidal civil war. Seeing the donation box, I pulled five dollars from my wallet: “My boss is a bad man. Corrupt. He will keep it for himself.” But certainly, I wouldn’t put my money into his pocket either. Skeptically, I held onto the bill until the end of the tour, long enough for his “dead” child to vary curiously in age. Again, he sluggishly asked for money for his family - you know - because he was going to be out of a job soon. Not for this crooked man, but I truly did feel pity for the people of Cambodia who suffered through years of hollow violence. I wanted to help, but I felt uncomfortable fueling these remnants of bureaucratic corruption and malicious greed.

Phnom Penh only reinforced my nasty impressions of Cambodia. I was incessantly pressured to buy drugs by street crawlers. Massage parlors hosted crowds of seedy men who bargained for more than a relaxing muscle rub. I visited the infamous killing fields, where skulls and fragmented bones still pile in dirt pits. Located in the city’s center, I walked through the haunted halls of Tuol Sleng, an old school that the Khmer Rouge converted as a torture and mass extermination facility. The beauty of Angkor faded in my memory, and I couldn’t warm the chills from the back of my neck.

I ventured south to Sihanoukville, hoping for some R, R, & R (rest, relaxation, and rays), but loneliness got to me and my passion for travel diminished. I found myself thinking about home all the time, and only completing tasks for their own sake, not out of desire. I always wanted to scuba dive, and I signed up for a $200 course. I spent hours watching the educational video, skill training in the pool, completing class work, and taking an exam. These were all chores in the hope of actually scuba diving; but when I actually sank into the water, my feelings changed. My ears really hurt because of the pressure, and I felt really uncomfortable. Maybe I will try it again one day, but I honestly didn't care.

A big part of this trip was to find out more about myself and to get in touch with my heart, and I have successfully done this. I know that I didn't enjoy scuba diving. I know that I would have liked to teach English, but it just wasn't in the cards for me now. For over ten days, I hadn't made one real connection and idle backpacker chitchat became tiresome. I wanted to be with familiar faces. Traveling alone can be challenging and fun, but the emotional rollercoaster takes its toll. Almost every night, I slept a different grungy guest house, smushed everything into the same dirty backpack, and rotated the same three shirts. There’s still so much to see, but I guess there will be other travel opportunities. I couldn’t help but feel confused. I feel empowered with my accomplishments, but confronted with irrational feelings of failure and responsibility that waiedt for me at home. Am I willing to trade in my carefree vagabond days and submit myself to a routine with a job in New York? I promised myself I would not come home until my hair was ponytail-able and the snow had melted.

Pride aside, I decided to come home. NOW! Crying to my mom, halfway around the world, she settled my confusion and convinced me that it was time. I was relieved. But, when I tried to buy a ticket to Bangkok from my guesthouse, the manager said that all tickets were sold-out. I would have to wait another day.

I cannot possibly spend another day relaxing on the beach. I have a homesick rash and I will itch it until raw and infected if I am not on my way today. I want to be home NnnnOooooWwww! I strategized: My non-refundable plane ticket from Bangkok leaves in the morning. A family emergency. My father is sick. Julie! You backpacked around Southeast Asia for four months, and now one more day is sending you to the loony bin! Get it together, sister! Haven’t you learned anything from this trip? Where is this patience and go-with-the-flow attitude you so enduringly developed? I took another ride of a confusing emotional rollercoaster.

I was determined to leave Sihanoukville the next morning, and the manager was kind enough to guide me through a disjointed route to Bangkok: “No guarantees, but I know one guy who just made it to Bangkok in time for his plane home. Who knows, maybe you’ll have the same luck.” He sketched me a map with estimated travel times and costs: I would buy a ticket to Phnom Penh, but be sure that the driver let me off at a nondescript road junction. Then, I would have to hire a motorbike to take me two miles to Sre Ambel, a ferryboat across a river, for fifty cents. From the small port, there should be a number of small taxis headed for four more river crossings. I could hire another motorbike to the Thai border, an autorickshaw to Trat, Thailand, and an air-conditioned bus to Bangkok. Warning: “Be sure to make it to Trat by six o’clock, for the last bus out of town. You should have no problem.”

Problems were everywhere. The Phnom Penh-bound bus driver didn’t understand about Sre Ambel, motorbikes were scanty at the road junction, and ferry taxis ran very infrequently. Disastrously, my sandal got caught in the motorbike and shredded skin from my ankle until raw and throbbing. At the border, a hundred other backpackers waited in a snail-like line for their passports to be stamped by a single officer; and all the while, time atomically ticked away to six PM. I imagined the bus leaving without me, desperate and defeated. Miraculously, I arrived seconds before the single-occupancy bus departed for fateful Bangkok.

Laos II

No go on the Gibbons. Instead, our disappointed group all went our separate ways. I headed west to Phonsavan for the enigmatic Plain of Jars, where hundreds of massive stone vessels are scattered across three historical sites. Historians date these jars back 2000 years ago, but their origin and purpose are only hypothesized. Some propose that they held rice and rice wine, or perhaps bodies for burial. Most curiously, the stone is not indigenous to the region; the massive rocks must have been carried from over 80 kilometers away. I visited the first site just in time for sunset, illuminating the ancient jars with pinks and reds.

Seeking a little more adventure and less white faces, I headed south toward the farming villages on the Bolaven Plateau. I stopped in Pakse, the provincial capital, for some guidance and perhaps to organize a trek. By happenstance, I met San Francisco-native Will, who had bought some land and had since organized a small coffee plantation. Of course, I was fascinated how this ex-investment banker ended up in Laos. He explained the complications of his operation, and how the coffee business was more complicated than he expected: coffee prices are becoming increasingly more competitive, government imposes strict regulations on exporters, and local farmers struggle to meet their promised output. A caffeine-addict myself, Will was glad to show me his operation and small wooden cabin in Po Oi village (pop. 17). We wandered through fields of Typica and Catamore coffee, as he checked up on the growing cherries of coffee. We also visited the local farmers’ homes to ensure the quality and size of the beans, and he took me to his factory where the shelled green beans are polished and sacked for export. The entire day was completely spontaneous and wonderful, although I felt a little incomplete without a cup of Will’s Joe.

From Po Oi, I hailed a local bus to Tad Lo and was pleasantly surprised to reconnect with an old friend from Vanvieng: “Shemor! Shalom!” The guidebook promised two guesthouses, a few waterfalls, elephant rides, quiet native villages, and nothing else. Sounds great to us! We found a room right along the river, with a view of a rushing waterfall. Our spot was just perfect, what else could we need: good company, friendly Lao faces, cheap food, and the rock-aby sounds of the river. We spent seven days at the Sypaseuth Guesthouse, mostly just looking out to the river. To our left, the waterfall poured in varying degrees, depending on the day. On the first day, we could have sworn that more water flowed in the afternoon than it had in the morning, and I soon adopted the habit of keeping watch of the river’s changes. I needed to witness the moment when the dry rocks were splashed from the dam’s noon-time release. Straight in front of our porch, a small grassy island was usually occupied by playful children or grazing cows. On the far side of the island, the water flowed downstream, but the near side current flowed upstream and curved around the island. The water magically formed a gentle whirlpool! To our right, a small village and monastery lined the river. The river was always busy with families bathing together, children splashing about, and women fetching water. From the comfort of our own shady porch, Shemor and I discussed life, love, and heaven all while these natives performed all three.

We were so utterly content on our riverside abode, we didn’t venture out much. However, we did spend an entire day trekking up and around the area. The tribal villages were void of men, who were probably out in the fields or working on road construction. Women and children occupied the cluster of small thatch-roofed huts. Women shelled local nuts and coffee beans, sifted and grinded rice, and wove cotton fabrics for sale. Animals roamed freely: goats, chickens, pigs, and cows. As a baby goat sucked milk from its mother, a woman was similarly breast feeding with the same shamelessness as the animal. Children played naked and elderly women smiled as they carried out laborious tasks. I am in love with these people. What is their secret? They are not religious people. They have no education, no possessions. They seem to have discovered the meaning of life without any awareness. I guess the rice field is always greener on the other side.

Shemor and I continued on. We passed through more villages and enjoyed laughing with the kids. It’s like playing charades; language is useless. Communication is only possible through theatrical performances: animated expressions, puzzled faces followed by uproarious laughs, curious stares. Every child possessed the most beautiful black almond-shaped eyes. As we continued up the road, villages disappeared and we found ourselves carefree and lost in a giant rice field. Birds. The faint sound of the river. Bamboo branches swaying. Quiet. Shemor whispers: “Laos is so peaceful. It’s like the hand of God is touching it.”

We spent a week exploring and experiencing this profound peacefulness. We watched the sunset every evening. Our ears learned to ignore the morning roosters. We forgot to plan ahead. We ate. We slept. We talked and listened to music. We philosophized to the point that our minds ran blank into nothingness. I think the hand of God is touching it.

Shemor headed to Bangkok to meet his girlfriend, and I rode east to Champasak to see a Khmer ruin and then south to Si Phon Don, Four Thousand Islands. I arrived in Dondet and settled into my Mekong riverside bungalow just in time for sunset.

Five o’clock and the sun is still high in the sky.
A strip of sparkling gold pools like lava.
I wonder if this is how water really looks: the human eye only shows us a dull image of the world, while the sun may reveal it’s truly brilliant colors.
The sun falls and the puddle of liquid gold condenses and darkens into a ball of fire.
Currents make patterns of concentric curves and lattices.
Shadows have hues of pink and purple replaces sky blue.
The neon sun peeps into a nook of a treetop canopy and falls behind.
Now only the waves still capture an opalescent outline.
Small patches of grassy tuffets fade with their perfect reflection to black.

I met some Americans, some Israelis, two Australians, a Dane, and a few Brits. We hired a motorboat to drag us down the river in tubes and watched the sunset on the water. A bunch of us organized a bonfire on the beach and listened to dueling bongos under the stars. Still, my favorite Dondet moment was my solo bike ride around the island.

Green pomegranate trees fence native bungalows.
Palm trees bend over the shade the sandy path.
Winding, even, soft, smooth, clean.
No cars, no rocks, no shoes, no danger.
Every stranger greets me with a smile as I pass: “Sabadee!”
Dead ends reveal the most magnificent views.
Monks retreat in colorful monasteries.
Women weaving. Children playing.
Exploring has never been so serene.
My iPod serves me the perfect soundtrack and I fearlessly sing outloud: Bill Withers’ Lovely Day, Van Morrison’s Higher Ground, Frank Sinatra’s I’ve Got the World on a String, Classical, Flamenco, Rap, even Jennifer Lopez.
Time is forgotten.
I only feel the breeze on my face and the sun on my shoulders.

Laos I

A little bummed from leaving my friends, I passed through airport customs in Vientiane, Laos. There aren't any ATMs here (Visa must change their slogan), so I exchanged a few hundred dollars into Laos kip. The teller lay four stacks of rubber-banded money onto the counter. Like some bank thief, I quickly shoved the cash into my small bag with difficulty. Who wants to be a Millionaire!

Vientiane is nothing to rave about. The city's only sight is the Pha That Luang temple from the 15th century. Guarded by a fortress wall, the sand-colored monument exhibits Laos' unique architecture: round tapered steeples. It's beautiful, but I only spent one day here before heading north to Vien Viang, the backpacker's haven. Set along the Nam Song river, Vien Viang is known for its beer accessibility and river tubing. I, and what looked like the rest of the town's backpackers, rented a tube and floated down the river for the day, stopping at the riverbank bars for refreshments and ziplines. Lazily floating down the river, I admired the scenic palm trees, bare rice paddies, and rocky hills. How did I get here? I extended my feet so they were a part of the view: my own two feet took me to Laos! It's not easy living out of a backpack in a foreign country, especially since I've been on my own for most of it. I have the occasional homesick day or nuisance day, but they floated away with the peacefulness of the Nam Song river.

At the next riverside bar, home of the famous Omega swing, I met a bunch of Israelis. We played volleyball and soaked up the sun without a care. Uh oh! The sun was setting, and we still had two more hours of floating in order to get back. Goosebumped and purple-lipped, we decided to hop out of the water and walk back to town with the tubes on our backs. We bushwhacked through a viney forest and and trekked through massive strewn rice fields. Finally, we found a road and hitchhiked back to town, throwing our eight tubes ontop of a pick-up!

The easy life is too easy here. Instead of spending another day tubing, or just reading in a hammock at the riverside bar, a new friend and I rented mountain bikes for the day. We rode to the Organic Farm for lunch (it sounds neat, although I doubt that most farmers here use chemicals) where I sipped a tart glass of starfruit wine. On the other side of the river, we pedalled across rice fields hovered by rocky hills and rode to two limestone caves. Exhausted from the sun and heat, I rode back to town and collapsed at the "Friends" Cafe. My new Israeli friends and I must have watched every episode during our four days in Vian Vieng. Seating was Japanese style; and after our Lao noodle soup or Snitzle, we sprawled out on the comfortable cushions for hours. Definitely not a good strategy for a profitable turn-over.

After four days, I was ready to push on. I only planned to spend 10 days in Laos, but I have come to love the people and their laid-back lifestyle. Now, it seems that my one-month visa won't suffice. I'm in Luang Prabang now, a french-like town that is full of Thai-styled 15th century stupas and monasteries. I spent one day walking around the town, venturing down small roads and exploring the Mekong's riverside. Another day, some new friends and I hired a boat to the Pak Ou, where thousands of Buddhist statues are collected in a riverside rock-ledged cave. All along the north side of the river, massive sheets of rock hang perpendicularly, towering at least 500 feet above our heads. We took an afternoon swim, beneath these cliffs that begged to be climbed. In the sun-heated current, I lay on my back, gazing up the rocks as the Mekong carried me down. I screamed like a tickled infant: This is the most exotic moment of my life!

Every backpacker that I've spoke to has heard this myth: in the Bokeo region of Laos, there is a metres-high resort where you play with Gibbon monkeys and take a zipline from treehouse to treehouse. It's a childhood fantasy for adults; and if it's true, only 10 hours away. Our research attempts were fruitless and I settled on heading towards Phonsavan instead. Just hours after buying my bus ticket, our backpacker group met an English couple who had actually spoken to the extraordinary hotelier. Yes, he had treehouses free in just a few days. Now, we are waiting for our confirmed reservations!

Goodnight Saigon

With our Danish friends Morten and Simon in tow, we boarded the night bus toward Hoi An with one purpose: shopping. Hoi An doesn't have much to offer tourists except their inexpensive silk and excellent tailoring. The boys imagined cashmere suits and french-cuffed shirts. For me, I dreamed of a raw-silk tuxedo or a chamousse robe. When we arrived at the silk shop, the boys bolted toward the men's section and hunted for a suitable fabric. I climbed the stairs to the second floor, overwhelmed by Asian florals, stripes, checks, raw silks, refined silks, chamousse silk, lavender, aquamarine, copper, and canary yellow. The saleswomen must have seen my wide eyes and pulled me a chair: She's a runaway! Instead of pulling my own fabrics and making a mess, as I'm sure most fashion-obsessed tourists do, they eagerly showed me anything I liked. They opened catalogues of style selections and carried over reams of fabric, all the while I sipped my Vietnamese tea. So much better than online shopping! No. Like this one, but....A little shiny. Not that shiny! Somewhat. Yes! After gathering for over an hour, I finally decided on a black raw-silk tuxedo, as planned, with added embroidery. Satisfied, I reconvened with the boys; we were all excited for our fitting that night.

After dinner, we returned to the tailor shop. We each took our labelled garment bag and anxiously headed to the dressing room. I slipped on the strapless camisole with embroidered pink flowers, the Asian-collared jacket, and the cigarette pants. My eyes were glued to the mirror, as I turned to see every angle: I am Sabrina! I pushed through the fabric curtains, and I could see the boys already strutting in front of the mirror, making Blue Steel expressions as they thought no one was watching. They did look handsome! And, judging by their expressions, I think they liked my suit as well! We put our Feel-like-a-million-Vietnamese-Dong back into the garment bags, and redressed in our comfortable backpacker attire, dirty t-shirts and forever-stained pants.

Shortly after, the Danes headed back to the sporadically sunny beaches of Nha Trang, as Gil, Jake, and I continued north to Hue and then Hanoi. We arrived just in time for New Years. The veteran college party-boy, Jake pumped us up for a night (and morning) of fun and drinking; but after dancing at the Funky Monkey until two, Gil and I were all New Year’s out. We picked up some late-night: you know, grilled cow brains and rice porridge, and headed back to the hotel. Just as Gil and I were waking up, Jake was just getting home. I think I heard him say: “That was a crazy night!” but his head hit the pillow while he was still talking.

We heard about a Hanoi delicassy; and continuing with our tradition of adventurous cuisine, cobra was right up our alley. Just a twenty minute ride outside the motorbike-polluted city of Hanoi, our cab pulled up to a small suburban home with a large sign of a killer snake. The man of the house greeted us and held the door (with only nine fingers!) as we entered his snake-shrined home. In the first room, hundreds of yellowed jars of all sized were stuffed with coiled snakes, each in an attacking pose. Every inch of the wall was line with shelves of these preserved creatures; some even held just the testicles and penis! Freaky. The man led us to the backyard where his kept his caged pets. Handling them with a burlap bag and a metal stick, he picked up each cobra and named its price. We settled on a small king cobra: a whopping forty dollars split three ways. He stuffed the animal into the sack and carried it up the dining room on the second floor, casually swinging it and knocking it against the wall. Before the snake could come to - Smack! - onto the floor. He slit the throat with a basic razor blade and drained the blood into a vat of local vodka, then scalpelled the ping-pong ball-sized heart into a shot glass. Stunned and mouths agape, we were served the blood concoction. It was already established that I, the Fear Factor Food champion, would eat the heart. But watching it splash around the bloody shot glass, still beating, I thought it would be courteous to still offer to honor to the boys. Nope. No takers. Gil, Jake, and I had our glasses to the center. We glanced around the table with nervous smiles: this was the crazy trip we begged for! Down the hatch! Our first course of snake was actually pleasant! The vodka provided a nice aftertaste, and the blood was rather sweet and thick, like syrup. Our next courses were equally tasty: spine-boiled soup with corn, fried spring rolls, puffed snakeskin, and snake meat with vegetables and chilli. Every part was eaten: even the boys took care of the eyeballs! Ssssscrumptiousssss!

We-trio headed east to Ha Long Bay for three days on a sightseeing-packed tour. We walked through enormous limestone-dripping cave, illuminated with colorful neon lights that gave a Disney-like feel. We also wandered through hidden bunkers that the Vietnamese used during “The War with America” (just look down and scratch your head in shame). Actually, a really friendly and animated retired military officer gave the tour. He tried to give us a realistic picture of what living in the cave was like back then, although he seemed a little too enthusiastic and we wondered if he got out much. The old colonel even taught us an old rile-‘em-up song; but after the eightieth time chanting “Oh, Uncle Ho Chi Min, Ho!” we all lost our pep. Off to the Cat Ba National Park, where we took a three-hour hike up one of tall green hills. Most of the trek had been under the shade of tall ferns, and we couldn’t see the renowned seascape. As we reached the top and felt sun on our faces, we turned around to view the most spectacular scenery. We were surrounded by waves of overlapping green hills and lush valleys; not a small road or hut in sight. To the east, just beyond a few ranges, we saw the glorious China Sea and jagged rocks that were scattered in the still blue water. The contrast between the two landscapes were unreal, and only separated by a narrow strip of sandy beach. I rested in a daze for some time. The sun didn’t appear to move, but time was passing and we still wanted to enjoy the harbour.

The following day, we boarded a boat for a day’s lap around Ha Long Bay. We oohed and aahed at the scenery, took some pictures, and chatted with other travellers on the roof deck. But after an hour, the boat rocked us into a settled peace and we drifted off into our own worlds. Jake plugged himself into his iPod (his favorite past-time), Gil read his book with curiosity, and I drifted off into a deep nap. I was awoken for a good reason: Kayaking? Jake teamed up with a cute German girl, while Gil and I shared a kayak of our own. We paddled between the jagged rocks, shaped like colossal flintstones, and through sea-shell covered lagoons. "It’s like we are inside a postcard," Gil smiled. Awestruck from the peaceful scenery, I didn’t have much energy for paddling: good thing I employed this Israeli soldier! Once de-lifejacketed and reboarded, fog suddenly appeared and it took quite a while to return to harbour. We were disappointed that the weather would not permit us to spend a night aboard as we had planned. We spent another night on Cat Ba Island, before heading north to our next destination.

Populated by gentle rice farmers and roaring green hills, Sapa is made of small minority villages that form a cultural patchwork, similar to that of the paddied hills. It’s winter, so the farmland is bare and muddy, and not many tourists come through for trekking around the countryside. Just as well, we decided to take a three-day trek through the villages and spend one night with a local family. Chee, our remarkable, seventeen-year-old tour guide showed us around to her neighboring villages. Somehow, we acquired another group member for the day: I briefly met an adorable little girl in town and she didn’t seem to want to let go of my hand. Little Bam followed us past Indigo-producing villages, to a beautiful waterfall, and through the local markets. She sang me folk songs from her village, and I sang old camp tunes and Cole Porter. She luckily let go so that I could eat lunch; and amusingly, found another maternal backpacker to spend her afternoon with.

While the first day’s weather had been bright and sunny, we were not as lucky with the following days. We didn’t experience as many kinds of rain as Forrest Gump, but it was just enough to make the muddy downward trek hazardous and blundersome. We bought bamboo walking sticks from the local children for 12,000 dong. Boy, do they know about supply and demand! In the end, neither walking stick nor a Tide suit could keep us clean. To keep my spirit up, I started singing Paul Simon, but it didn’t sound quite right: “Slipppp Slideeeeeeeng Aaahhhway.” Finally, we arrived at our homestay family’s house. Chee guides almost every day, so she spend more time with this homestay house than in her own village. We were happy to be staying in her pseudo-home; we had come to admire her so much. Without attending school, Chee speaks English perfectly and works hard giving tours as the only one in a six-person family to earn an income. We couldn’t believe how she skated down the mud, while we were falling all over the place; she was our beautiful little mountain goat. We were dishevelled from our battle with the mud and in a bit of a huff, but she immediately started cutting vegetables for dinner. We offered our help: Jake started to cut shallots and Gil even swept the floor: all the while, she just laughed kindly. Chee is truly a product of her environment, and Sapa is an unbelievable place.

For hours, we all sat around the fire. The women of the household would occasionally wander outside for more bamboo for the fire. They did all of the work themselves, as the men lived in other villages, earning money for hard labor. The grandmother and elder sister seemed unimpressed by us; I guess they have tourists every night. We were certainly amazed by them and their way of life. The children shoelessly played in the mud, then oddly watched satellite television in the other room. During dinner, a feast of many dishes and varieties, we could even watch BBC World. With Ariel Sharon’s condition pending, we were strangely grateful to be connected in this off-the-beaten-path travel destination. The family piled under one large blanket on one side of the house, and our family slept snugly on the other side. Our nightlight was the fire that was gently aglow from the kitchen.

The next four days seemed to be just for goodbyes. We had a goodbye evening with Chee: we treated her to dinner and a night of pool and drinks. She’s even great with a cue! The following day, she saw us off to our tiny-cabined night train back to Hanoi. Back in the bustling city, we bummed around for three days: the sad good-bye looming over us. We lazily walked around, fruitlessly shopping for cheap sweatshirts and last minute gifts, and caught a much-warned boring water puppet show. We grabbed some Bia Hoi: the local street-corner bars with plastic stools, famous for 30-cent beers and free peanuts (somehow they also tasted like beer). Those last days passed quickly, even though we didn’t seem to do much except play our favorite new card game, The River. We gave numerous toasts: over another Bia Hoi, wine at dinner, and again at a late-night bar. Jake, Gil, and I had a fabulous three weeks together.

In our dark and still hotel room, my alarm rang at 5:30 am. The boys were sleeping; their flights didn’t leave until later that day. They gently stirred in their sleep as I gave them a little hug and a kiss. I slowly got my ready-packed bag and gently closed the door behind me: Bye boys.

Good Morning, Vietnam

Strange. I am entering a country full of so many nightmares: Apocalypse Now, Kim Phuc, and my once-soldiered Uncle Fred. It's a place that I've learned about in my chaptered, high school history book, full of dated battles and mortality rates. This place gave America a political conscience and a precedented caution of morality. Now that the Red Scare is no longer terrifying the world, I fear how America has changed this once peaceful farmland.

I arrived in Ho Chi Min City (Saigon) in the afternoon and was relieved to notice how this highly populated and motorcycle polluting city breathed with life. Bus drivers abused their horns, pedestrians crossed without hesitation, and market vendors spread their fruits and vegetables on the sidewalk. Signs for restaurants and hotels, written in English and Vietnamese (also in latin letters), promise good food and clean accomodations. On a public bus from the airport, I headed to Pho Nam Pham, the backpacker-friendly area, where I planned to meet Jake at our designated hotel. Although a few worried hours late, I heard a knock on my door at midnight: "Open the door, you American!" Jake! Clean shaven and dressed in the standard black Northface fleece, we greeted each other with a bunch of bear hugs, breaking every few seconds to look at how our faces had changed since our 2000-summer in Israel. The excitement soon ended when he remembered that he had been traveling for almost a day. We grabbed a quick drink and caught up in the dark before quickly falling asleep.

The next day, we woke up with the dawn and caught a six hour bus to Dalat where we would meet up with Gil, Jake's Israeli cousin. I had also met him that summer, but so much time had past. Gil had since finished his army duty, and is now an accountant and law student. Jake is one semester short of graduation and already signed a two-year contract with a financial firm. Okay, so I knew these people back when, but our travel group is more like trustworthy strangers who need to be introduced and sorted out all over again. Still, when Gil welcomed us to the Pink Hotel in Dalat, the hugs were genuine and warm. He introduced us to the men of the hotel, brothers Han and Rot, gregarious and curiously animated Vietnamese. We hit some dinner: porcupine and wild boar. The hunt-of-the-day tasted like chicken. Jake retired to bed, but Rot insisted that Gil and I experience the local nightlife. Kareoke! Now we're talking! I am a theatre-obsessed girl from the Big Apple; you have "New York, New York" ? Rot walked into the Kareoke joint, and the single waitress served him his usual drink not a second after. Without even cracking the books of song selections, he scribbed down "Hotel California" and "Seasons in the Sun" and proceeded to sing every word with a curled Vietnamese accent. I had to hand it to him: practice does make perfect and he hit every note of the Eagle's high-pitched tune.

The next day, Han took us around the countryside on motorbikes. Shelled coffee beans dried in the sun on the sides of the road, and the rolling hills were like heaps green patchwork quilts of moss and grass. Squares of sown root onions and beets were even carved into the steepest parts of the concaves. Han showed us around a local minority village, where they grow all sorts of mushrooms and elderly women roll their own incense. The boys joined in on a soccer game with the youth, and we all visited the single-roomed school. We spent an hour at Tiger Falls, where mist rose from the white rapids and into the green hills. Han also took us to a Buddhist monastery, a passion fruit farm, and a silk factory. Basketed trays of white cocoons were stacked by the hundreds, youngsters cleaned the unprocessed silk, and the older ladies operated the electric loom. With violent clicking sounds, the machine followed the pattern that was indicated by holed cards. Each pull revealed another line of florals and asian symbols. As the sun drew to the horizon, we mounted the motorbikes and headed back to the hotel. Han and I sang Titanic's "My Heart Will Go On," with a similar pitifully adorable accent as his brother's kareoke. I even taught him Grease 2's "Cool Rider!" By the the time we returned, we are all walking like saddle-split cowboys, and took a rest before dinner and disco dancing.

Another eight hours of bus, and we were transported from Dalat's green farmland to Nha Trang's sandy palm trees. I insisted on a room with a view. From our bedroom balcony, we woke up with the sounds of crashing waves and sights of jagged hills that perimetered the China Sea beach. Oysters, mussels, soft-shell crab, lobster, tuna steaks, calamari and giant prawns were freshly set on ice from docked seaboats. Popcicles were sold at every kiosk and children conveniently peddled books, water, and snacks. Some peddlers became annoying, heckling us at dinner, but one stole my heart. Chili, ne Thuy, approached us on the beach, offering postcards and chewing gum. She had a soy sauce splotched birthmark on her upper lip and her clothes were stitched and pilled. We started chatting, and she handed me a shell she found on the beach. My immediate reaction: "How much?" She looked offended; it was a gift. She told me that her parents live in Hanoi with her two sisters, and she comes to Nha Trang for tourist season to sell post cards and attend school. Chili stays with the other Postcard Children under the supervision of a Room Mother. She never asked me for anything but to buy postcards. Later that day, she came to visit and shared her guava with me. I was so enamored by her gay spirit and abundant generosity. I asked her to have breakfast with me the next morning. I waited for her at my hotel lobby, uncertain if I would be stood up by a eleven-year-old Vietnamese girl. Sure enough, she ran over to me with a smile and gave me a hug: "What do you want to eat? Anything." She ordered mixed seafood and noodles: I'm not sure if that's a Vietnamese breakfast item or it was just her longed-for favorite. Regardless, she insistently offered me her best shrimp and biggest piece of calamari. We played tic tac toe and a connect-the-dots game; I caved and bought some postcards. For the next few days, I had a loyal friend and cuddle-buddy, who continued to amaze me by her spirit and loving nature. She warmed my heart and I couldn't help but buy her packs of gum and a small pair of earings. I asked for her address, so I could write her a postcard, but she only wrote her name and "Nha Trang."

Every morning, we locked our hotel room door and walked passed two other travelers who were just returning from the bars. Danish backpackers, Simon and Morten, ate breakfast at four in the afternoon, and gave daily recounts of crazy nightlife in scratchy voices. What were we missing? We all went to Blue's Bar that night, home of the famous egg burger and two-for-one drink prices. The Australian regular shouted to the group: "You like Sambuca?" I was instructed to hold the shot of licorice-flavored liquor in my mouth while he took a lighter to my mouth. Poof....Gulp! My mouth buzzed with warm licorice: lip smacking! Do I like Sambuca? Yes! We started a friendly game of poker, with bottlecap chips. Five of us joined in, throwing 10,000 Dong each into the pot ($6); but before long, the game grew to eight and we each grew greedy. Beginner's luck: I matched every raise and went all in with the bunch. I never even knew if I won until my opposer threw down the losing hand in disappointment; that was my cue to rake all the chips toward me. The pot kept doubling as players went bankrupt and soon, I owned every last chip. I handed my winnings to Gil, who had his wallet stolen the night before. With just a few shots of Sambuca and a game of poker, everyone was in high spirits: Jake was hitting it up with the ladies, I won my first game of poker, and Gil was able to forget about his misfortune.

The next day, the three of us headed off to the nearby hotsprings. We squirmishly sat in cold mud and then dried in the sun until we were mud-mummified. Next, we sprawled out the jacuzzi until our bodies shriveled like raisins. All in a good day's work. After, we returned to the hotel and popped into a nearby restaurant for dinner. We were talking about all the adventurous food that Vietnam has to offer; we already ate porcupine and frog legs. The Danes insisted that we try snake when we got to Hanoi. What else would be cool to eat? Tiger? Turtle? "Cockroach!" Jake looked at me in disgust: "I know they eat bugs in Bangkok, but I wouldn't want to eat a cockroach." No, there was a cockroach scurrying across the floor of this barbeque seafood restaurant; and in the spirit of adventurous cuisine, I was going to taste that little sucker! I ran after it and trapped it under a plate. I convinced the chef to prepare it for me, but even beyond the language barrier, he still couldn't understand why I would want to eat the insect. Still, he carefully lifted the plate and stabbed it with a sharp cooking tong. A few minutes later, a little crunchy insect was placed in front of me. With a squirt of fresh lemon and a sprinkle of salt, the cockroach went down easily with a pleasant crunch. I just had to tongue the antena out from between my teeth. Tastes like chicken!

Bangkok, Take Two

My first trip to Bangkok had been a luxurious whirlwind tour of the city. On our way to Nepal, Dad and I stayed at the world-famous Mandarin Oriental Hotel, where employees were designated at strictly door-openers or garland-distributors. We hurried through a few monuments, all guided by a hotel-supplied Mercedes and tour guide. Now, I had a different budget and with a different mission.

I took a public bus from Bangkok International Airport to Khao San Road. The streets looked familiar from before, but once on Khao San, neon lights and blasting music shocked the culture out of me. Life! Hundreds of other whities strolled the short street, taking in what this backpacker haven had to offer: massage parlors, hair braiders and dred-lockers, 20-cent Pad Thai, music shops, and curb-side bars. With every few steps, I heard different beats blasting from either night clubs or CD stalls. Street vendors sold slogan t-shirts and other Thai giftie items, from snakeskin wallets to bamboo chopsticks. Food vendors barbequed skewers of fresh soft-shell crab and calamari, while there were plenty of colorful papayas, guavas, and yellow watermelon in fruit carts. Better yet: everyone speaks English and there's internet and international phones on every corner.

For my first day, I laid out my map and tried to construct the best route to see the most monuments. But as soon as I started walking, two Thai girls stopped me and advised that I take advantage of Buddha Day, which meant a free tuktuk. Hmmm. I'm sure there's a scam somehow, I just don't know what it is quite yet. But, they assured me that it was free so I took the bait. It turns out that Buddha Day is everyday in Thailand. So long as you allow a tuktuk driver to take you into an export shop, the driver will get a free gas coupon and the passenger a free ride. So, I saw the Royal Palace, the Grand Palace, the Marble Palace, and Lucky Buddha all in one day. When the gas coupon was exhausted, I just went into another silk shop. Free gas for shopping, and I don't even have to buy anything! Unfortunately, when I tried celebrating Buddha Day the following day, the tuktuk drove me to the same silk dealer, and I wasn't allowed another coupon. She screamed to my driver in Thai: "This American is abusing Buddha Day! She was here already! No coupon for you!" Aw Shucks!

One evening, I just happened to walk by the Thai Independent Book Fair. In a small park along the river, hundreds of stalls were set up offering all sorts of handicrafts and Thai-written illegible books. A lame rock band was strumming their hearts out to noise, and an overly zealous aerobic instructor was leading participants in a twirling workout routine. I awkwardly sat down on a park bench, next to a young male traveler. He introduced himself as John, from New York, NY. New York! Me too! I lit up with enthusiasm. "Well, actually I'm from Virginia," he regretted. Oh. We get to talking, the usual conversation: What do you do at home? How long have you been here? Where else are you traveling? I said that I really wanted to go to the infamous Red Light district, a place I certainly could not have visited with my father. We lighted the town red! Apparently a veteran, he took me to Sukhimvit Road, but the live sex shows were out of my price range. Then, we tuktukked it to Phatpong for some (now I see where they get the name) ping pong tricks, but it didn't stop there. I saw some amazing talents: razor blades on a string, bananas, darts, straw-sipping from Coke cans, and ring tossing. I didn't know whether to be disgusted or to applaud. After, to the notorious Seven-story Whorehouse, where we entered 'Cascade,' a lady-boy dance-hall. These women, I mean men (?), were absolutely stunning, but John assured me with the official check. Planning to meet up again tomorrow, John and I wobbly hailed a taxi back to Khao San.

In the morning, or rather afternoon, I walked over to Dusit Zoo, the most remarkable collection of animals I have ever seen. Set around a tropical lake, Dusit has dozens of bird varieties, bears, crocadiles, hippoes, big cats, and nocturnal creatures. There was even a whole corner designated for various species of monkeys and langours. Having just seen "King Kong" two days before, I probably sat there for over an hour, imagining their thoughts. I witnessed a little quarrel between a young langour and an elder. The elder swung to the other side of the cage in a huff, while the younger one pretended not to care. When the young langour played aloof, the elder glanced longingly. Then, the elder looked away with pride, as the young one cautiously peered from the corner of his eye. They played hard-to-get for 15 minutes, inching towards and away from each other, like immature schoolchildren. I love how human psychology applies so easily to these little gremlin-faced people.

I met up with John, and we caught the local bus for downtown to see Harry Potter. Now I felt like the veteran; since my time in Bangkok, I have become pretty familiar with public transportation. Aboard the bus, we met Andy. He also came to Thailand for vacation, but met Joy and has been teaching English in Bangkok for the last eight months. It was great to pick his brain about teaching opportunities and he gave me lots of advice. Without any solid plans (isn't that the marvel of backpacking), we sat down at the Heineken Pavilion, and ordered a cooler of beer. A live band played great covers of Aerosmiths and Van Halen. I couldn't believe how this skinny Thai man sounded exactly like David Lee Roth, when "Jump!" echoed through the speakers. Joy met us a little later, when the cooler was almost empty, and I really enjoyed talking to an authentic Thai girl! After, we parted ways; John and I walked around the very modern downtown, packed with many eight-story shopping malls and state-of-the-art cinemas. The skytrain roared from up above and traffic-packed streets filled the city with gray gas. We caught a late screening of 'Harry Potter'; and having already seen a movie in Bangkok, I was not surprised when the screen prompted us to stand in honor of the King. Disappointed from this dragging series, we said goodbye and goodnight.

Getting a little tired of Bangkok, I thought about spending a night at the Floating Market, located about 80 kilometers from the city. All along Khao San Road, there are dozens of travel agencies that offered day trips, but I thought that I could find my way there on my own and probably save some money. I checked out of the Top Hotel and saddled up with my growing backpack. I caught the 501 bus to the station as advised, and stood with my backpack on the traffic-stricken bus for over an hour, sweating. To my misfortune, I was deflated whenI discovered that I arrived at the wrong bus station; I was at the East Bus Terminal while the bus bound for the Floating Market was just departing from the South Terminal. Tears. Kicking. Screaming. Breath. Addy, a saint of a woman with a friendly Thai smile , touched my arm and offered her guidance. In perfect English, she asked, "Why didn't you just take one of the tourist busses? You know, there is also a floating market here in Bangkok." At that point, I had lost all interest in the stupid, floating f@#$ing market shmarket. Just chatting with her calmed me down; she told me that she had family living in Queens and I told her how much I enjoyed her city. She even invited me to her home, if I would still be in Bangkok for the weekend. I gave her a big grateful hug before hopping the 501 back to Khao San Road.

With two more days in Bangkok, I was glad to have had more time to go sightseeing. I walked around Lumpini Park, filled with runners, kites, and paddle boats. I also saw Wat Po, and took a ferry boat across the river to visit Wat Arun, the Temple of Dawn. For my last day, I ventured to the Snake Farm in time for the live feedings. Funded by the Red Cross, the snake hospital works to to produce anti-venom for the million of farmers, endangered by these predators. A four-fingered demonstrator gave a slideshow presentation and stuffed 20 raw quartered chickens into its mouth with large tweezers. They also showed how the hospital extracts the venom; I even got to take a picture with the lovely Boa around my neck!

Surprisingly, my solo week in Bangkok flew by. I saw so much of the city, but I'm still waiting to return so that I see a Thai boxing match and traditional Thai dancing. Next time. Sawatee Ka, Bangkok!

Planes, Trains, and Automobiles

Our fateless driver dropped us off at Agra's train station in the afternoon and handed us an envelope with our tickets inside. Eleven o'clock! Deo said that the road at night was dangerous, and it would be better for him to return to Delhi as soon as possible. Obviously he had enough of our company, because surely the road that we just drove through would not a problem. Now he did have a problem, because we showed no remorse when we stiffed his tip. Free from our impossible navigator, our relief didn't last for more than a few minutes. I know what hell must be like: screaming steel breaks, no internet or phone, tall flights of garbaged staircases, and a million squacking pigeons on electric lines shitting on ticketholders below. I felt like scratching my eyes out; there was no way that I was going to survive for eight hours in this hellhole. Luckily, we dodged the raining bird poo and set up camp in the dank waiting room, lit by a single-fluorescent bulb that buzzed in the corner. Somehow hell wasn't as bad as I thought. We talked to other travelers and shared the misery. I sketched in my notebook and taught Annika how to play Gin Rummy, while Remy banged on his new drum and Sina wrote in her journal. Sven bought some bananas and cookies for all of us, and the time passed quickly.

The rusted train screeched into the station at 12:30. We were anxious to crawl into our promised sleeper car and get some well-deserved rest. We had false impressions of this supposed sleeper car. I imagined old fashioned trains, where passengers had their own private cabin, and read the newspaper in the dining car. Fitzgerald had never been on this train. In just one sleeper car, fifty people were crammed onto three tiered cots, with supplied blankets and pillows that reeked on mildew. I locked my backpack shut, threw it up onto my cot, and doubled locked the bag to the bed. Tired and cold, I pinched the blanket with two fingers and fearfully pulled it over me. Miraculously, I fell right to sleep and could probably have slept for another 24 hours if the stewarts weren't yelling, "Chaaaiii! Caaaaafffeeee!" in the wee morning. But, it was a pleasure to have tea in bed. I just tossed three rupees down from my bed, and I leisurely sipped masala chai, proud to have survived the trip to Varanasi.

Varanasi is the holiest city for Hindus, and travelers say that you either love it or you hate it. I don't think I was there long enough to make a judgement, but the city is definitely unlike any other place I have seen in India. It's still dirty and crowded, and people are still inviting you to their shops or to their restaurants: "Madame! Madame!" Without a doubt, there is something peaceful and kind underneath the money-hungry vendors. Set along the west bank of the Ganges River, Hindus believe that the mother river will purify their souls; and when they die, their ashes are thrown into its current. They all bathe in the Ganga every morning and cremation ceremonies are performed without end. Ancient temples are now nustled between new cramped homes and shops; there's even a holy tree that branches through a stucco-walled home. The five of us woke up at five one morning, just to see the sun rise behind the holy river. Cremation ceremonies were still taking place as river dolphins leaped over orange rays that cascaded across the of water. Just magical.

The dreaded farewell: the five of us became so close during the last 18 days. I couldn't believe that our tour passed so quickly. Sina and Remy developed a little romance, Sven and I bonded over music, and I would miss long talks with Annika. The Swedish boys would be going onto Goa, the beach party town of India, while the girls headed off to mountainous Rishekesh for yoga and meditation. Myself, I had a bus ticket to Katmandu, with plans to fly to Bangkok and then Vietnam to meet up with an old friend. We all piled onto one bed and cuddled until it was time to catch my bus. We gave each other final hugs, and then more final hugs, and then more, until I really left. Another great chapter of my trip, but definitely an opportunity for new adventures.

I boarded the Katmandu bus with 20 other backpackers. I quickly made friends with a theatrical, curly-haired Vicente from Spain, and a gaggle of Tibet Buddhist monks from Sri Lanka. After eight years of study, they headed home to be reunited with their families in Katmandu. It only took a few hours for Vicente and I to starting singing showtunes and Shakira; we entertained the entire bus. Twelve hours later we arrived at the border, completed the immigration/visa paperwork, and settled in a youth hostel for the night. The next morning was the same: back on the bus for another twelve hours; but this time, Vicente and I sang louder and expanded our reportoire to Disney and Christina Aquilera. Halfway through the busride, police checks created massive traffic along the single-laned mountain highway. Taking advantage of the opportunity to stretch our legs, the monks, Vicente, and I walked along the road and admired the changing scenery. We even climbed ontop of the bus' roof, until the party-pooping police made us come down! Finally, we arrived in Thamel, Katmandu for dinner.

A pseudo-couple, Vicente and I decided to look for a suitable hotel together. Hungry for dinner and for dancing, we stumbled into a "Dance Hall," but we disappointed that we were not allowded to dance. Laughably innocent, fully-clothed girls simply swayed on the disco-lit runway. There was one number when a guy appeared on stage, dramatizing a fight with one of the dancers with choreography. We drank over-priced whiskey and laughed uncontrollably at the dancers' serious attempts to seduce the male patrons. Vicente and I became so close in just a matter of 24 hours; I guess that's the backpacker's life. People come in and out of your life so quickly, making huge impressions. Then, poof! I'll probably never see him again.

Goodbye India.
Goodbye Bagpiper whiskey and Limca.
Goodbye cold showers.
Goodbye Bollywood.
Goodbye 10 cent lunches.
Goodbye Deo.
Goodbye road signs that say: Control your nerve, or you will crash into a curve.
Goodbye masala chai.
Hello Bangkok International Airport.