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Journal 26: Day 5: Singapore to Indonesia

Journal 26: Day 5: Singapore to Indonesia:

Singapore is unbelievably creepy.  With its pastel colored, numbered, cookie-cutter condos and polished and posh corporate behemoth high-rises, I am not sure that I have ever seen quite a funny looking little doll house replicated over and over until the madness of it all finally stops at its tight, watery borders.  This little island city is like Disneyland and a million maids.

Upon coming in from the northern entrance (if there is a distinction for an entrance in any other direction that I am not aware of), the first thing I see out the bus windows is the endless assemblage of rows of finely manicured shrubberies lining the curbs of every street, ally, driveway and even the gutters.  Every blade of grass looks to have been cut to what looks like 8.33 cm, kept from growing in a precisely circular perimeter around each tree by exactly 5.2 Kg of cedar chips, thereby matching the distance of the cedar chips to the bushes aligning all walkways and terraces and all to be watered at exactly 5:30 a.m. should the courtyard’s dew index meter reading show less than an acceptable amount of collective moisture per square meter.

The rules of a community like this must fill a scroll that could make its way around the world.  This place is so clean and kempt that I am afraid I might mess something up just being white.  The most impending dread came over me as though it didn’t matter anymore than I had a backpack with me that my innocence of hippydom would simply escape me before I could even calculate the last time I showered.  There would be no fleeing my execution for charges of trampling the grass which would come swift and without trial.

This place was so clean that the air passing along the bus was being dirtied by our Malaysian road grit. Even the rain sweeping up the ground funk seemed to be clean enough to drink.  It is simply mindboggling how squeaky clean it is here.  It makes me wonder if anyone has time to enjoy the pools around which laborious attention has been paid to ridding every possible nook where refuge could be sought to any remaining specks that might one day sift down from the heavens and look somehow out of place.

One thing was for sure: I needed to leave this place immediately – if not sooner.

Enter factor number five on my list of reasons that Indonesia will be tackled on this trip.  But it wasn’t all so scary.  For instance, the architecture was really amazing.  Their larger buildings and the bridges were simply works of art – no doubt paid for by works art.  Their choice in flora abutting all the major roadways was also very appealing to the eye.

Image from Google

As a matter of fact, the only thing that was not completely symmetrical (and apparently left to Darwinian chance) were the [name – banyon?] trees whose finger-like branches intermingled helplessly as they scratched at the sky like dragon claws crested with umbrella-esque plumage.  Long and slender, these trees were also home to the very Asian [fern] which seemed to sprout roots in the ditches and knots – every semi-level landing pad or limb junction along the trees’ trunk and limbs – where taking root was possible.  Their cotton-like canopies seemed to explode away from the tops of the trees reaching out to procure every shaft of sunlight available.

Beyond these could be seen poking up huge communication towers and enormous signal dishes all aligned to the same innocuous point in space.  These megaliths juxtaposed the entire scene which was then made to seem as though it had all been a presentation to the visitors of the highways entering Singapore’s “Garden City” allure.  But since I wouldn’t be staying here very long, that ultimately didn’t concern me all that much.

I had to get out of here fast.  But the first stop for the cab was at what looked like a small mall.  Upon entering the building there was a merry-go-round surrounded by name brand shops from Subway to Foot Locker.  And beyond that was a small gathering of parent onlookers who had assembled to watch this post-toddler dance her fingers across the keys of a Steinway piano as if each digit was trained by Fred Estaire.  And beyond that, if there needed to be anything at all, was a full-sized water park complete with see-through tubing so that the nearby parents could keep an unhindered eye on their future investments.

I honestly couldn’t think of anything more ridiculously Caucasian.  But here I was, the only white man for miles and I was in awe of these posh, magna-riche, tennis pro dads squirming around in their yacht club turtlenecks and eyeing their Ralph Lauren wives who were busy balancing their ability to chew bubblegum and push Baby Gap strollers.

Beyond the lavish grounds of expensive, walled villas, the four-car garages, overflowing foliage and idealistically green blanket that covered this island city, there is also something to be said about their apparent dedication to education.  Or perhaps that’s what it’s made to look like.  Perhaps it’s actually educational institutions that have come here to compete for the fat pockets of the wealthy junior-elite’s trust funds.

I was on my way to the airport so that I could get out of the city as soon as humanly possible when I saw what simply floored me.  I was on the skytrain that connected the far reaches of the city when I passed what looked like a huge jungle gym.  It looked almost like a firefighter’s training camp.  There were rope-net obstacle courses, hanging walking planks, suspended rings, a huge climbing tower and many other things that I couldn’t quite place.  I kept looking and trying to figure it out.  But as the train moved on, more was revealed all within the same compound.

All within one huge city block, there was a huge sports complex complete with Olympic-sized swimming pool (lanes and launches), basketball courts, tennis courts, volleyball courts and an officially sized soccer arena – all of which sat in front of a peculiar black-tint glass building with a crescent faux-roofing.  I leaned over to ask a passenger on the train what that place was thinking that I would get some response that somehow tied together all the links in my mind (Olympiad training center, world-class pro athlete fitness center, a conditioning center rented out only to Hollywood movie stars, etc.).

As though looking at me sideways and with a sarcastic was the norm, the passenger replied, “That’s a high school.”  His glance kept mine for what must have been a small eternity before his words bounced off every nerve ending in my body all at once and finally came into recognition.  And as I tried to come up with some kind of facial expression that would indicate that I was not mentally handicapped or physically ill, the only words that I could manage were, “high school?”

The man backed away.

Click on the images for more detail.  It’s kinda scary.

I had to get on the returning train and go back to the last stop just so that I could get some photos of this place.  There would be no point in my ever going to Singapore if I had not documented the most ludicrously obtuse assault on human morality ever to besiege the wallets of mankind.  ‘How could this place exist,’ I thought, ‘when so many governments (many of them within one hundred miles) are so desperately seeking out options that would allow their country’s children to get pencils to write with?’

I understand that each country has their own problems.  And I understand that it is not up to Singapore to float their profits into neighboring countries or to those countries around the world who cannot afford the basics.  But it is this kind of flaunting and taunting that cost the Khmer’s their early empire and their temples left to ruin.  And when there is a huge billboard rising high above a million-dollar kindergarten proclaiming “Academic Excellence,” it means someone’s got the wrong image of what a kindergarten should be.

So, on to the airport.  This was to be a quick, if doleful judgment of little speck of gold in a sea of pollution and poverty.  I was hoping for something – anything – reasonable.  Instead what I found was my sixth factor of good fortune founding the idea that I needed to be in Indonesia.

Lion Air had a one-way ticket flying to Jakarta about one hour after I arrived at the airport for about US$34 nonstop arriving at 10 p.m.  How’s that for good luck?  I made it into town and after pushing through the hoards of pigmy cabbies and toothless money changers, I found a driver to take me to the Jalan Jaksa district.  It was Hostel 35 to be my place of rest and port of call for the next two nights.  And by the time I arrived in my room, distributed my belongings around the room in the messiest possible fashion (saving for myself just enough room to crash on the bed) I wrote this journal with the firm belief that I know that I was supposed to come here and do something epic as I have had the occasion to do in many other wonderful places.

Because it was too dark outside to see anything on my way here, I really didn’t get the full picture of the effect of what years of refuse neglect and complete lack of any sort of trash management services can have on a city of 12 million souls.  But that story picks up in Journal [26] Day 6.

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Journal 25: Day 4: Malaysia, Singapore

Journal 25 Day 4: Malaysia to Singapore:

I think that I have decided to spend the bulk of my time in Indonesia.  I have a bit of reluctance on this issue because the last time I was in a country rife with stories of violence was in 2007 when Evo Morales was the president of Bolivia and there were scores of people running around La Paz wild-eyed and blood thirsty over G. W. Bush’s new decision to put stiff, new tariffs on all imports from Venezuela.  Presumably this also effected Bolivia as there was looting and fighting in the streets borne of panic of possible collapse in the economy of the country’s capital city.  I clung closely to anyone walking near me jabbering on in Spanish anything that would entertain the unsuspecting street-goers long enough to make it look like I was just some gringo with immediate ties to some local family.

Indonesia is different.  Last year’s bombings in Bali about this time killed more than 200 people – most of them Australians – in a westernized dance club, sit heavy on my mind as I plan to go to a place I know little about.  And as someone who stands out even in white crowds, I can’t help but think that I could easily be seen as the newest addition to an incoming wave of western influence that needs to be quashed with a quickness.

But even then, the risks still mount.  Indonesia is a country with a geographic stability rating somewhere in the negative figures.  From tsunamis to mudslides to earthquakes to currently active volcanoes in hundreds of places throughout the more than 17,000 islands that make up this mostly Muslim country of about 230 million people, “treacherous” would be a good word to start with.

Nevertheless, I am on my way.  And though this idea came to me suddenly, many other things also came to me suddenly.  The recognition that I have been reading a book that looks into the places I am seeing; the fact that I had a very opportune break from work with just enough time to make a small junket to the outlying areas; the addition of a small bonus from my company just large enough to take a cheap trip, but not so large that it would overshadow the savings that I will be able to make in the coming months with my new job; and the fact that I am now staring at the 2010 edition of Lonely Planet’s Indonesia guidebook which happened to have been left in my hotel room (which has a lovely view overlooking the action that has finally piqued my attention – perhaps in recognition of the swell of sounds and crowds in which I will soon be swimming).

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Journal 24: Day 3: Malaysia

Journal 24 Day 3: Malaysia

Today I plan on hopping aboard an open-top bus and shooting the town.  Originally, I thought I would stay in KL for a couple days.  But we will see how things go.  It’s not really all that important to do the museum and shopping mall treks for me.  My view right over the strip of the late night eats here in the hotel provided me with enough inspiration to carry me through at least the idea of getting some good photos of the town.  At the minimum, I will try and get some shots of tomorrow night’s action from up here in the hotel room.

I got the cheapest room in the hotel.  It looked like they reserved the room for workers to sleep when they had an overnight or early morning shift.  But I was okay with that.  It cost me about US$9, it was clean and even right next to the elevator.  The bad news was that it was on the opposite side of the hotel from the restrooms – the only room without one.  But the showers were hot and they had western toilets, so the comfort level made it worth the hike.

Singapore is coming soon.  But I would also like to see the west coast.  So maybe I’ll see as much as I can now and do the countryside on the way back through Malaysia.  Or maybe I will head to Indonesia for the trip back north?  I love freedom.

Okay, so this city is really big.  Impressively so.  I started off the morning with a tour of the city.  Midway, I stopped just past the world famous twin towers (the ones in the action movie [title here] that have a skywalk connecting them) for lunch and sat in a mall the size of Mars and watched all manner of people walk past.  The diversity as well as the new trends in fashion is really something indescribable.  Even the Muslim women who are supposed to dress very conservatively with their head garb covering their most attractive parts, find ways (still within the rules) to make themselves look so exotic.  This is an ironic and strange twist.

All over the place I am seeing these coincidental names.  I started reading a book before I planned this trip by Nathan Mills.  It’s called The Third Attempt and it chronicles a high speed thrill as several main characters interact across an international stage in an attempt to kill a mutual enemy and betray one another.  It’s a pretty good book.  I recommend it.  But anyway, it talks about the same places that I am currently visiting.  And if that wasn’t enough, the man everyone’s trying to kill, Azlan (the son of the Sultan of Melaka), shares his name with the first person that I see when I sit down to read the newspaper.  On the front cover of The Nation, in a victory over Pakistan’s Khan in the men’s individual squash final, Azlan takes the gold in the Asian Games’ last match held the night before.

The descriptions in the book seem mostly accurate, though the author is careful to note that the bridge and river described in KL are fictitious.  But nonetheless, the coincidence is still noticeable.  I even came upon the book by accident, finding it in a “free” stack at the guesthouse in Bangkok where I was put up by the school I was interviewing to work for.

Couldn’t I have just as easily read this book earlier or later in life?  Might I have simply chosen a different book from the “free” stack?  The things I ponder…

I think I shot more than 600 photos of KL infrastructure.  I shot mostly in JPG, deciding that I would take up the space of RAW files when I could find more intimate subjects.

I am noticing that fashion is much different than in Thailand – even in Bangkok.  The economy is much better.  The cars are nicer.  The shops are higher class; Gucci, Este Lauder, Burberry, Prada, Cincere, Canali, Mont Blanc, Boss, Bulgari, Versaci, Juicy Couture, Ralph Lauren, Coach, Aignes, and on and on.  These six-story block-mountains loom over their ant-like fund-raisers traversing the consumer network below.

And the major difference between these shops and the ones in Thailand is that they are legitimate.  Their huge signs were actually sanctioned by their company chairs.  In Thailand, anyone at anytime can put up any sign without fear of lawsuit.  From Rolex to BMW, shops simply advertise whatever is popular enough to bring in customers.  It is truly unreal.  But here in the mega-mall that is Kuala Lumpur, the “anything goes” façade pales behind the diamond-glow of the true ritzy exports of the glamorous gems of the west.

I might be interested to find out the working visa requirements for Malaysia.  The area seems nice wherever I go (north to south along the west coast so far) and the schools seem to be reasonably funded.  But there is still a lot of work to be made in this still-developing country.  In the news I am reading that, in Petaling Jaya, month-long elections closed in chaos.  This sort of leaves me unsettled.

But still, there are a lot of other things that make news here which indicate that crime is still taboo.  Heavy policing and censorship are common here, but even in the inside sections of the paper, they are talking about youth’s crazy driving being a nuisance for the status quo.

This is paired on the same page as a story of a Malay Fengh Shui Master who is called upon to act as principle consultant for the Malaysian Institute of geomancy to predict such popular items ranging from economic country status to general election outcomes.  They sure have a different way of looking at things in the Far East.

More in the news today: Tamil exodus underway.  Swarms of refugees from Sri Lanka are landing in Thailand on their way aboard merchant vessels-for-hire to Canada where they will seek asylum from the devastating scourge that is taking place in the tiny country off the south coast of India.

[Walking through the book store, I note that I want to buy these books when I get the chance: The Grand Design, Stephen Hawking (who might finally have his answer to the theory of everything), How to be Free, Tom Hodgkinson and others.]

Here’s a strange sight: Chinese Shaolin monks sitting auspiciously at the KLL Twin Towers.  I am not sure what they are doing there.  But they seem quite out of the ordinary.  Perhaps monks take tours, too.

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Journal 23: Day 2: Malaysia

Journal [23]: Day two:

Not sure where I am.  Somewhere near Hat Yai which has been under water for the last month in the rainy season here in the south of Thailand.  The train has passed through Surat Thani overnight and I wasn’t awake to wave hello to all of my friends there.

It’s morning and I have been opening the door and leaning out to snap shots of the passing landscape.  The clouds are drifting upward from the leeward side of the mountains in the distance.  Fields of bright green grass and rubber trees are shooting by disguising and encircling their workers, sweating and hunched over in the patty fields.

The shoots from the rice fields are impossibly green.  They are so bright it looks like they are a color that has been bent from the reflection of the sun.  I can’t tell if it’s each of the tiny droplets of morning dew sending a thousand fractals of light through each blade of grass or if they are simply illuminated because they exist in this beautiful and foreign place.  The luminosity is so radiant it looks like it has to be my imagination imparting some fantastic, unintentional transcendence that might not be with me had I grown up around these fields and walked among them every morning.

It’s rained so much here that the fields are puddle, the ditches are overflowing and even the train tracks are sunken down in places forcing the train to slow down over certain places as it leans dangerously far to one side or another.

I was just interrupted from writing as a lady with a bamboo dish full of fried chicken asked me if I would like any food.  I tried to bargain with her over her tiny, overpriced food and she simply got up and left as I was reaching out to take a piece.  I just got dissed by the fried chicken lady.  Sad.

[Now in Malaysia on a bus headed south to Butterworth]

There was a really cute, little Vietnamese lady sitting next to me.  I suspect she speaks English.  She sort of over-pronounced an unintelligible articulation of numbers and simple words.  Generally, Asians simply nod yes or no if they want to say something.  This saves them face when speaking to a westerner who might otherwise realize that they simply don’t speak English.  But this lady was persistently trying to get my attention – which had, up until that point, been focused on my latest book – and initiating conversation.  And then she couldn’t really deliver anything in depth or completely clear.

From what I could tell, she was traveling to Kuala Lumpur in order to attain employment as her boss had refused to pay her her last paycheck.  I took this to mean that she was leading up to asking me for money – or at least hoping that I would offer it.  This is a common tactic of Asians in poverty.  But I wasn’t buying it.  Not only were we on a pretty expensive bus (for the region), but her attempts at mangling her English were not coming through convincingly.

Then, as I was walking around the back of the bus to get my backpack at our last stop, I walked right into the middle of a perfectly coined American phrase rolling right off her tongue as if she was leaning up against the end of some up-city, American bar and chatting away with an old friend.  Our eyes met in confirmation that she’d got nothing past me.  I knew it the whole time.  And I was glad that she got to see me pass her with an affirming smirk pasted across my face.

[First night in Kuala Lumpur]

I haven’t seen all of KL yet, I am sure.  But from what I can tell, this place isn’t really all that impressive.  It just sort of looks like any other large city.  It’s kind of abandoned, other than the restaurants.  There are no street vendors or late night shops open.  Just a bunch of metal walls staring down stoically at the dirty street.

I am finally settling down into my hotel room.  I took a cab with a pretty cool Japanese guy who quit his teaching job to come travel around SE Asia for a couple months.  Kashioto, I think his name was.  He was silent on the bus ride over to KL, but get him into a cab and he full of questions.  Best of luck and nice chatting with you Kashi!

The view from the hotel room was pretty cool.  It overlooked what looked like the happening place in China Town.  I Will have to go out tomorrow and check out the sights down there when people and vendors are around.

It’s about twenty minutes to midnight on Sunday and having boarded my train at about 11 a.m. yesterday, I plan on falling asleep just before my head hits the pillow.  [And I basically did.  It was a long trip.  There were two buses, two trains and a cab – plus some heavy walking in between rides to get to money-changing stations and different transport terminals all while trying not to get lost and keep a schedule on a malnutritioned mental capacity.  The people in town were nice enough.]

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Journal 22: Day 1: Thailand and Malaysia

Journal 22: Malaysia; Day One:

Tomorrow I will be leaving on a sneak-op to Singapore.  I have gotten two job offers at two very good, very prestigious schools and during this trip I will be thinking about which one I will be taking.  I will also be extending what is supposed to be a simple “visa run.”

I just finished out my “thirty days” at the company in the south of Thailand so that I could move to Bangkok and finish taking my master’s classes and to earn a little more money to make life a little more comfortable while doing so.  So this trip not only symbolizes the celebration of one year of living here in Southeast Asia, but it also fills the gap between my jobs in order to clear the way for a fresh start at a new job and in a new town.  And let’s not forget the wonderful photo-opportunity that this gives me.  I plan on taking my new D700 for a nice ride through some jungles: urban and fauna-filled.

I might even be able to add some images to my soon-to-be-published Religions of Asia book.  We will have to see how things pan out.  I feel bad choosing my master’s classes over being able to put money toward the publishing of the books that I have produced to date.  But I believe in timing of things and I can see this as an opportunity that simply was not visible when I dedicated myself to my book production.  And in that, I find solace as a non-slacker.  The books will simply have to be postponed, bulked up and published with all new content from this region.  Already I see some good content for my On the Road in Southeast Asia title.

At any rate, this is my fourth trip to Malaysia.  And as for what’s happening in the world outside of Malaysia – and what’s being blasted all over the news – is that Suu Kyi has finally been released from her house arrest.  She is considered the latest in revolutionary femmes to dazzle the world with her staunch but peaceful resistance to tyranny.  A Burmese woman and innovatory freedom fighter has been seeking democratic solutions to the government’s history of abuse, slavery, war and genocide for many years.  And it was her latest letter that covered the entire “columns” section of The Nation. Her letter, translated into English, was a call for a peaceful resolution for the continuing growth of her country.  It will be great in a year or so to find out what progress she has made in shaping the country’s views toward a national program for freedom.  And since I plan on being there about this time next year, I will be able to report a personal account of just that.

I hope to be going back to the U.S. in April for a visit to friends and family.  I plan on that trip being very nice and I want to spend quality time with my family whom I have not seen in at least three years, now.  I would also like this April trip to be very thoroughgoing because after that, the way things are looking, I might not see anyone for a good many years as I make my way farther into the reaches of our world.

But I am no longer talking about Malaysia or my trip.  Sorry I trailed off there.  These are the things that I think about when I am lying awake in my sleeper car aboard a rickety train headed toward new and foreign places [still transcribing from my notes, I promise].

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Southeast Asia Journal 21: Introduction to the trip through Malaysia, Singapore and three islands in Indonesia

Southeast Asia Journal 21: Introduction to the trip through Malaysia, Singapore and three islands in Indonesia

Well, it’s back on the road for a trek through another few Southeast Asian countries.  It’s been quite a while since I have been able to publish journals because I have been very busy taking classes to finish my master’s coursework these last few months.

My last big trip was through the countries of Cambodia, Vietnam, Laos and then back through Thailand.  I did happen through a small part of Myanmar for a quick stop at a market that was said to be abutting the northern tip of Thailand, but I would not be receiving an official stamp of entry for that one.  But I will have to make the official trip into the land of the Burmese on the next trip.

Other than that, I did take the motorbike for a seven day jaunt through the south of Thailand in October, which was great.  It rained the entire time, but it still made for an interesting and nearly-tourist-free trek to the Andaman side where I got to snap some shots of the Thai Vegetarian festival.  A blog of that trip will be accompanying this one.  And, when published, they will appear together and in the correct order.

Once I can rewrite the order, get all my entries into sync and organize all the material, I will just have to keep adding to this journal.  Once all the photos are edited (maybe in a month or so), I will hopefully be able to get it all uploaded in one quick shot.

Until then, though, I will be finishing this blog.  So far, it’s been amazing.  And I have had to wait until the eighth day of this trip to do any writing because I thought that Indonesia would use the same electrical plugs as Malaysia.

I was wrong.

And so I had to find a place that had an adaptor for my adaptor.  So I am currently powering my laptop with my charger which is plugged into one adapter made for changing the connections from a western plug to a Malaysian plug and then from a Malaysian plug to an Indonesian plug.  The stem to the wall is beginning to look a lot like a National Lampoon’s Christmas tree light arrangement.

Nevertheless, once again I find myself sitting in a little shack of a hostel with a breeze for a fan and a flickering bulb for light ticking away at my laptop, scanning through photos with a hot tea on whatever ramshackle, little end table that happens to be in the room.  And I find myself so pleased with the way my life is leading me into the most amazing memories that I can ever imagine having been humbled and privileged enough to somehow deserve in this lifetime.

I only came to Indonesia on a whim after changing my mind at a moment’s inspiration.  And this has been the recipe that’s paved the way for the most memorable times of my adult life.

The warm people, the diverse cultures, the jaw-dropping landscapes have all been my kind company throughout my travels.  And as the sun bathes the clouds cresting the horizon of the Indian Ocean in a deep red blade that spans the whole of the Javan peripheral, I am reminded of all the wonderful memories in all the wonderful places that I have acquired up until now.   And this definitely sets the pace for my time that has been mostly spent here in Indonesia.

Malaysia, as in my last three visits, has always been interesting and different each time.  And Singapore was also a vastly different place.  But those journals follow and will hopefully add to the color of this, more detailed journal which will mostly cover the islands of Java, Bali and Sumatra in Indonesia.  I wish I had more time to travel here, because the people are simply great, warm, friendly people.  And they make the entire trip worthwhile.

The bombings by radical Muslims killing hundreds of westerners last year and the years previous seem so impossibly foreign to the feeling that I get from almost all the people that I have encountered so far.  I, of course, have not had an entirely problem-free trip.  And that aspect has indeed taken its toll on how much I am able to trust the rest of my encounters with people here.  But the vast majority of the people here are more than willing to stop and help, to offer assistance and in most cases just simply stop and talk to you.  But all of this will be detailed in the following blog.

Thanks for staying with me for these last years and I hope that you enjoy this blog.  From here, I will be transcribing my notes from the pad that I have kept for the past six years of travel.  I filled the entire thing up completely just this afternoon and it will be a shame to see it go.  The duck tape I used as its binder is warn and faded and the book itself more resembles the shape of the bag it’s been carried in for at least that many years (and even the bag, a military gas-mask bag that I sewed a zipper and strap onto, has also been through quite an ordeal protecting my camera while disguised as a ratty hippy-pack.  It can be seen in almost all the photos of myself throughout my travels these last years).

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My Book is Finally Published!

Greetings,

It’s been a while since I wrote, so I thought I would drop you a line and let you know what I have been doing.

Some of you I have known for years and some of you I have met just for a brief moment along my travels. In fact, some of the more than 1300 people receiving this email may not even remember me. But no matter how long we’ve known each other or whether or not you’ve been keeping up with my travels, it’s been my honor and privilege to know you.

I am currently writing this letter from Southeast Asia, where I have been living and working for the past nine months. And since it’s been a while from the time I’ve last updated my blog, I thought I would invite you to come and see what I have been working on.

In the last three months since my last correspondence, I have been quite busy. I have finished the last of 10 cinematic, documentary photo-films, produced 10 books of photography, one non-fiction print edition book of my travel journals and a collection of more than 22,000 images (more than 200 Gigabytes) for my worldwide catalog of photos of the ever-increasing database which is “Cyle O’Donnell Photography.” And the most important part of these last three months of work has been my plan to publish one of each of my books every month for the next ten months.

The first edition, Moving Stills Volume 1: Hill Tribes of Vietnam, is the

Moving Stills Volume 1: Hill Tribes of Vietnam

headliner of the ten-volume set and is available now. At least one book each month will become available for purchase from now until May of 2011, if not sooner. So please keep your eyes open for the next book in the Moving Stills series. To buy a book, see what’s coming next month and for more information, go to the Photo-Books page of my website.

For those of you who haven’t been reading the blogs or been able to keep in touch, I have been riding my bicycle, traveling, photographing and journaling my way through more than 20 countries and four continents over the past five years. I have filled my passport and had to add pages since being here in Asia. And I am nowhere near finished. In fact, along with introducing my soon-to-be-available 10-volume series of books tracing my travel over the last half-decade, I wanted to let you know about the next big adventure coming up in early 2011.

At the end of March next year, I will be back on the road headed across the Gobi Desert in China, into the Himalayan Mountains and through Tibet to Nepal. From there it’s over to India where I will hopefully be able to catch a freighter or cargo ship to Madagascar and into Africa. Once headed north, I hope to make it to Morocco and fly home from Portugal.

This will complete my first complete circle around the world in one direction. And it will be the longest stretch of land that I have ever covered in one shot. So between now and February of 2011, I am hoping to sell enough books, movies and photos in order to sustain my travel as long as it takes to complete that journey.

Along the way, I will be updating the Blog section of my website. So please keep up with me as I detail daily mileage, upload a gallery to vote for the best photo of the week, eat creepy foods, document interesting cultures and

Paragliding self portrait in the windows of an office building

customs, highlight little-known and amazing facts and of course, contribute countless more photos to my endless search for the perfect documentary image.

Please help support my travels by purchasing a photo-book, photo-film or a print of a photo from my website.

Almost everyone needs money to sustain their way of life. But I am not in this for the money. I am traveling as a photojournalist because that’s what I love to do. And to prove it, I am also inviting anyone receiving this email to download any of my fixed media free of charge or fear of copyright infringement. Access to my website, my blogs, and my online images will always be free and you may feel free to download any of the displayed media with my compliments. I have purposefully removed the flash code

A young H'mong girl cares for her little brother in Northern Vietnam

(eternal8;) that protects my photos from being saved to your computer. Of course, I would rather you buy the full resolution, high quality print directly. But I don’t travel with money in mind. So if one of my images grabs you or one of my blogs moves you, feel free to save it, share it or use it in any way that is not negative or derogatory toward any of the people/cultures that are mentioned, denoted or pictured in any of the the online content. I must insist that you credit the creator of all downloaded works, as that is only fair to the author. But my purpose has always been for others to enjoy my work freely.

If, however, you can’t contribute financially to my trip, never fear; there is still one more thing you can do to help. We have all seen those forwards with pictures of cute, cuddly kittens or stories of soldiers in the Iraq War or the emails that guilt you into passing this along to eight people with the promise of something lucky happening. Well, here is one that you can pass along that you can keep up with – follow me on the road as I travel through amazing places and see and do amazing things. This is one that you can send along and see if it makes its way around the world all the way back to me. This is an email about which you’ll be able to say, “I know this guy, he’s really out there riding his bike and traveling around the world and writing about it.”

So please send me along to everyone in your contacts list. Help me get my name and my artwork out there for others to enjoy.

My name is Cyle O’Donnell and it would be my great honor if you would visit my website and blog and tell others about it. Here’s where to find me:

  • cyleodonnell.com
  • cyle@cyleodonnell.com
  • cyleodonnell@gmail.com

This is a one-time bulk email, so I apologize about its impersonal nature. If you would like to be removed from my email list altogether, please reply with “unsubscribe” in the subject line.

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Southeast Asia Journal 20: June 1, 2010

Looking back on the troubles of transportation that I endured in Laos, they seem more humorous now that I am looking back on them.  So perhaps this journal will be a bit more lighthearted than the previous one.

View from the hotel window at Vientiane

At any rate, I left off after the first day in Vientiane:  The next day I attempted to purchase a ticket for the slow boat up to the Thai Border.  I was pushing my timetable back quite a bit and the boss back in Bangkok was beginning to send me some eerie vibes of dismissal if I was to not show back up on the predetermined date.  I knew that he was more worried that I would do to him what many before me had done and simply wait until the last minute before jumping ship and thereby getting as much of my salary as possible from the company before springing the news on them.  The news would probably sound something like, “Hey, I have a family tragedy and need to return to the states.”  That line (and many others) has no doubt been used since the beginning of this type of profession.  Not only does the international job hunt invite some interesting characters to the trough, it also has its share of excuses to high-tail it when the paychecks come in.  The translation to most of these excuses probably goes a little something like this:

I have worked for you just long enough that I have made the money to travel elsewhere.  No hard feelings and sorry for providing you with fake transcripts and dodgy resume references.  But I had a nice time and now that I am finished sponging up the last of the funds you’re willing to dole out, I will be on my way.

I am not naïve.  I am dedicated to my job and I have long will no longer surrender my integrity for money.  But I know that there are people that come here just to support their travels and then they are off to the lands of elsewhere.  The company I work for happens to be one of the better ones at spotting these types of individuals – albeit there are a few that slip through the cracks.  But I work with an office full of guys that have either been there for the last five years or are married with Thai children and are established here.  So I don’t really see a lot of drifters.

At any rate, the edge waters and aquatic thoroughfares of the Lao terrain are not to be missed, so I have heard.  And I wasn’t aiming to miss any of these.  The Mekong has been a long coveted waterway that I have wanted to navigate for some time.  I was to take the five-day ride through what I was hoping was as moving and enlightening an experience as the Songkhla River to the Tonle Sap in Cambodia.  And if you have kept up with my journals, you’ll have an idea of just how monumental and eye-opening that trip was.

Once at the boat dock, though, I was met with an impasse – the dry season had already started and the mountain runoff had been too little to bring the waters to a navigable level and river and so no boats were running.  I had to take a bus, the ferry guide said, but that may prove to be fortuitous because I would skip the longest leg of the river and might even have a better chance of catching the higher part of the river at Luangprabang.  The bus, a short jaunt of about 18 hours by, you guessed it, a sleeper bus, would have me there and ready to ferry the rest of the way to the Thai border.

It was late in the morning, so I wouldn’t make it to the buses leaving that day.  But later in the day I could kill two birds with one stone by taking the night bus, sleeping on the bus and save myself the hotel fee.  And since the Lao infrastructure was such that ATMs were scarce, this would help me out even more.

I went sightseeing through the city and took my time making it to the bus terminal and left later that afternoon.  This worked out well, I thought, but I was soon met with more Lao letdowns.  The man at the ticket booth gave me a horrible exchange rate for the last of my Vietnam dong (VN currency) and as he handed me the change for this horrible transaction, he just then happened to remember that the sleeper bus had broken down and my bus ticket had been changed to a local service bus.  That meant that instead of spending 18 reclined hours on a slightly bumpy but air-conditioned transport captained by a tour agency professional, I would be sweating non-stop aboard a tiny, rickety rust box where I would likely eaten alive by mosquitoes while losing the feeling in my cramped, pretzeled limbs.  But this was the good news.

About halfway through the trip – give or take a few hours of bobbing consciousness – our bus broke down and we had to wait roadside in order to board a larger bus filled with other passengers on their way northward.  So I went from a most uncomfortable cushioned seat on which only half of my ass fit, to a completely uncomfortable ride where I found myself on a tiny stool on which about a third of my ass fit – and having to twist sideways and lean on the chair of the poor, tiny Asian next to me for the rest of the ride in order to hopefully drift off long enough to trick my body into thinking it was quality sleep.

I never thought I would make it.  But I did.  I am sitting here now thinking back to how laughable the situation really was.  And if I think hard enough back, I can actually remember myself chuckling a few times at just how ridiculous the situation actually got.  I would not have done it a few years ago.  I would have stomped into the terminal and demanded my money back.  But I have grown very patient under trying times in the past few years.  And I am thankful for my lessons with each new hurdle.  It has proved inestimable time and time again.

In Luangprabang, I was faced with more defeating news; the river was still unmanageable for larger transport boats.  I again found this out at the boat dock and it again delayed my bus travel.  But this time it was a real blessing because I got to see the most amazing waterfall and had the most fun I think I have had in a long time.

I trekked through a small bit of jungle and saw some wild Asiatic black bears to make my way to a multi-tiered waterfall with a rope swing.  It was a welcomed retreat.  I had a few hours to kill before I was ripped off, lied to and forced aboard another tiny bucket of bolts.  So I figured I would treat myself to a nice, cool, glacial-fed dip.

It was truly magnificent.  The ride is about an hour outside of town.  This beautiful waterfall traversing lush foliage in northern Laos was called Kuang Si.  And it was just like Disneyland.  The water was cool, the grounds were kept by monks at the nearby monastery and you could take the half-hour hike to the crest of the mountain and see the entire waterfall and all its sparkling blue tiers that look like lily pads down on the ground.  Walking up the trail, thick with trees, the sun-speckled water shimmered and writhed as it made its way down into each new, little waterfall.  It was a great hike.  And once I finished the hike I was rewarded with a nice, cool dip.  The chilly, restful soak was like a fresh start.  And looking all around while wading, its emerald-blue hue and strikingly cold temperature contrasted the thick, hot air above the water, I could see wildlife everywhere also enjoying this magical place.

To be honest, it was hard to believe that this place existed.  I hadn’t heard about it in any of the books I read or from any of the accompanying travelers.  But that was probably because they were as travel-fatigued as I was from their own particular mobile disasters.  But there I was, swinging my big, tattooed self off a tree trunk and into an icy, blue brew.

I climbed, swam, snapped a few shots and headed back to my underhanded driver.  He drove me about halfway to the bus and stopped to tell me that I needed to pay him some more money.  So I swiftly hopped out, turned and stuck out my thumb.  He changed his story and said that he could bring me back but I had already had enough of his antics.  Besides, it was no time before another vehicle happened by and I climbed aboard for the ride into town.  It was a pickup truck and to my surprise the back was filled with Spaniards.  So I spoke the first Spanish that I have spoken in a long time.  It was an interesting turn of events and I made it back to the bus just in time to run alongside it and throw my things aboard and dive into the swung-open door.  It’s really anybody’s guess as to why he didn’t just stop.  He seemed to have no problem with stopping more than a handful of times to relieve himself during the trip.  But nevertheless, I was on my way to the last border before Thailand.

I touch down on the Thai border from the Mekong River

At that point, I would have to sail the Mekong.  It was the only way to get to Thailand.  And though it was only a five minute ferry ride, I enjoyed all five of them as though to also say goodbye to my Lao troubles and welcome back the smiles and simple life of the Thai people.

‘What a relief to be back,’ I thought, as I stepped off the boat onto the coarsely dry soil of the Kingdom of Thailand.  I would spend a day trekking through Chiang Rai before heading to the latter of the mountain destinations; Chiang Mai.

I have never been to Chiang Mai since being here but it was great.  I got a bedroom next to a fellow international bicyclist from Ireland and we swapped stories for the two days I was there about our travels.  It was nice to have a good return on that perspective again.  It was also nice to have a massage, a beer and an ATM.

Chiang Mai is just like my town, Surat Thani, in many ways.  Firstly, it’s very slow and low key.  However, it is very liberal and hippy-ish.  That’s a sharp contrast to the wealthy, conservative atmosphere to which I am akin in the south.  I liked the night life.  I don’t do much bar hopping anymore.  But I went out with my new Irish friend and had a hell of a time.  We made our way to a place where there were several music bars playing all manner of western music.  It was the first time that I had experienced a live band doing a good job of playing American favorites since I have been in Asia.

The next day I checked my email, showered, packed my things and boarded a train headed to Bangkok.  From that point all the way to the bus that dropped me off in front of my friend’s house (where my other belongings were stowed while I was away) there were really no issues of note – or at least there weren’t any that stick so far out in my memory that they are coming to me at 11:00 p.m. while I am writing this.  So I should say that this last leg simply went smoothly and I made it home safe and sound.

The next day I donned a suit, tie and shiny, leather shoes and headed off to teach a new batch of kiddies for the term.  I was actually looking forward to a regular schedule again – even if that meant sweating under a shirt and tie.

More updates are on the way as I plan my new classes, edit my newest photos, build my website (cyleodonnell.com), enter photo contests, write, take photos, experience my expat life here in Asia and generally live the life that I love living.

Thanks so much for being there on this journey with me.  It’s meant a lot to have had your comments, your support and most of all your friendship.

Until the next journal,

Cyle

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Southeast Asia Journal 19: May 1, 2010

Well, I am all done with my latest trek and I have to say, these last four weeks are sticking to the corners of my mind like a tired, old, has-been band clinging desperately to their last functioning members.  I just can’t shake these thoughts.  It’s been exhausting trying to get back to Surat Thani by my company’s deadline but I am finally here and, with an elongated sigh of relief, I am resting.  I feel physically drained but mentally motivated.  I almost want to head right back out and do it again – if only for the wonders that travel like this exercises and incites.

As I said, I was trying hard to get through Laos to get back to Thailand by a certain time.  Well Laos had its challenges to be sure.  In fact, they started before I even got into the country.  Traveling by bus has not been terribly bad until I got here.  In fact, I think of my bus travel more as an important part of the trip rather than a hinderence.  But in Laos it’s a different story.

Leaving Sapa to get back down to Ha Noi was no task at all.  When I arrived at the station I knew that I had purchased a ticket to leave on the 8:30 p.m. sleeper to the city.  But because Vietnam is Vietnam and, in that, a very disorganized country altogether – tourism travel included – my ticket was mixed up and when I went to board the train I saw that my time was designated for the later train.  The place where you pick up your ticket is really just a restaurant.  You wait for a guy with a white folder to show up and you give him your pay receipt and he reaches into his little file and pulls out what comes close to being your ticket arrangement.  I simply didn’t look hard enough at it after he gave it to me.  But no matter; there was a lady that needed to go on a later train with her husband and at the last minute I swapped out tickets and ran after the moving train waving my ticket and shouting.  I felt a little like an Owen brother on the Darjeeling Limited.

In Ha Noi my options for travel into Laos were either an 18 hour seated bus or a 24 hour sleeper.  I chose the sleeper and the next evening I was off.  The hotel staff was nice enough.  But nevertheless they were all out to get that almighty dong (or dollar, as the translation goes).  It’s really scandalous, the raping of tourists that goes on there.  But that’s another journal altogether.

My ticket arrangement had me being picked up by bus, which seemed pretty straight forward when I booked it.  But after I’d been sitting for more than an hour after the time that the bus was supposed to arrive, it finally showed up.  And this wasn’t the worst of the evenings dilemmas.

Once on the bus, I shot straight for the front seat as I knew that I would neither fit in the back seats nor did I want to be one of the poor, unfortunate souls to be pickled in with the abounding luggage that would surely be toppling over them as we stopped at more and more hotels on the way to the bus stop.

By the time we got to where we were going the wheels were rubbing against the undercarriage of the van and there were people literally lying overtop others in the back seats.  It was not a comfortable ride.   Nor was the fact that the “bus station” was really just an open spot below a highway overpass.  Most of us paused when the driver stopped and told us to get out.  I immediately asked him if he was actually the official driver or just a shiftless conman that happened to own a van and had a record of picking and dropping off unwitting tourists at the backs of abandoned buildings all over town.

But, as we found out just 45 short minutes later, the tour busses rolled in and we clamored aboard for the long trip ahead.

They call them sleepers.  But by a truer definition, these sardine-can, shockless, foam storage units should really be called reapers – as that’s what you dream of in the 15 minutes of sleep that sheer exhaustion forces upon you after the 17th hour aboard one.

One redeeming quality of being awake in the wee hours of the morning is the view of the sunset.  I did get an okay shot of that.  And how many times do you get to snap a shot of the sun climbing over the countryside of Laos?

But speaking of edgy; they are, as one traveling acquaintance put it, very short sighted.  The fact that the entire country is (at least in the more touristy areas) out to get your wallet and has no interest in leaving you with any semblance of a good impression of your time in their country, makes for a very difficult time in trying to write something positive about my experiences there.

The first problem is that there is absolutely no room for anything resembling a “personal bubble.”  This means that people are always touching you.  In fact, they are always rubbing against you, tugging on you, even almost running over you.  That alone was enough to keep me in my guesthouse the entire time – coming from Alaska where you have no choice but to spread out and claim a very large personal space for yourself.  But when you factor in the idea that the people will literally chase you down the road to get you to buy whatever they’re selling; well it’s a little nerve-racking.  It’s more prevalent in the larger cities but still a part of the interaction throughout the country.  I even talked to a local at a shop who was teaching at a university in Ha Noi who was haggling with a man over a loaf of bread.  I told him that you have to start really low in order to get the price you want and if they go too high, just walk away and wait for them to chase you, shouting out a better price.  He surprised me by saying that he comes to this market every day and even though the locals know him by name, he still has to go into this huge spell of haggling before they will agree to a good price.  His skin, he insisted, was the only reason for this, because even though he spoke fluent Vietnamese, taught many of their children in school, lived there almost five years, paid local taxes, knew local prices and supported local events, it was always the same.  He was just white and that was all there was to it.

After that, I didn’t feel so bad.  But on to Laos:  Now Laos had some interesting troubles of its own.  Not that the people, food or accommodations were bad.  In fact they were all quite a lovely part of the experience.  The people were simple, happy and helpful.  The food was tasty, well-cooked and plentiful.  And the rooms were clean, dry and came with mostly soft beds.  It was just the travel – or lack of travel – that really upset me.

Just to get to Vientiane I had to really exercise patience.  About ten hours in to the bumpy, edgy ride, I felt the bus come to a screeching halt and the driver spun out the door in a frenzy of noise and flailing limbs.  It would have been entertaining had I been able to see it through the exhaustion-induced tears that puddled in my eyes.  Trying to blink them away and gain perspective, I sat up to see what was going on.  It wasn’t long before I knew exactly what happened.  The bus ahead of us had suddenly died in the climb up into the mountains.  It would have killed all of us if it hadn’t been for the high quality speed the driver inhaled before clamoring the bus throughout the roadways of eastern Laos.

I don’t know what you’ve heard about the conditions of the passageways that snake their way through developing nations.  But believe them.  Whatever the tall tale, however thin the yarn spun; believe it all.  Forget barriers that might keep you from sliding off the mountainside off into the dark cliffsides along the roadway.  Forget pavement.  Forget a crew of government-paid workers who service the roads with any regularity.  You could consider yourself lucky if underfoot there was gravel – under which was solid ground rather than the more common, long-since sloping handiwork of local chisel owners from thirty years ago.

Just before rolling over to try and get some sleep, my Auzzie bunk mate said that the last time he was in Laos, his tour bus driver ran a taxi off the road and over the side of the mountain and didn’t even stop.  I wondered why he even came back, knowing that he was part of a tour that likely witnessed vehicular manslaughter.  But he chuckled and turned away from me before I could fashion the question.

So it’s not just the shanty roadways (if you can call them that) that you have to worry about.  It’s also the license-less drivers that traverse the night; foreign passengers in tow.

Once in Vientiane, after the arduous 20-hour ride through what I must have been my introduction to a series of the most unknown close calls in my life, I found a hotel, found a restaurant and found some sleep.  The next day I would be off to Luangprabang.  I wanted to take the river boat up the Mekong and over to the Thai border.  But things would change the next day and I would have no way of guessing the kind of trouble that would change them.

But more about that in my next journal.

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Southeast Asia Journal 18: April 16, 2010

Journal April 16, 2010

I haven’t written any of my thoughts down in a few days.  I have only been recording my thoughts into a voice recorder and am trying out a new technique.  I am hoping that it will save me some of the time that I have been spending on these journals lately.  It’s quite cumbersome to not only journal everyday.  But to add configuring a website, editing photos, proofreading, and all the rest – it’s a lot to do.

As promised, I have studied the barrage of honking and I think I have come up with a small semblance of the communication that the horns ring out.  Firstly, there is a “shave-and-a-haircut” jingle that drivers use as they are approaching an intersection so as to let others know that they are coming.  The ones who are approaching the intersection and are not intending to stop at all simply lay into the horn full blast from about 10 meters before the crossroad to about five meters after.  There are several short blasts for bikers that are approaching pedestrians who are walking slightly in the road.  The best I can figure, this evolved out of an idea that the more beeps on hears from behind, the more likely they will be able to position the moving object by it’s blasts — sort of a sonar that you can readily create imagery for in your head.  There are many “SOS” type blasts (more like toots, really) that are in short and long succession which can generally be tied to drivers delivering packages and who are more likely to be swerving in and out of shops looking for their package’s destination.  And finally, I have noticed that larger vehicles such as buses and cars really just love to massage their horns whenever possible.  There could literally be no one around and they will just honk to ensure that it’s still working.  I suppose there’s nothing wrong with adding to the noise pollution even when on deserted streets just so that the people sleeping in the apartments above don’t get too used to silence for too long.

At any rate, I am in Hanoi at the moment.  I have mostly been spending my time traveling a short distance on buses and then running around into the communities by day.  I did get to see the war museums and memorials.  It was really staggering to find out what we Americans did to these people.  But I wasn’t there, so I have no context as to why we might have been so terribly violent.  I am sure it was a different time and we understood much less about the way things work in different parts of the world.  I, myself, am living through a tumultuous time that my children (if I ever have any) and their generation may well have a hard time understanding just how blind we were back at the turn of the century when America started off the next hundred years with a horrible president and an even worse war – a war without an understandable cause or a foreseeable end.  But these are just a few of the emotions that overcome me when I see things that I am seeing here in remembrance of the way we were.  But, then again, that’s what I came here to see.  So I suppose I am getting what I asked for.

The main difference between Hanoi and Saigon, as far as I can tell, is that the percentage of people selling all manner of things — including themselves — is buffered a little bit by an overall effort of respect.  “No” actually means no here, where in Ho Chi Minh “no” meant maybe, or, perhaps, I might be swayed.

Moving around on buses makes a lot of sense for a country that is thin and long.  Perhaps if Chile ever becomes anything more than a desert with mountains, they might employ the same tactic at attracting tourists to that region of the world.

Hanoi is my favorite place in Vietnam so far.  You are still hassled a little bit on the streets to buy things from people, but at least you’re not chased down the road by prostitutes trying to haggle you down on the price of some “yum-yum.”

The streets are narrow and dirty.  The scents range from a whacking of the fecund to a wafting of the delectable.  And the people are either buzzing through or sitting, selling and smoking.  Even though the personal bubble gets smaller and smaller the farther north you go in Vietnam, there always seems to be just enough room for you to squeeze by without completely affronting the other person.  They are most genius when it comes to space management.  It seems that when you have lived in a culture of narrow walls and high population, you start to see things in terms of how much stuff you can put in them.

I also like the idea that there is really no class system here.  There are rich people, yes.  But everyone else pretty much does the same thing and therefore falls under the same umbrella of monetary dispersal.  They are all vendors or managers or students or drivers or laborers or a small variety of other things.  This sort of makes for a generally open population of person-to-person communication.  People are not afraid of what others will think here, as they do in other places like Thailand, because everyone lives in the same place, with the same lifestyle, eating the same food and buying all their necessities from the same places.

Really, I can only think of three classes: the uber-rich, the uber-poor and everyone else.  Those that can afford to give to beggars, normally do.  Those who are not able to do so make that known in a way that is comfortable per the community — they shout at the person and wave their hands wildly for invading their time and space.  And since big hand gestures and over-exaggerated expression of emotion is something that has been looked down upon in most Asian cultures, it is clear when someone is upset here.

I have appreciated the economic situation personally because things are much more reasonably priced here.  There is still a lot of underhanded swindling that goes on with westerners — mostly because they believe that we simply don’t know any better than to pay their inflated prices.  But it is still a different kind of swindling that goes on in Cambodia.  I spent a lot of money seeing the sights in Cambodia.  And so far I have spent more money in travel with one big, added benefit: I can book overnight buses and sleep on the way to my destination.  This not only saves me money in hotel stays, it also averages in to be what the transport alone would cost me in just getting around.  Therefore, food is my only contingency.

But to cover the issue of swindling and underhanded business here; There seems to just be this (at least publicly) unspoken agreement that exists between merchants, hotels and the shady tourist companies that tote around their guests and clients.  It’s really a bad situation.  It’s also very short-sighted, as one fellow traveler pointed out to me.  They really just dig in for the big scam not minding that they are found out about halfway through the ordeal — they really don’t consider the idea that these travelers are part of a greater circuit of travelers who attend to blogs and travel forums where these scams will be listed and bitched about, thereby likely prompting less tourism in the long run.  But I hate to jest in this way, it is quite a shame that there is such a culture of backstabbing and money-grubbing of westerners.  I would imagine that it gets a little old for the local shop, restaurant and hotel owners who are being screamed at by legitimately pissed off tourists after having realized that their overpriced and over-promised “luxury” or “VIP” ticket to whatever they expected to enjoy, turned out rather to be a hustle of shark-like intensity from their first step on the bus.

But on to the food: Now that’s the good part about being in Vietnam.  Not only are there many different national favorites and flavors to choose from, but they are almost always very bold and well-cooked.  Unlike Cambodia, Vietnamese food is a little less adventurous.  Because of their longevity as an impoverished nation, they have resorted to inputting a lot of odd additions to their meals.   From insects to amphibious life, the Cambodian menu is something to be careful and picky about.  Vietnam’s sharp contrast in digestible delicacies include variations of noodle soups, chicken and pork dishes and a plethora of seafood selections.

From here, I hope to be traveling to Sapa tonight via overnight train into the mountains. This will be my most coveted photo-opportunity in Vietnam.  I hope to get into the hill tribe villages and come away with a glimpse into the lives of the people of this area.  They have an amazing history.

There are several tribes.  Many of them are small, but some of them span all the way into the provinces in Myanmar, Laos and even south into the northern parts of Thailand.  The Dzao are one of these tribes with numbers estimated around 480,000 people.  Most of these cultures are women-centered and have a very different viewpoint on how life should happen.  For instance, the women are expected to propose to the men; the women are the ones who inherit the wealth when the family or husband passes; and the men normally take on the woman’s family name after moving into the woman’s house following marriage.

The Ede tribe is a polytheistic, communal society who live on long boat-shaped houses set on stilts.  Entire families will live in these constructions and there is normally an area sectioned off for newly weds.

The H’Mong tribe, who I am hoping to see most of all, has several sects divided by the colors of dress that the women weave.  Almost all of the sects wear beads and 70’s-style sequins buttons.  There are black, white, red green and flower sects and all named accordingly.  The Black H’Mong wear a distinguishing cylindrical hat decorated with weavings of various colors of beads.

It will be a pleasure simply to be around these people, but hopefully I can also take away and share a perspective of their seemingly undying lifestyle.

The train station at Sapa is about five minutes from the Chinese border.  The next stop on this famous train is Kunming in the southern mountains of China.   Kunming happens to be the place of residence of a fellow adventurer in whose work in philanthropic and historic adventures I have found a recent interest in studying and following.  Jin Fe Bao, a Chinese renaissance man, has recently finished trekking the length of the Vietnamese railroad.  His story and photos can be found here:  http://www.jinfeibao8844.com/Railroad%20Trek.htm and another of his exploits includes having trekked 80 days across the arid trade lanes of the Sahara Desert in Africa.  Information on that journey can be found here: http://jinfeibao8844.com/Africa_Adventure.htm.

From sapa, I will return to Hanoi and, barring any delays in attaining my visa for Laos, I will be headed on another overnight sleeper bus to Vientienne — the Lao capitol.  From there, I will… well, you will just have to read the next journal to find out.

I will go back into these last few and likely the following journal and update them with photos after I have had a chance to sift through of the mountain of shots I took recently and edit them down into good pieces for these articles.  But I figured I would at least publish this one tonight after having worked on it.  So enjoy and I will let you know when they are loaded up!

Till then, all my best.