Westward Ho! For some Mid-West Hos. I mean Ladies.

Ah, taking a trip down a memory lane (or since Katie was describing Spain, “La Lan-a Memoria”) has been quite a nice break from the daily grind.  But you may be asking yourself, what exactly is the Ruckus girl’s daily grind?  I wonder whats up with those crazy Ruckus girls these days!  I bet they’re still unemployed and living with their parents.  Serves them right for using up all of the alloted fun-per-life in the first 25 years of their lives. Traipsing around willy-nilly, not concerned at all about accumulating dining room sets and 401ks!

Well, you’re right.  We are still residing with various parental guardians, working part time jobs, with laughably pathetic social lives (my one and only plan this weekend was lunch with Grandma).  But not for long!  For soon we will be setting off on our next adventure…(drum roll please)

The Great Western Relocation of 2010!!!!

(that’s us)

(not really, Katie hates riding horses)

Anywhoozle, yes. We are going to give the ol’ Wild West a try.  We don’t exactly have “jobs” yet, persay, but we both have a lot of exciting ideas of how we want our futures to look- and yes, they do include careers (don’t worry, mom).  We’ve survived- nay, thrived, in various distant exotic countries with no maps, tiny bank accounts, inexplicable foreign customs, and ridiculous challenges (who could forget the Nepalese Bus Incident), so presumably we won’t starve in Seattle, Washington.  I hope.

We will set off with our dog Karma, a truck full of our belongings (a few small boxes full of old clothes and 2 complete sets of the Harry Potter series), and high spirits heading toward the sunset sometime in the next few months- the exact date hotly disputed due to a restless Katie and a broke Christine.  We’re taking route 90 straight across this glorious country, putting in as many hours a day as our little doggie will allow.

"I puke in cars!" ~Karma

We plan on stopping at all random museums (The Dutch Windmill Museum in Nebraska) and weird sites (Biggest Ball of Yarn, Home of the Biggest Christmas Store, etc.).  We’ll visit all of the National Parks that we can, including the Badlands- all the ones that allow dog visitors, anyway.  I’m especially looking forward to exploring dusty western towns ruled by a fat, sleeping sheriff, and populated by empty saloons and tumbleweeds.  Except that the saloons won’t be empty once we get there.  And the sheriff probably won’t be asleep.

After many years of traveling to distant countries and foreign cultures, I look forward to reconnecting with my own. I find myself excited to do something I’ve always avoided- settle.  In America! Eek! It took me a few tries to type that and not go back and delete it.  But however spooky it is,  I’ll tell you what puts my nerves at ease.  The prospect of sharing an abode and good times with these fine folks…

Not to get all mushy or whatever, but Cleveland, dare I say, has grown on me a little.  Not the city itself so much (blech), but living near my family. So it’ll be tough to leave, cause my family is pretty awesome.  Plus, when I’ve had a hard day, my mom sometimes makes me hot tea with honey and a little whiskey in it, and I’m not sure if I can find another roommate like that (Chris? Katie? Any takers?).

Alas, the time is now to grab life by the ears and jump into a new adventure.

*Stay tuned for witty commentary about our cross-country roadtrip (unless kt kills me for posting that picture in which she looks like a haggy sea creature)- because America can be just as fascinating, audacious, and hilarious as other countries.

~Christine

Estoy Bien. Y Tu?

In the year 2009, I spent 10.5 months in countries whose average temperatures center around the 80 degree mark.  I could probably count on one hand the number of times I wore a wool hat, saw my breath or shivered.  That being said, my time in London and Paris was a rude awakening.  Occasionally, while holding a warm glass of wine or hot coffee in my hand I would get a flash back to Michigan winters and how terribly horribly God-awful they are.  The first such flash back occurred on a beach in Bali, where I lounged on a beach chair in the hot hot sun, Beer Bintang in hand and tanned skin happily lapping up the sun.  Suddenly, the clear skies in my brain darkened and flashed with scenes from my hometown in the dead of winter.  It had been a long time since I was home for an entire winter and now that prospect stood waiting for me like black ice at the end of a bright tunnel.  Flash forward to November 17th, and the end of the tunnel was closer than ever.  After 1.5 weeks in the cold I was thirsty for my old friend, the sun, and as I rustled awake on our overnight train that is what I saw painting the dry, dusty hills of northern Spain.

Once we crossed the border it was only a few more hours to Madrid.  Although I had heard a lot of good things about Madrid, and I hope to visit there someday, the week we had to explore did not leave enough time to visit the capital outside of the train station.  We quickly transferred to Sevilla, arrived there around 3 p.m. (thank god for the fast trains of Europe), and immediately began to notice the festive and friendly atmosphere of Spain open around us like the petals on a lotus blossom.  Our check-in at the Triana Backpackers Hostel was a piece of cake deliciously iced with the happy fact that I could still speak Spanish.  The front desk chick might have been humoring me, but I mentally replaced her with some of the French people who gave me ‘tude for not being able to speak properly to them and thus

This is pretty much what we looked like the entire time we were in Spain.

(indirectly) gained their respect.  After initial settle down, walk around, and clean-up, the three of us set out to enjoy our first meal in sunny Sevilla and were greeted with welcoming nods, glowing smiles and 1 € beers from the nice proprietors.  At this point Spain was starting to look like shining happy land, or, if this visual helps, the sugar candy land that Homer’s mind transports him to when he and Bart are stranded with the Flanders on a boy scout rafting trip gone bad (just think, sugar, dun dun dun dun dun dunnn, oohhh honey honey).  The sun shone brightly, the locals were warm and friendly, and everything was just a little bit cheaper than Europe’s previous offerings.

On our first night in Sevilla I became acquainted with another one of Spain’s treasures: hot men.  After a week following my Dad around Paris (not exactly good for one’s game) my sister and I capitalized on a little alone time while old Pops was napping and met some young Argentinians on a short break from their diplomatic jobs and eager to show us around town.  They seemed to be in the know about the goings on in Sevilla and while my Dad protested at first, as per usual by the end of the night I watched his bromance with the young Diego blossom as the two downed beers with their arms around each others shoulders.

The best part of our night on the town with the boys was not dinner (it was a bit hard to find hearty meatless options underneath the giant ham hocks that dangled over every bar) but the flamenco spot we stumbled upon after working on a random tip about which establishment housed the best and

Boys and their ham hocks.

most secretive music scene.  Scanning the narrow and random streets for a “little red door” amazingly we did eventually find it and were rewarded with a large basement bar simply decorated and adorned with long, rickety wooden benches facing a makeshift stage.  After we settled with drinks in hand two young men and a large, painted woman with an attention-demanding presence took to the stage.  One guitar, one voice and a crazy amount of clapping and stomping kept the crowd transfixed for the entirety of the set, stopping occasionally to gulp water and bask in the glow of the open mouthed audience.  I can’t explain the sound coming from the man’s mouth, because it seemed like it was coming from somewhere much lower, much more internal than any facely orifice.  It was a sustained, guttural, ethereal wail that filled the entire room and encompassed his entire being.  I would guess he had survived some sort of horrible emotionally draining ordeal involving lost love, terminal illness, and possibly an orphaned child, but he didn’t look a day over 30 so I’m not sure when he had time to live through the ordeal that could have brought such pain into his vocals.  I can’t even begin to imagine what it would have sounded like with a microphone.  So he sings, or wails, mouth open, eyes squinted shut, tonsils exposed, hands balled tightly into fists on his lap, while the other young man attacks his guitar and the woman dances, stomps, taps in front of them, pausing briefly in between each move to bring her hands to a strong clap above her head, dust clouding around her ankles and the old stage creaking and moaning underneath her heeled feet.  I think even my sister shivered a little.

The following day would have brought goodbyes from our new friends but since we were all headed to Granada our goodbye became hasta pronto and plans were made to meet up in the town they described to us as “a special place where every drink order brings a plate of free food” (+ 1,000,000 points for Spain).  Before this could happen we had to throw away our cool hats and put on our foreign tourist hats for our last day in Sevilla.  We spent it strolling along tiny little cobblestone streets,

Here lies Cristobal Colon.

museum hopping, eating, taking pictures, and poking around a movie set that we later discovered would be an action adventure movie starring Tom Cruise and Cam Diaz.  Also, my Dad pissed off an old street psychic and I’m pretty sure she cast a spell upon him and all those he holds dear.  That was pretty much it for the day.

Another pleasant train ride later and we were in Granada, home of the mighty Alhambra Palace.  Meghan couldn’t wait to see Ferdinand and Isabella’s old hangout, but I was mostly looking forward to testing the “buy a drink eat for free” policy I was told existed there.  I mean have you ever heard of such a thing?  Gloriously, it turned out to be true.  So true, in fact, that we were so stuffed at one point I had to beg a bartender not to give us food, and he refused.  Here’s basically what happens in case this awesomeness confounds you.  In Granada, the whole town over, when a patron enters an eating and drinking establishment and orders a beer they are given a choice of tapas plates that come complimentary with the beer.  And I’m not talking about bar food either, these small plates add up to a glorified dinner, and the plates come with each round.  Amazing!  You can even order delicious desserts like baked camembert with blackberry sauce.  And chocolate things.  But I digress.  After walking around town for a while we met our three friends again and enjoyed a night of imbibing and making fun of each other’s cultures.  My dad tried to give one of them advice about picking up chicks, failed, and decided to turn in early.  Meghan and I stayed out for what we thought would be just a few more drinks since we were trying to go to bed at a reasonable hour due to our early morning reservations to visit the Alhambra.  Unfortunately time got away from us and we didn’t make it into our hotel room until about 5 am, and not until we knocked loudly, rousing my father from his slumber.

Now if this was a movie or TV show, and not a written blog, the next part would show “technical difficulties” or “scene missing” until we could be rejoined at a happier time.  Allow me to suffice it to say we made it to the Alhambra, barely (this involved a lot of running and yelling), and spent the first half of the day admiring the Moorish architecture on Spain’s most famous castle in silence because none of us were speaking to each other.  It was tranquil, at least.

Ready to put the morning behind us we headed back to town and agreed to partake in the peaceful gesture

Gardens of the Alhambra

of breaking bread.  We had travel plans to make after all, and had decided to fly from Granada to Barcelona instead of suffering on an expensive overnight train and missing out on about 15 hours of exploring time.  This was a flight for which I could not wait.  Ever since I got the news from my dad that he was coming to Europe I heard from many, many people that Barcelona was the place to go.  Old college friends, bosses, travel companions and people met in passing lined up to sing it’s praises to me and I was excitedly anticipating the live performance.

Normally this is the part where you would read whining about how the ___________ (insert hyped up person, place or event here) was ok but didn’t live up to the _________ expectations.  Not so, Barcelona!  The weather was wonderful, the architecture was mind boggling, the city was bursting with life and our spacious flat (complete with balcony and rooftop terrace!) was in the middle of it all.

The middle of it all in Barcelona (for us tourist types at least) is a wide pedestrian walkway called Las Ramblas.  Cars whip up the streets adjacent to the walkway but the middle is full of strollers, street artists (with magnificent costumes and fortitude), open air restaurants and gawkers.  (Also prostitutes but we didn’t discover that until our early flight home to Detroit.)  My Dad, quite enamored with Spain at this point, vowed to me that he would learn the language and gallantly return one day, Tina in one hand, paella pan in the other.  I tried to help him learn a few simple phrases but the futility of my efforts was clearly visible one afternoon as we had an early lunch on La Rambla.  Our friendly waiter sashayed over to the table and said to my Dad “Ay, Que bonita!  Que Guapas!” as he pointed to my sister and I.  After he left I asked my Dad if he understood what was said and he responded, in total seriousness, “Oh yeah I definitely understood that.  He said you look just like me, right?”

Much of Barcelona’s amazingness is owed to Antoni Gaudi, especially the Parc Guell, which was my favorite part of the city.  The famous park is a fascinating example of Gaudi’s unique style and mix of natural elements with modern forms.  The whole thing is pretty fantastical and cartoon-like, a big draw for city dwellers, tourists, and musicians, which adds to the mystique of the park.  Every nook and cranny houses a different artist or band playing their own music for the crowds gathered to while away the hours in the sunshine.  Splendid.

Also coming from the House of Gaudi is the magnificent Sagrada Familia, a towering Roman Catholic church that has been under construction for about 130 years and remains unfinished, even though the orchestrator of the project was hit by a bus about 75 years ago.  This structure, which is an understatement in itself, was one of the most imaginative pieces of construction I have ever seen and I

Backside of the Sagrada Familia

think I might need an architect’s certificate just to describe it.  In layman’s terms, it was incredibly detailed, my jaw was on the floor the entire time we were there, and it was more fascinating than the Taj.

Gaudi worship, more Flamenco, walking our asses off, eating well and drinking much sangria pretty much sums up the remainder of our time in Spain’s marvel town by the sea.  On our last day I pried myself away from the city, packed my bag and prepared to head home to the parents and dog I left behind almost a year prior in a frozen land of packaged meals, celebrity gossip and Rush Limbaugh.  Amazingly, I did make it home, and managed to stay there despite the fact that my trip to Detroit was technically round-trip and I had a return ticket to Barcelona in my name for the middle of December.  (I’ve made a huge mistake).

–kt

In the Year Two-Thousandddddd

Since my current reality is one of pale skin, obnoxious work routines, prime time television hits and an army of japanese beetles circling above my head while i try to sleep, I prefer to transport you all back to happier, more exciting time in my recent past.  That’s right, forget about the present and take yourself back to November 2009.  Tiger Woods is just another boring golfer, 25 year olds around the country are facing expulsion from their parent’s health insurance, people aren’t sure where Haiti is located, and, most importantly, I have just arrived in London.

My first thought as my flight from Malaysia landed in London was what happened to everyone on this flight?  When we boarded, roughly 13 hours earlier, they were all wearing summary dresses, short sleeves and flip flops with nary a North Face in sight.  Now the lights turned on in London town, I rubbed my eyes and my fellow passengers had abandoned my laissez faire warm clothes attitude and adorned thick parkas, mittens, giant scarves and even a few of those crazy Elmer Fudd rabbit hair hats.  All I had with me was a pair of Vietnamese made jeans, some torn-up converse and an old OU hoodie.  I figured it would be cold,  and it was when I stepped off the plane.  It was freezing, and I was still inside the airport.  After the lengthy customs process and confusing money changing situation in which my $25 American dollars suddenly became 10 British pounds with a few thick quarter like objects, I stepped out of Stansted and put my worn shoes on frozen UK soil.  No everyone outside wasn’t smoking, they were breathing.  No they aren’t ghosts, near translucent white is the natural color of their skin.  And no, they aren’t happy to see me.  For the first time all year a crowd of young gentlemen does not approach me excitedly when I step out of the station.  No one can tell by the color of my skin that I don’t belong here, which is another first for the year.

Boarding a bus was easy enough, even if it did mean farewell to my very brief ownership of British pounds.  After about an hour of cruising through damp, darkened streets I am basking in the glow of a familiar face.  A friend I met years ago in Honduras happens to be a Londonite and him and his girlfriend have kindly agreed to take me in, clean me up, and show me around town for a few days, helping to ease my painful transition back to reality.  I only had a few days in London but in the short time I was there, with the assistance of my friend Nic, I ate some authentic chips, wandered around the old Camden markets (bundled up in about 4 layers of our collective clothing), acted like a big tourist in front of Big Ben and drank spiced wine while listening to the English birds chirping all around me.  We also wandered into an art exhibit that was really a gigantic dark box built to gage people’s perceptions of the unknown.  My perception was that the back wall was further away than it really was.  Banged my nose right into it.

Unfortunately my time in the UK was extremely short, not really time at all.  After only 3 days I said farewell to my sweet hosts and quirky London with it’s cute little taxi cabs. clean streets, and endless supply of diverse food options.  The next morning I hopped a quick train to Paris to meet my Dad and sister for the first time since December of ‘08.  My first train ride in the 1st world (outside of the US) was splendid in just about every way, save for the fact that it cost about double what most of my Air Asia flights cost. I imagine the exorbitant cost had something to do with the miracle that was this train, arriving in Paris in just two hours and managing to navigate underwater, with no frustrating delays, customs issues or creepy male patrons.  Crossing a border in Europe is pretty simple, you just have to line up with everyone else and wait for an old French guy to go eeehhhhh, bon.  And away you go.  Our express train rambled

Paris, Je'taime

through the scenery of Northern France that reminded me of the ocean-less parts of New England, with their rolling hills, small towns, simple homes and changing leaves.  Sometimes bits and pieces of old memories jump into my conscious when I’m traveling, and the scenery alongside the train reminded me of a trip my Dad and I took to Vermont when I was in high school to tour UVM.  I remember a few things from the trip: Niagara Falls, a girl cross-country skiing on makeshift skiis through the streets of Burlington, and my Dad yelling at me for going the wrong way on a one way street in Canada.  That would be the end of my driving contribution.

As I exited the train I followed the signs to the Paris metro and boarded the subway to Les Gobelins.  I found the metro system to be pretty well organized, signed, and direct.  Not as simple as the one line Calcutta system, but a bit cleaner and void of legless beggars (win some, lose some).  Actually homeless metro dwellers in Paris seemed pretty cheery, almost every one I saw had a bottle of wine in hand or half-empty next to their dozing heads (all limbs accounted for).  Once I arrived at the station I expected to take a left on the main street and a right turn two streets after, find my family members, enjoy a glorious reunion, and head to the nearest cafe-winery-fromagerie for some much needed catching up.  Alas, it wasn’t so, as I spend about 1.5 hours roaming the complicated, winding streets of the 5th arrondissement.  Now I have wandered many streets, from the crowded and bustling (New York, Mumbai), to the quiet and serene (Hoi An, Vientiane, Athens, OH), and I have never seen anything so befuddling as le Quartier Latin.  The unreliable sidewalk under your feet leads right into a brick wall, or worse, into a small garden that has 8 different paths shooting out from each side of it.  My trek through the neighborhood, with full-pack and continuously useless ‘winter clothes’ (yes same old flannel, OU hoodie and broken down Converse) was beginning to resemble a journey you may recall that Christine and I took up a few mountains in Nepal, until I stumbled upon a savior in a ‘hood full of bad direction givers: A Comic Book Shop.  Now here is something understood the world over: Comic Books Shops = Nerd Hangout.  Like it or lump it France, we do have that in common.  Barely fitting through the door of this tiny shop with my wide load bag I turned all the heads in the little room and managed a meek “Parlez- vous anglais?”  To which the spectacled young man answered: “eeehhh, a little.”  Good enough for me.  I pointed to the address I had written down, made a little “I’m a big moron and have no clue where I am going” face and left him to discuss with his large, hairy friend. Between their French discussion nonsense I picked out the words “Google Map” and knew I was in good hands.  About 5 minutes later I was at the door of Rue Scipion number 3, knocking wildly and listening to Meghan and my Dad bustle around inside,

Flat sweet Flat

trying to beat each other to the door.  Thus heed my advise readers: if ever ye be lost in a new city, get theeself to a Comic Store, quickly!  Best. Directions. Ever.

I stood in the threshold of our flat’s door, ruddy, holey shoes wearing and all, awaiting my father’s approval.  He opened the door, looking just as I pictured him, except with a new goatee.  When we were kids he used to keep his goatee as a facial hair Nostradami way of keeping the Red Wings in the playoffs, but this was November and there was nary a sport’s tourny in site so it came as a bit of a surprise.  Meghan also looked pretty much the same to me, like I had just seen her last week.  Same big blonde hair, same comforting older sister arms she pulled me in with.  After the first moments of shock at being reunited they filled me in on the plight of their journey; apparently someone on their flight from Detroit had a heart attack, they got ripped off majorly during their first interaction with a helpful Parisian local (my Dad still claims he will get revenge on the dreaded Emile), and managed to get even more hopelessly lost than I did trying to find our flat.  Add culture shock and jet lag to that mix and you’ve got some weary travelers on your hands.

Our days in Paris were spent eating breakfast in our flat, exploring museums like the Louvre and the Musee D’Orsay, eating French goodies, drinking wine, burning even more holes in my dad’s scorched wallet and mumbling horrible excuses for French.  We visited the Eiffel Tower at night, huddling together on the open air floor while the icy wind whipped at our faces as we looked to the lights of Paris’s twenty arrondissements below us.   We lunched on baguettes and beer in the gardens of Versailles while resting in between exploring the grand chateau and the cottage of Marie Antoinette.  Strolling through the Pere Lachaise in the rain we came across Jim Morrison’s grave and the tomb of Oscar Wilde before getting kicked out by security (I think they were working on a tip about my Dad). Singing endless Les Miserables

Pretty sure you know what this is.

songs we waltzed down the Champs de Elysee toward the Arc de Triomphe and celebrated the end of our days with snacks of brie and wine.  Eating at the cafes in Paris did prove to be quite costly for the three of us, especially a veggie like myself who steers clear of prix fixe meals, but we were all pleasantly surprised at the price of wine, which was consistently the cheapest thing on the menu.

Paris is beautiful.  The river, the tower, the cathedrals.  The architecture, the museums, the fashion, the food….it was everything I expected from Julia Child and the Moulin Rouge movie.   You can even buy handmade crepes in the streets for goodness sakes, which has now lead to an obsession for my Dad to create the perfect crepe at home in Okemos, MI.  All of this loveliness must have a downside, however, and I found it in the lack of interaction we had with the local people.  Coming from lands where locals track you down, wave at you wildly, beg you to eat at their restaurants and then demand you come back with 10 friends when it’s all over, this disinterest was new to me.  Not being able to speak French was a huge obstacle in our way of fitting in, it was the first time in my life that I traveled through a land not knowing the language but looking like I could.  At first introduction in France, we were usually addressed in French, which always led to an awkward and annoyed exchange with our waiter/ticket seller/direction giver, complete with a wee bit of eye rolling.  If only they’d noticed my Dad’s socks-with-sandals and bright yellow map holding backpack first.

On our last day in France we boarded an overnight train to Madrid, kissing the grey luxuries of Paris goodbye.  As we settled in to try and get some rest, one of the train’s employees came to our area and said “pasaportes, por favor?” and I knew there were good things to come.

Cold…So, so cold.

We’re baaack! Did ya miss us? Don’t answer that.

Obviously, our lives have become quickly and drastically different since our grand return to the ye olde US of A. And by different, of course I mean soul suckingly, overwhelmingly, today-was-exciting-because-i-finished-the-peanut-butter BORING.

I love traveling. When I am traveling, I wake up feeling excited. I love wandering around, not having a deadline or schedule, changing plans for anything from a new lover to a delicious sandwich.  It is the type of lifestyle that I strive to sustainably incorporate if only I had the ways or means.  But alas, the time came in which I had a rather difficult decision to make. I needed to either get a job teaching english (quite lucrative in that part of the world) or come home and start anew.  Doing what, I did not know, but I did know that I missed my family and I missed (gasp!) America.  I also knew that the thought of staying in bustling, steamy Asia for another year to teach left me feeling a bit exhausted.

So I chose to come home. Broke as a joke. But the joke was on me, because I had forgotten how difficult it was to get by in America with no checking account and a tiiiiny little economic dilemma that left me begging for work at the most unsavory of establishments.  It’s been an extremely long 4 months during which I’ve considered everything from digging a hole in the dirt and sitting in it until I felt better to going back to Asia to continue traveling.

However! I consider myself a positive person, so I’d like to focus on some of the good things that have occurred since my return on September 2nd (oh, that fateful day. I still remember the taste of that first cheezit…).

• After 9 months of the only physical exercise in my life being a casual stroll down a lovely beach or dancing at a club, I joined a gym and can now run 1 mile- YES ONE ENTIRE MILE.  Without stopping.
• FACT: I am completely caught up with The Office and use quotes from it in almost every conversation, whether the recipient of this wit catches on or not.
• My mother and I wear matching sweaters around the house sometimes.
• I don’t have to worry about things like bed bugs, food poisoning, mysteriously appearing rashes/illnesses/human beings,  riding on tops of busses, getting stranded in the desert/city/ocean/farm/mountains, or lack of vegetarian options/cable/english/toilet paper.
• I am substitute teaching at a lovely Cleveland public school.  I usually teach the high schoolers, whom at first I passed off as quite rude until I realized I was exactly like them in high school. Then they decided they liked me because they found out I had tattoos. Apparently, it doesn’t take much to win over teenagers. Also, I let them do whatever they want.
• My mother lets me put the space heater in my room
• Katie and I learned how to make crepes
  

  Yum! Crepe-tastic

• I learned the rules of hockey. Thank you cousins. Now I can say things such as “that, to me, looks like he “iced” that puck”.  Did that sound natural?
• Speaking of cousins, we successfully implemented an annual Cousin Pub Crawl.  Can’t make those traditions in Asia!
• Jimmy Johns. And Tommy’s.
• I went to my first Browns game ever. It was 8 degrees and my beer froze faster then I could drink it (that is saying something), but it was still fun.

    

Yes, I was very intoxicated.

• I have read a lot- A LOT- of books and go to the library more then I go out with friends. hmm…I wonder if that should not actually be on the Positive Things List.
• Free bottomless supply of wine, compliments of my wonderful mother.
• Cleveland is just…such…a bustling metropolis. With…just amazing weather. Year round.
• Free bottomless supply of wine.
• I’ve caught up with all the pop culture I missed out on while on the other side of the planet. Thank GOD. How bout this Taylor Swift, hm? Hmm?!
• My wardrobe has expanded from the dirty rags I wore around asia to include nice slacks from Ann Taylor loft. Also, I wear a bra now. Usually.
• Most importantly, I’ve spent a lot of time with family and friends. and wine.

My buddies. Don't make em like this in Asia!

Ok, but seriously, I really need a job.  Send help! Send help before it’s too late!!! I can’t take it anymore!!

~Christine

Wake Up! Smell the Indo-nesia

Hello!  Is there anyone out there anymore?  Loyal patrons of the dailyruckus who have stuck by until the oh-so-near end of our 2009 travels?  Well, I sure hope so.  Otherwise writing this may have been a waste of time.

Right now I sit in a place somewhere in between where I have been and where I am going.  Some call it the Western world.  Civilization.  I call it limbo, but a delicious limbo full of fun things to eat, drink, and do.  But before I get to where I am, I must explain where I have been, and where I am going.

When I last left off I was about to dive in the miraculously clean and crystal blue waters of Sipadan, one of the world’s top dive spots and an area off the coast of eastern Borneo fraught with tiny palm fringed islands and an abundance of underwater life.  I went for a total of 7 dives there, the first two in artificial reefs off the coast of Mabul Island, the next three right in the Sipadan Marine Park, and the final two near Sibuan Island, whose beauty was featured in the final photo of my last post.  While diving there I saw numerous turtles, reef sharks, moray eels, nudibranchs, batfish, boxfish, nemos, barracuda, lionfish, frogfish, and, the coup de grace, an outgoing maroon octopus.  The diving was spectacular, the weather was perfect and the bank account suffered.  But what else is money for?

After I left this famous diving spot I headed back to the capital of eastern Borneo, Kota Kinabalu.  I had decided on a whim a few days earlier to buy a plane ticket straight to Jakarta from KK, and was there to exchange some books and tie up some loose ends before heading to a new country.  I only stayed for one night but managed to run in to about 10 people I had met in different parts of Borneo in 3 different parts of the small city before I left.  It was a nice way to end my (sometimes trying) time in Borneo, but a lot of them had really bad things to say about Jakarta.  Since my plane was arriving late and I didn’t have a place to stay yet, or a guidebook, I became a bit apprehensive about my last minute decision to fly to one of Asia’s biggest cities.  Alas, I went with the flow and ended up getting a free ride upon arrival to a nearby hotel from a nice local man/boy (he was small.  If this tidbit encites anger or worried feelings from anyone, know that I am confident I could have taken him) employed by the airline I flew with, slept safely, soundly and cheaply until the next day when I departed for a more central location.  I settled in a cheap place on the backpacker strip and set out to explore the surrounds and try some authentic Indonesian food.  The hostel I stayed in was packed full of westerners, mostly scandinavian Ken-doll types, so after a delicious meal of gado-gado (veggies, tofu, tempeh and rice covered in thick peanut sauce), I set out with a few of them to see what Jakarta was like after hours.  For the capital of a muslim country the club scene was allegedly happening from wed-sunday, so we didn’t think it would be a problem to find some tunes and a few beers.  The opposite proved to be true, as none of the cab drivers we asked new of any such thing, and the one club we did find wouldn’t let any of us in because we weren’t wearing the right shoes or shorts.  The jerks wouldn’t even accept my lame attempts at a bribe.  We ended up driving around Jakarta for about an hour before ending up at a bar about 50 meters from where we started.  Such is life.

Jakarta was a busy, loud, traffic filled industrial city with not a lot of sites to see.  Nevertheless I must say I enjoyed my time there more than I thought I would and found the local people to be extremely nice and helpful.  Not a bad jumping off point for the rest of Java, which included a 3 day stopover in Yogyakarta, a smaller city known for it’s culture, shopping, sultan’s palace, and nearby world heritage sites of Prambanan and Borobudur, which meant another stop at more ancient temple ruins.

Borobudur is the largest Buddhist temple in the world.  It’s really big, as you may have guessed.  We arrived there in the morning around 6 am, strolled around and took some pictures.  Prambanan is a Hindu site and was also quite large, but unfortunately had been somewhat decimated by the hands of time and the ground shaking quakes that plague Java annually so most of the smaller structures were in rubble piles on the ground.  Ruined ruins.  Afterward I met up with two British girls and an Austrian named Maria, and the 4 of us attended a traditional Javanese ballet spectacle.  Despite the threat of rain we managed to watch the outdoor show in it’s entirety with the mountainous Prambanan temples looming in the background.

After a few days of soaking up the culture in Yogyakarta (pronounced Jogjakarta…quite a tongue-twister) Maria and I decided to book a trip to Bali together since we were both traveling alone and headed in the same direction.  On the way to Bali is Mt. Bromo, an active volcano right smack in the middle of Yogya and Kuta, our destination on the island of Bali.  Our small mini-bus full of tourists drove about 10 hours east of Yogya where we stopped in a town near the volcano and spent the night in a chalet, enjoying local food and the fresh mountain air, which was a relief after the steamy weather of western Java.  Unfortunately there was a terrible sulfur smell coming from our shared bathroom, but I am sure it wasn’t volcano related.  The next “morning” Maria and I woke up at 3 am to begin our hike to the volcano.  Walking along the road that led to the arid lands surrounding the small volcano I was reminded of the American southwest, a strange feeling to have while on the other side of the world roaming underneath a completely different hemisphere’s stars.  I think the feeling was brought on by the various local cowboys offering us rides to the top of the teeny volcano, their nocturnal horses clopping along closely behind us. 

We reached the top just in time for sunset and enjoyed the solitude of being the first and only ones for about 20 minutes.  Then, amazingly, a family of Indonesian tourists surfaced behind us with a thermous of coffee, excitedly talking and snapping photos.  All 5 of them had made the climb wearing flip flops and jeans, making my special REI shorts-or-pants and super terrain Merrell boots seem a little extranneous, although I’m sure some yuppy-ass dry-fit Patagonia gortexy thing would have made it worse.     

After the volcano shenanigans subsided, Maria and I continued our trek across Java toward Bali; the promised land.  Sometime in the evening following another long bus ride and a 2 hour delay spent playing Uno and not eating fried rice in a dusty stopover town, we arrived at the ferry and waited another hour until docking on the Bali side.  We arrived in Kuta around midnight, one more bus ride and a shared taxi later.  What we arrived to was highly unprecedented and shocking; a scene straight out of the movie The Beach when Sal and Richard go to Koh Phangyan and are assaulted by scenes of festive debauchery and alcohol abuse.  The streets of Kuta, which is in the south of Bali, are lined with clubs that climb 3 or 4 stories and are filled to the brim with beach bums, surfers, tourists, backpackers, and a tiny smattering of locals.  Oh and naked cage dancers.  Drunken folks of all ages and nationalities spilled out into the streets, strolling, stumbling, and sashaying their way to the next spot.  After a few weeks in quiet Borneo and traditional, culture driven Java this was like an inapropriate behavior circus unfolding before my virgin eyes.

Eventually we landed somewhere and roamed around the quiet part of town looking for a place to reside.  The accomodation in Kuta was also very different than what I was used to, different meaning more expensive.  Rather than putting up a fight or sighing passive-aggressively and acting above this depravity, hearing the voices of sound-minded people I had met in the previous months who basically told me to avoid Kuta because I would hate it (actual quote), I gave in, recognized that my year of travelling was about to end and I should enjoy what I had.  For the 5 days I stayed in Kuta I beached it up, bought touristy things (all gifts!), drank lots of beer and partied in the over-the-top clubs that lined the main street.  In the end I’m pretty sure I had a better time putting myself at the same level as everyone else’s fun instead of hovering awkwardly above or outside of it.

The one thing lacking in Kuta (besides peace and quiet.  and maybe morality) was good diving.  The beach was nice and the surf was good, but I don’t surf and lying on the beach fighting a hangover can only fill a few days.  This being realized I said goodbye to my faithful travel companion (so fateful she even begrudingly donned a Halloween costume to celebrate one of my favorite holidays) Maria and headed out early and solo on another long trip to the Gili Islands in between Bali and Lombok to the east.

There are two ways to reach the Gili Islands.  One, the more popular option, consists of a 1.5 hour bus ride and a 1-2 hour speedboat ride straight to the main island, Gili Trawangan.  The second option started with the same 1.5 hour bus ride but instead of boarding a speedboat you had to wait for a giant ferry and then float along at a snail’s pace until arriving in the south of Lombok, only to then board another bus that went from the southern tip to the north of Lombok, arriving at another port where a small, slow boat would take us to the island.  The first way took about 2-3 hours and cost $50 bucks (after 20 minutes of negotiations), the second way took an undermined amount of time and cost $16 door to door.  I think we all know what I chose.

I spent the 6 hours it took to arrive in Lombok on the slow ferry rocking gently to sleep on top of a wide, bright yellow community bunk-bed nestled in between the edge and a few new friends from the states.  When we docked in the small port town we were quickly shuffled off to another shuttle bus, this one would take us up the coast and to the ferry port on the other side.  Long story long, I was on Gili Trawangan at about 9 pm that night.  Left Bali at 6 am.  Not exactly choice, but I did save some cash.

The next week or so I enjoyed the hot sun, perfect sand, pristine diving and all night parties full of large numbers of foreign men and suspiciously small amounts of ladies.  The island is pretty small and completely trafficless, one of the only places I have visited this year where I didn’t have to worry about the incoming slew of motorbikes and endless honking.  Thus there are three ways to get around Gili Trawangan; on foot, on bike, or by horsedrawn carriage, which I only did once at the request of two Canadian guys and an American girl I had been hanging out with.  The sight of these carriages guided by old timey lanterns, complete with a johnny hobo driver cracking a whip like apparatus at the beasts while navigating the narrow, sandy road of this semi-deserted island was definetely something of a paradox.

On one of my last nights in Trawangan I met a small group of French people who were going the same way as me, so the 4 of us dished out the extra cash for option 1 (speedboat) and were in the Balinese town of Ubud by lunchtime.  Ubud is known as the antithesis of Kuta as far as towns in Bali go; it is the center of art, culture, and fine dining.  So renowned is it for life’s finer things that Julia Roberts was in town prior to my arrival filming a market scene for the upcoming film adaptation of Eat, Pray, Love; a thrill for the Oprah crowd no doubt.  The town was beautiful and in fact hardly describable with it’s enormous and intricate stone statues and immense gardens that adorned every courtyard.  Although I only had one night to spend in Ubud and about 4 meals before I had to head to the airport the vegetarian fare I splurged on was splendid and varied, while my time with the Frenchies prepared me well for the following week I would spend in Paris with the fam, what with all of their aperitifs and digestifs.  And French speaking.

The next day I had to be back in Kuta at the airport to start my trek to London.  This began with a nighttime flight to Kuala Lumpur and what I thought would be a day spent wandering around their tiny low cost airline carrier terminal until my flight to London at 5 the next day.  These 16 + hours at the airport, including an overnight stay, was not something I was looking forward to, and I hoped that after I embarked something would work out in my favor that would get me out of it.  And that’s exactly what happened.  My first flight was cancelled, I was put up in a fancy hotel in Kuta for the night (free breakfast buffet!), flew from Bali to KL the next morning and arrived just in time to have lunch and wait about 2 hours for my flight to London to take off.  Voila!  Problem solved.  I spent the 13 hour flight to London spread out across 2 seats, tucked into my sleeping bag, book in hand and illegal carry-on sandwich and peanuts stowed safely out of sight. 

This was Indonesia in 2500 words.  It is a huge country (17,000+ islands!) and I needed more time, as per usual, to fully enjoy what it had to offer.  Nevertheless if you made it all the way to the end of the post congratulations, your job must be really boring! 

-kt

*Thus ends the Asian travel section of my life, for now at least.  I didn’t really feel like I was leaving until the exact second the plane landed in London and the pilot announced the ground temperature: 4 degrees.  Apparently crossing my fingers and praying for double digits fell on deaf ears.  Thanks a lot, weather gods!  Anyway the transition into the western world has been a soft one so far.  More on London and my trip back to the states later.  I started this post when we were still in Spain, so to avoid confusion (or possibly make things more confusing, let’s see!) I decided to pretend I was still there.  Wishful thinking…

Open Letter to Borneo

Dear Borneo,

I owe you an apology.  Due to some unforeseen developments in my travel plans, I have not been giving you the full attention you deserve.  It’s not my fault actually, as I was planning a simple excursion into your untouched rainforests, enormous cave systems, and traditional riverside villages when my father dropped a bomb on my plans.  Meet me in Europe, he said.  And suddenly I have deadlines, money to save, rendezvous points to remember!  Chat planning dates, lists to make, warm clothes of which to think.  Needless to say all of this has caused me to sort of drift around your famed land thinking about brie, wine, speaking spanish again, meeting up with old friends, seeing my Dad and sister in Paris, and other wonderful things not at all related to your country.  I keep trying to force myself to live in the moment, but so far have been continuously and hopelessly unsuccessful.  All I can do is try!

Your (lame) Visitor,

Katie

My aforementioned daydreaming problems have been up and down since I arrived at the Kuching airport on September 30th.  It may have had something to do with my introduction to this side of Malaysia, which was spent sitting through a two hour long conversation about such fascinating topics as durian fruit and the life story of my seat neighbor during the flight.  Afterward I arrived in Kuching, the capital of western Borneo (also known as Sarawak), only to be ignored by countless other males who initiated conversation only to interrupt me and talk about themselves.  Men.

While in Kuching I stayed with a local bar owner and his family, including an adorable 4 year old named Sigut, who unfortunately got less and less adorable every morning I woke up to the sound of him blasting someone away with his electronic toy guns or singing along to his CD-ROM of Three Blind Mice.  Kids. Other than these shenanigans, I spent my days wandering around the rather small (for a capital anyway) city, admiring the riverside views, museums, and plentiful cat statues.  I was also the excited attendant of a very entertaining small town beauty contest in which one contestant nailed a spot on Lady Gaga tribute and another danced around maniacally to the Pussycat Dolls while scantily clad in a tiny t-shirt and bright orange tights.  Tights, as we all know, are not pants.  Please spread the word.

Near to Kuching is the Semengok Orangutan Preserve, home to a rehabilitation center that houses about 15 of the primates.

Hangin' out in Borneo

While we were waiting for feeding time at the visitors center the largest male specimen, a 35 year old named Richie who weighs about 200 lbs and is at least 3 times my size, wandered up to the visitors center to say Hello.  I had no idea Orangutans could get that big but he still seemed pretty harmless as he walked toward us then turned around and lumbered back to the sanctuary, pausing for a moment of reflection on the bridge overlooking a creek.  It’s hard out there for a (relative of the) chimp.

 

The next day I left Kuching for what during the day was another non-descript riverside town serving as the gateway for exploring indigenous Iban villages and longhouses and by night a dark, smarmy hole where I was greeted with friendly prostitutes and cat calls that seemed to emerge from mysterious dark alleys.  Not that I was keen to walk around alone at night, but I was hungry and it was only 9pm!  How quickly the world around you transforms.  I decided my options were nil so I slurped up some night market noodles and headed back to my hotel to indulge in some Titanic action.  (Who the eff wrote that movie?  50% of the dialogue is Jack!  Rose!  Jaaaccckkk!  Rooooseee!!!)

After my night of bad movie watching I caught the morning boat to an even smaller town called Kapit, located about 2.5 hours downriver from Sibu.  At this point I was desperate for some English speaking interaction and luckily ran into a European couple who I spent the next 4-5 days with, meeting others along the way and forming a little group.  While in Kapit the 3 of us were lucky

Carving some Traditional type things

enough to randomly stumble upon one of the chiefs of a nearby village (or group of connected longhouses, which are the traditional dwellings of the Iban) who agreed to take us to two settlements, show us around and introduce us to the neighboring chief.  At the second village, the home of our chief John Ramba, we sat in his living quarters where he answered our many, many questions over a bottle of rice wine made right there in his home.  We were also thrilled to discover that his father in law, the former chief who greeted us when we arrived, is featured quite prominently in one of the most famous travelogues to come out of Eastern Malaysia entitled Into the Heart of Borneo.

 

Once we bid adieu to the chief we made plans to meet the next day near the dock to catch first a boat back to Sibu and then a bus further down the coast to Miri, a city known as the gateway to the Niah and Mulu cave systems.  Miri has the strange quality of being in once sense a ghost town, in that there were hardly any people anywhere, and in another a sprawling, rambling town full of shops and restaurants.  The cuisine was diverse and splendid, putting to rest my fears that I had left Indian food behind in Western Malaysia.  We stayed at a hostel in Miri that was equipped with all of the latest of western conveniences and run by a crazy cat lady.  Seriously, this woman babbled on and on about nonsense, never left the hostel, and was often seen grunting, growling and fighting with the large population of cats sharing our living quarters.  She did manage to book us a tour to the nearby Niah caves, an impressive cave system home to thousands of bats and a breeding ground for the Asian delicacy of bird’s nest soup.  As seen on Planet Earth, harvesters climb to the tippity tops of the giant caves using only the bare minimum of tools to gather this precious “aphrodisiac” and sell them off to Chinese wedding parties.  While we were leaving the larger of the caves we actually saw a tiny man dangling in the air way up in the distance of the dark caves with one hand clinging to a rope and the other grabbing nests with a small wooden hook attached to the end of a piece of bamboo.  This is generally not a safe practice for anyone involved, so if you’re Chinese or plan on marrying one in the future, please just make your own hornyness.  Or, if need be, eat some green M&Ms.

We left the caves during a short (but heavy) rainstorm and headed back to Miri in time to celebrate one of the most important days of my year and yours, My Birthday.  Much to my surprise and happiness, I found out that while we were away from the hostel a friend of mine I had met in Western Malaysia was in town with a friend of hers and they were both sleeping right next to me in the dorm.  Together our group of 6 celebrated my 25th over cans of Tiger beer and karoake, true Asian fashion.  Unfortunately the English section was pretty small so we were relegated to the Beatles, Elvis, and, of course, the Happy Birthday song.  Soon after it was time to go, and the next day we all lazed around, watched some Friends, and made plans to leave the following day.  Going our separate ways I boarded a bus to Kota Kinabalu, in the way eastern part of Borneo located in a whole other territory called Sabah.

This bus journey will go down in history as one of the dumbest I have ever embarked on.  To get from Miri to KK, by bus, you have to cross through Brunei.  TWICE.  You also have to leave Sarawak and enter Sabah, which requires another immigration stop.  After all was said and done I had 10 fresh new stamps in my passport to remind me of October 12, 2009.  Thank god we got those extra pages put in in Laos, ay Tine?

The only thing worth mentioning about my less than 24 hours in KK was that I finally found a decent bookstore!  Now I am once again overloaded in literature (that may be an oxymoron), carrying 5 books, which doesn’t include the Padi dive text I have leftover from my advanced course and a Chinese veggie cookbook I received as a birthday present.  But as long as my bag weighs under 15 kilos for my flight to London (!) who cares??

So now I am in a quiet little seaside town called Semporna, the gateway to some of the world’s best diving, crystal clear waters and beautiful beaches.  I’m hoping my time underwater tomorrow will help me to live in the now because if diving in one of the

Sibuan Island outside of Semporna, Sabah, Borneo

world’s top 10 spots doesn’t help, I may just have to cancel the next month of travel plans (which included stalking Julia Roberts in Bali) and catching the next plane to London!  C’est la vie…

 

-kt

Allll Byyyy Myyysellfffff….

…Is the obvious title choice for my first post after Christine’s dramatic exit, wouldn’t you agree?  I mean do you see how she attached a crown of jasmine to her head and tried to manhandle me while various onlookers slept behind us?  Not the first time, but unfortunately the last for this trip.

Since Christine flew home from Saigon about 3 weeks ago I have been enjoying the sights, sounds, and smiles of Malaysia; starting with the capital city and Asian travel hub of Kuala Lumpur.  After a month in Vietnam, where the beer flows more cleanly and cheaply then the water, I was shocked to see that in order to enjoy one of my favorite pastimes I was going to have to shell out 10-15 Ringgit (doesn’t that sound like Harry Potter currency?) which is about 3-5 bucks and at least 200% more expensive than Vietnam.  Alas, I also quickly discovered that it was the holy month of Ramadan, which complicates matters of eating and travel in this mostly Muslim country.  News to me!  Anyway I spent 2 days in the capital, mostly strolling along the semi-empty streets, not worrying about getting smashed my 1,000s of motorbikes, visiting malls and skyscrapers, and paying too much for accommodation.  After my latest travel partner (a friend we met in Laos) was off I took a short trip to the Cameron Highlands, yet another tea plantation/farming area with a cool climate and a plentiful supply of strawberries.  Not too much to report there, although I did get attacked by an adorable puppy, met a group of young rambunctious Finnish boys, illegally smuggled some ripe berries out of the strawberry farm, and had my first (and last) encounter with the strong version of Anchor Beer (not to be consumed on an empty stomach…it’s like 8.5%!).

Next I travelled north to Taman Negara, where I trekked around in the jungle for a few days until I couldn’t stand the oppressive humidity nor the creepy crawly jungle bugs nor my smelly bod any longer.  On my second day of trekking I had an encounter with what I assume was a wild boar, a pack of large monkeys, a snake, some giant bats, leeches, and other things that would probably

Hot and Sweaty Jungle Action

send Trish Ray running and screaming to the nearest airport/embassy/Jamaican beach.  While there I met a nice group of Belgians, and after a Ramadan-induced train delay we were off to the port town of Khota Bharu and then finally to the Perhentian Islands, where I hoped to do some diving, lay on white sand beaches, and get rid of my sweaty jungle grime.  All was accomplished, beaches and diving were splendid and I ended up staying for 6 days, perfecting my already hot-ass tan (no comments c), and finally enjoying the privacy of my own room (except for two squirrels who ate almost all of my provisions but thanks to the miracles of nature were unable to unscrew the top off of my pnut butter).  The only problem I had on the island was the fact that beer was even more expensive than in KL (10 Ringgit for a 12 oz. can…that’s about 3 bucks!!) but (don’t worry Grandma) I was able to get moderately drunk one night thanks to a friendly group of Brits and their rum.  Cheers.

 

Being on an amazingly beautiful island without beer is like eating pie without whipped cream, or watching that horrible Friends spin-off starring Joey and Adriana from the Sopranos.  It’s just not the same without the whole package.  After almost a week I

Perhentian Islands, Long Beach and Spice Divers

hopped on a speedboat off the island, only to find myself seated next to a Japanese exchange student who had spent a semester at U of M.  The poor guy hated it, definitely should have been a Spartan instead (although i think the reason was more related to the freezing Michigan weather and not the horrible maize and blue football jerseys).  We chatted for a bit then said goodbye as I boarded an overnight bus to Mersing, then caught the early boat to the Island of Tioman.  Normally I like to space out my beach time with say, something cultural or educational, but Tioman Island has duty free beer.  And that is the true story of why I went there.  Proud, folks at home?

 

Tioman is another beautiful island on the south-eastern coast of Peninsular Malaysia.  Apparently it was featured in some old timey movie called South Pacific, but I think it resembled something more out of JP 1 or 3 (we never speak of JP 2, *shudder*), only with less dinos and more beer, pizza, and sandies.  While the beach was less majestic than in Perhentian Kecil, I think the three aforementioned things make up for the rocky beach.

While in Tioman, where i have been for the last week or so until just yesterday, I completed an advanced scuba course that was really bomb and took up a lot of my time for 3 of the days I was there.  I went on my first night dive, which was a strange and rewarding experience; similar to what I think moon-walking might be like, dove to 30 meters, saw at least 6 sting rays, did some minor compass work and studied some Fish Identification.  Now I get a whole new card to replace the one I left at home and one more thing to brag about when I am stuck at home in cold, cold Michigan.  I’ll be just like the star high-school quarterback (a la Napolean Dynamite) sitting at the bar depressingly reliving old glories  whilst I accidentally electrocute myself with a cheap time machine my nephew finds in a mail order catalogue.

So that’s been the latest news from SE Asia version 2.0, sans Ms. Merker and away from the mainland.  So far Malaysia has been

Fancy Rickshaw Driver in Melaka, Malaysia

truly wonderful, with an interesting culture, extremely nice and friendly people who speak English better than any of the other places we have been, and a beautiful countryside that is really easy to travel around.  Who could ask for anything more?  Besides maybe a reasonably priced cold one, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD?!

 

-kt

ps.  Uploading pictures is something I detest and used to be Christine’s job, so naturally, I have been slacking.  Hopefully will have something to look at in the next few days as I hope to find someone to outsource this annoying task to.

Farewell to noodles, wandering, and monsoons!

Warning: severe and highly disorienting jetlag may prevent this post from being coherent, entertaining, or in the English language.

I am now sitting in my mother’s house in Cleveland, Ohio enjoying the view of lake Erie (betcha don’t hear that that often) and feeling the first cool, crisp breeze filled with the promise of the fall season and the impending deadly winter.  I arrived home after 24 hours in the air watching bad movies, eating terrible “food” and reflecting on a lifetime of memories I had accumulated over the past 8 months (between dazed sleepy stuppors).

On the scuba boat in between dives. This is a really attractive picture of us both. HOTT-IES.

Katie and I spent nearly a week in the small city of Nha Trang, on the coast of southern Vietnam soaking in the sun, diving, and drinking cheap beer with our friends. I realised it was the last time I would be on the beach for a looong time (sadly, Cleveland does not come equipt with a beach that isn’t at risk of catching on fire due to overpollution), so I sat on that beach until I became toasty and red, and just about sick of sun and sand.

We said goodbye to our friends, who were in the middle of taking a scuba diving course (and were probably secretly grateful we were leaving, as we often distracted them from their studies with temptations of beer and dancing), and headed down to my last travel destination before I would depart for Cleveland and Katie for Malaysia to continue her travels.  We were so used to taking night busses at that point in our travels that we slept soundly on the thin, rock hard “beds” provided for us on the “VIP night bus” and arrived in Saigon just as the sun was rising and the city was starting to stir.  We dragged our tired bodies to a hotel and slept for another 4 or 5 hours in the box-like, windowless room that we would spend the next 4 nights in until our flights took us around the world.

We woke up to a torrential downpour so decided that we’d go see a movie in the afternoon before our plans to meet up with friends from India later that night.  The taxi driver must have set his meter to westerner prices because it shot up so quickly we asked to be let off before the theater to walk the rest of the way. 

Streets of Saigon

So, when we emerged from the theater we made sure to agree on a price before getting in a taxi so as to not get ripped off again with the always untrustworthy “meters”.  After repeating again and again the price we’d agreed upon, we got into the taxi and realized we had no idea where our hotel was.  We requested that he just drop us at a market that we knew was somewhere near our hotel and we’d somehow figure it out later.  When the taxi driver pulled up to the market and we handed him the money, he started yelling at us that we EACH had to pay that amount.  This has happened to us many, many times before, even though we made it perfectly clear how much we would pay before getting in the car.  Thus ensued a 20 minute long argument complete with the driver throwing my money back in my face and throwing a tantrum that would leave a 2 year old in awe. finally threw the money on the seat and slammed the door. He continued screaming and he looked like he might want nothing more then to shoot us both. So as we quickly walked away, chatting about the possibility of him chasing after us and killing us, we decided that we should put on disguises.  As white people often say all asians look alike to them, we often hear asians say the same about white people, so our disguises included me removing my jacket and Katie putting on a headband. As we lost ourselves in the winding alleys of the market, we couldn’t help but glance behind us every once in awhile.

Later on, after not having been shot and killed thanks to our ingenious disguises, we met up with a good friend of ours that we met in India and ended up in the park with several bottles of liquor, a guitar, and a posse of shy Vietnamese boys who looked as if they were taking their first sips of alcohol ever. We sang loudly and out of key, sharing our drinks all around and collecting more and more people to join us as the night wore on.

Katie getting engaged! Congratulations!

The guys were obviously not used to drinking liquor and as one of them puked behind his friend’s back (hoping we wouldn’t see him, but a person’s back isn’t sound proof), another was proposing to Katie. Later, the puker walked away with our friend’s guitar, prompting our friend to chase him down and tell him that perhaps he’d had too much to drink and should go home.  We ended the night attempting to walk an excessively drunk friend home, only to have him mumble to us in Vietnamese, sit down on the sidewalk, and refuse to move.  Not a whole lot we could do, so we wished him luck and parted ways. We never saw him again, but Saigon is a big city, so I’m sure he’s fine. Right? Right?! 

The next day, we dragged our slightly hungover bodies to the War Remnants Museum to learn about the many atrocities committed by the Americans during the Vietnam war.  It was formerly called The American War Crimes Museum, and while the name has changed, the content has not.  The extensive museum was filled with gruesome and horrendous  reminders of how terrible and pointless war is.  Photo after photo lined the walls of severely disfigured victims of Agent Orange and napalm attacks, mostly children.  Proof of massacres that happened only because someone gave an order, and resulting in hundreds of women, children, and men dead for no reason.  It was overwhelming to say the least, not because it happened, but because it continues to happen all over the world in the name of money, politics, and hate.

Katie and I climbing on a destroyed American tank. Wee!

Reminders of the war are everywhere in Vietnam, but one of the most intact and powerful sites you can visit are the Cu Chi tunnels.  They are a vast network of underground tunnels  which are concentrated in the Cu Chi area but extend over the entire country.  The tunnels were used by Viet Cong guerrillas to protect themselves against American bombing and raids, and it also served as very effective communication and supply routes, living quarters, hospitals, and storage for food and weapons. 

Katie bravely testing one of the traps. Yes, it hurt. (note the woman videotaping her in the background)

The tunnel system was so important in the war, that it is credited to persuading the weary Americans into surrender, due to their invisibility and the vast array of homemade but deadly traps that surrounded the area.

We were able to crawl through the tunnels, but before we could, we had to sit down and watch a video about the war.  Not only did it look like it had been made by a 13 year old in the 1930s, but it was the biggest piece of propaganda I had ever seen.  This is a direct quote from the video: “Like a bunch of crazy devils, the Americans bombed the area surrounded the tunnels” and “for some unknown reason, the Americans wanted us all dead”. Not that I disagree that the war was horribly unnecessary and had horrific results for both sides, but “a bunch of crazy devils”?  Anyway, after we sat through that piece of cinimatic genius, we were able to crawl through a portion of the tunnels.  I had to back out quickly in a cold sweat after I realized how narrow and dark they were (I could get stuck!! and die!!), but Katie crawled the entire length of the damp, dirt walled tunnels. 

The coolest part of this trip to the Cu Chi tunnels was the shooting range. For a small fee, you could choose between a machine gun, an AK47, and various other deadly weapons used during the war.  Of course, we had to try it. We chose the AK47 and took turns aiming and shooting at large plastic animals.

Guns are scary

I don’t think either of us hit a target, but it was really loud and really fun. And a little scary. I kept one of the bullet shells as a souvenir, which would later cause me a lot of trouble at the Ho Chi Minh airport.  Note: do not try to smuggle any part of a weapon onto a plane.  Big scary army guys will be very angry with you and you will almost miss your flight.

After the trip to the tunnels, our last day or two was consumed with last minute souvenir shopping for friends and relatives (difficult when you’re broke- hope you like your chopsticks I stole from a restaurant, friends!) and preparing to part ways.  We spent our last night together cheersing shots of whiskey at several different bars (“cheers to…US again!”), dancing, meeting new and strange people, and avoiding talk of our future plans (especially job-related ones). 

Katie enjoying my affectionate hug. Yes, that is a wreath of flowers on my head.

And so, another journey ends, only to have another begin for each of us. Katie will continue her adventure in Malaysia, traveling solo through the jungle, trying to keep the leeches from sucking her dry and adjusting to the difficult life people tend to have without me.  I will start a new journey, beginning in Cleveland with my family and continuing wherever the wind takes me (and by wind, I mean job).  Life is good.

Christine

PS- Have you ever noticed how fat Americans are? And how ridiculous and repulsive big box stores are? And how expensive everything is? And how everyone drives a car with their windows rolled up? And the obscene amount of advertisements everywhere that plague our days and nights? And how much STUFF there is to choose from? It took me 30 minutes to pick out a new deodorant at the store the other day!  Why do we need so much CHOICE? Andhave you noticed that you usually don’t need to drive more then a half mile to find disgusting fast food?  And how spoiled American kids are?! Have you noticed that culture shock can debilitate a person into wanting to stay in her bedroom with the door locked and eyes closed??

Hey! We’ve Done Some Stuff.

Well I suppose at this point you’re all wondering where the heck we’ve been, what we’ve been doing, and if we’ve eaten any delicious sandwiches lately.  When we last left you I believe we had just emerged on the happening island of Cat Ba, way up north in ‘Nam and east of Hanoi.  We spent a few days on the beaches, which were supposed to be full of white sand and void of such things as garbage and loads of tourists, but unfortunately found this not to be true.  The sand was more of a muddy brown color, the water was unsettlingly warm, and the beaches were packed with Vietnamese and foreign tourists loudly splashing around and enjoying the sunshine.  Looking for some peace we booked a bus from Ha Long Bay to Hue, a big city in the middle of the country most known for it’s location near the demilitarized zone, which saw most of the fighting during the war.  I will know it mostly for the glorious pool that we sat next to for two days and the bitchy staff at the hotel of said pool.  The only time we weren’t poolside was a scorching foray into the hot, sweaty town to check out some old ancient Chinese architecture.  We mostly stood around trying to feign interest while we counted down the minutes until we could return to the pool. 

After Hue (pronounced hwey, which, by the hue, provided me with about a week of delicious puns) we took a short ride on the local afternoon bus to Hoi An, another world heritage site site town with quiet, walkable streets, more French architecture, Chinese lanterns, and delicious food.  The town itself is famous worldwide for it’s beauty and availability of cheap, well made (we hope) clothes suited for any taste.  Once again we were skeptical at first, but once we saw how amazing everyone looked in comparison to us we decided to indulge.  I ended up with a fantastic pair of jeans and two dresses, one of which I decided will only be worn on boats because it looks like a sailor-lady outfit (admittedly I have worn it once on land but it was to a bar called the Sailing Club so I found it quite apt attire).  Christine also indulged and ended up with two pairs of pants, one dress, and a tailor made dominatrix costume.  Fit to measure and all for under $100!

Hoi An is complete with an amazing beach and nightlife, which we also indulged in, and was one of the reasons we cancelled our first plans to leave for an extra day on the beach and at the bar.  We met a really fun group of people who shared our interests in cheap drinks, loud music, and dancing around in fancy hand-made clothes that made our time in the city that much more enjoyable.  As a rule while travelling, the good people are always going in the opposite direction as you so we unfortunately had to say goodbye after just a few days, something you get really sick of doing after 8 months!

Alas, our time in the picture-perfect town of Hoi An came to a close about a week ago when we boarded the night bus to Nha Treng, our current location.  While waiting for said bus Christine and I had minor panic attacks when we realized we were surrounded by 8 Americans.  8!  This was by far the most fellow compatriots we had been in contact with in all of our travels, and we were extremely dismayed to realize they were all loud, drunk, obnoxious morons.  Here’s an example of an exchange that occurred with poor Christine and a fellow I like to call Fake Hippy Mop Top (or FHMT)

FHMT (leaning in, fanning the flames of our panic attacks with rum breath): So what do you do back at home?

Christine (under her breath, to me): Oh my god, he’s trying to communicate with me!  (to FHMT): I worked at an environmental organization in DC but I quit to come travel.

FHMT: Oh cool.  I worked for an oil company but it was very environmentally friendly.

Christine: Yeah I bet it was.

FHMT: Well at least my checks always cleared!  HA!

And so on.  Suffice it to say we didn’t sleep so well, especially when a semi-violent exchange occurred between one of the really drunk ones and his poor, naive girlfriend.  Our marvelous trip ended when the bus dropped us off at a hotel in a random part of town 2 hours early, which didn’t give our tired selves much of an option for places to stay since the streets were totally dark and the moto-taxi drivers were all fast asleep.  We gave in and slept there, then spent the next day trying to figure out where we were, which was hard since we somehow managed to leave our guidebook in Hoi An (gasp!  No more overpriced Lonely Planet suggestions!).  Luckily we used our heads (and a computer) to locate the touristy area of town where we were most likely to find the best beach and food, our two highest priorities.  We then checked into the Nice Hotel, which is quite nice, and have been here ever since.  Luckily a friend of ours that we met a few months ago in Laos is also staying here working at a dive center in town, so for the past two days we have been out on the boat at 7:00 AM (!) and underwater 4 times.  I think we both forgot how much fun diving is and have gotten full on back into it.  In case you’re interested in underwater creatures, we saw a moray eel, a few cute little nudibranches, sea cukes, sea urchins (ouch), lion fish, barracuda, pipe fish, flute fish, a few Nemos (one of which tried to eat Christine’s delish forehead), and tons of beautiful, vibrant coral.  Christine and our guide also saw an octopus while I focused my attention on the thing I thought we were supposed to be looking at, a yellow rock.     You rock, rock. 

Tomorrow night we leave for Saigon, the final destination for Lil ‘Tine (*tear*) and the jumping off point for the next part of my trip, Malaysia.  While in Saigon we will most likely be surrounded by more gruesome reminders of the horrors inflicted on Vietnam by the hands of the US gov’t, which should be fun.  Also, we are going to shoot giant plastic animals.  Stay Tuned.

–kt

ps.  As for the sandwiches, we did have two amazing cheddar cheese sandies, complete with mustard and mayo (for me) but the whole experience was ruined when our bill came and we saw that they charged us extra for condiments.  Seriously, charging for condiments is a crime against nature.  And sandwich fans.  Yellow mustard costs less than 1 dollar at home.  Come on.

Puppets, Heat, and Prisons in Hanoi

After Funny McFuntown, the next town, Luang Prabang,  inevitably seemed kinda boring. Its supposedly a “World Heritage Site”, which apparently is a status they (whoever “they” is) hand out to pretty much anyone judging by the fact that we’ve been to about 98 of them in the past several months.  Luang Prabang  is what we like to refer to as a “honeymoon town”. Quaint, picturesque, romantic, and expensive.  Canoodling couples gazing into each other’s eyes, whist holding hands and blissfully wandering down the streets. Bars have quiet candlelit seating and close at 11pm (blasphemy!).  In addition to all those boring/lame things, Katie was sick (ill with what we were convinced was malaria or dengue, but it’s gone now, so I guess we were wrong), so I was left to wander around this town on my own. yadda yadda yadda, french architecture, misty mountains, pretty souvenirs. snoooze (why’d we leave Funtown again?).  We relaxed there for a couple of days and then embarked on our Big Journey to Vietnam. Part one of the journey included an 8 hour bus ride to a town called Phonsavan, which is known for a field full of unexplainable large jars, which sadly, oh-so-sadly, we did not get to see.  

Part 2 of our journey was a 16 hour bus ride to Hanoi, the capital of Vietnam.  Katie was still feeling a little ill, so at a rest stop I went in search of some aspirin and proudly came back with it in my hand. Look what I found! After some questioning, she found out that I had asked an 8 year old girl who couldn’t speak a lick of english what the mysterious yellow pills were for, and she pointed to her head so I assumed they were for headaches and bought them, like the good friend that I am,  for my little ill Katie.  Miss Fancy Pants Katie decided that she was too good for my yellow pills and opted to live with the headache. Which (I’ll admit when I’m wrong!) turned out to be a smart move, because a few days later, we asked a pharmacist what they were for and although she didn’t speak english, her answer was pretty clear. She rolled her head around, held her stomach, and made vomiting noises.  So, I’m pretty sure they were death pills, and glad I didn’t take up Katie’s offer of “If you take one, I’ll take one”.

We had a relatively easy crossing into Vietnam, after having to wait at the border for an hour and a half while everyone took their lunch break at the same time (why-oh-WHY can’t you just take turns eating lunch?! This happens everywhere in Southeast Asia. Katie keeps saying, “let them do what they do” and I keep saying TAKE TURNS) and continued our journey into Vietnam. 

We arrived in Hanoi around 1am and had no place to stay, so attached ourselves to a bickering couple and followed them to their hotel. Thankfully, they had a room available and we only had to endure 20 very awkward minutes of a bitter old British man yelling at his very sweet Vietnamese wife, who had just hours before shared with us a delicious vegetarian meal at a rest stop, where the only thing you could get to eat was some sort of mystery meat soup.  

We fell into bed after our marathon journey, and awoke the next day to the sounds of the city. Cars honking, people yelling, bells ringing (Santa?), carts wheeling goods down the insanely busy street. 

A typical market in Hanoi

We left the hotel and entered a world of beautiful chaos. Noise, people, scents, and colors blended together to make each new step a cultural experience. It reminded us of a clean(er), French/Asian fusion version of Kolkata, which was also a city I immediately fell in love with.  Every street you walked down handed you more surprises and something new to look at, laugh at, or gaze in amazement at. Hanoi is so full of energy and life, you couldn’t help but feel the same way when walking down the street.  If you could get the hang of walking down the street. There are no rules, regulations, lanes, stop signs, or stop lights anywhere in the city, so even walking on tiny scraps of sidewalk that aren’t taken up by goods, people, or parked motorbikes, you have the risk of being nailed by a car/bicycle/motorbike that thinks its too good to use the actual street for driving. 

Another amazing aspect of this city of endless surprises is a little miracle people refer to as “Bai Hoi”.  This is simply a keg of deliciously cold beer planted on the sidewalk surrounded by chairs and tables, for the enjoyment of the people for only 3000 dong. That’s about 20 cents. and HAHA, yes the currency here is called dong.  This is not only a great way to drink cheap beer, but also to meet lots and lots of people.  We befriended everyone from a man selling lighters named Hi (who we bought a lighter from, which promptly broke a day later) to an Australian war vet who decided to come back to Vietnam after the war because he insisted that he lost his soul here and wanted it back.  He’s not only been coming back every year since, but also sponsors a Vietnamese child who wanted to go to school but couldn’t afford it. They’ve been paying for him to go to school for 12 years now, and he’ll be attending college in the fall. 

We filled the next several days with some heavy duty exploring (which is an exhausting task, given that each day was at least 100 degrees with about 90% humidity) , which lead us from Bai Hoi stands, to a water puppetry show (a traditional Vietnamese play, performed in water with wooden puppets),

Puppets! In water! Brilliant!

 to delicious restaurants and rowdy bars, to buddhist temples and massive catholic churches.  We also visited the infamous “Hanoi Hilton”, a prison that held American soldiers captured during the Vietnam war, also where John McCain was held and the reason he can’t lift his arms above his head.  The Vietnamese government had obviously gone through great lengths to prove to the visitors of the prison that while the Americans were held here, they had a fantastic time.  There were pictures of prisoners grinning, playing volleyball, decorating Christmas trees (with a caption that said “Christmas already?!”), and cooking dinner together happily.  It was poor attempt to convince visitors that being held in a POW camp was a gay ol’ time. 

Busy streets of Hanoi

Our time in Hanoi also happened to coincide with my birthday (Happy Birthday to me!), and at midnight when I turned 25, I just so happened to be belting out “My Heart Will Go On” by Celine Dion at a kareoke bar.  The fun continued into the next day, when we finally got to see Harry Potter 6, which was A-mazing.  We went out again that night, trying to see how many free drinks I could get by proclaiming my day of birth (plenty)and woke up the next day feeling not so hot and dreading the impending journey to our next destination- Ha Long bay, then from there to an island called Cat Ba Island.  It took a 3 hour bus ride, a 30 minute motorbike ride, a night sleeping in a hotel that seemed to be hosting the loudest family reunion known to man, a very frustrating ride with a taxi driver who had no idea where I was trying to go (have you ever mimed “boating dock ticket booth”?). Then back to the Loudest Hotel Ever to collect my things and Katie, then back to the dock, then strangly enough, we were herded onto a very fancy boat that looked like it just floated off the set of Pirates of the Caribbean. As it turns out, there was no ferry or boat of any kind to this island, and instead we were just added to a very expensive tour where we had to endure a group of fancy westerners sipping wine and eating HUGE meals (while our stomachs grumbled angrily) and stopped at various “tourist attractions” on the way to the island, which we were not allowed to partake in because we weren’t officially part of the tour. Essentially, we were vagabong castaways, captive on a fancy tour boat.  We finally arrived at the island where we jumped onto the back of two motorbikes that swerved around massive jungle covered limestone cliffs that looked like a t-rex might just jump out of the trees at any moment.  We are weary and tired, but proud of ourselves that we saved a few dollars by taking local busses and being castaways. I think we deserve a few days laying on the beach, don’t you?

This is called "Thrust a hat and basket on an unsuspecting tourist and then demand obscene amounts of money for the photo"

 

~Christine

PS:  Katie has pointed out that at midnight on my birthday, it was not Celine Dion’s greatest song ever that I was singing, it was the room singing ME a weird german version of “Happy Birthday”, closely followed by Katie and I belting out “Like a Prayer” by Madonna.  Phew! Glad we sorted that out.

I’ll Be There For Tuuuuubbeesss

There are many rites of passage we all face on our road to adulthood.  It could be turning 18.  It could be driving a car for the first time.  It could be facing war in a foreign land, or maybe eating toast that landed butter-side down on the kitchen floor after the 5 second rule and living to tell the tale.  Or maybe, just maybe, it’s finding paradise, a debacherous, hedonistic paradise far from responsibility, jobs and bills and being mature enough to only stay for a reasonable amount of time instead of calling home, asking for a shipment of furniture (and a certain loveable mutt…and maybe some cheezits) and moving in for life.  In past travels we did not contain such guff and ended up getting such things as jobs and apartments in our old “paradise towns” (Mexico, 2006…Guatemala 2007).  This being said, Christine and I have finally reached adulthood at the tender age of 24.

What is this paradise you ask?  On the map of Laos it is officially known as Vang Vieng, but I like to call it Funny McFuntown.  It’s just a beautiful, hazy town populated with friendly locals and nestled between steep limestone cliffs, supreme greenery and winding roads easily negotiable on bikes (which we actually did, once).  Oh and I’m sorry, did I forget to mention the presence of a tiny slice of heaven called the Nam Song River, whose rapids provide endless tubing adventures for the hundreds of tourists who populate the town, and a little something called Friends, one of our favorite and most missed guilty pleasure TV shows from home?  That’s right my friends (no pun intended) at least 10 restaurants in town play nothing but Friends all day long, everyday.  The food they serve is pretty crappy I must say, but not as crappy as when Ross slept with the copy store girl and kept throwing the “we were on a break” thing in Rachel’s face!  Or when Chandler kisses Joey’s girlfriend (Kathy) and he has to spend Thanksgiving in a box to make up for it.  Or when they play girls vs. boys football and Rachel could have won it for the girls with her first touchdown but she dropped the ball victoriously just 10 ft. short of the endzone.  I could go on.  Let’s just say after a few days in Vang Vieng there wasn’t a shoelace I couldn’t tie into a Friend’s reference.  Even the thought of you all reading this reminds me of the one where no one wants to read Ross’s book so the NYU library stores it in the boring section where students go to “fornicate.”  Ok I’ll stop now.  Most of the other restaurants in town showed the Family Guy, which is not my cup of tea, but in one glorious moment Christine and I managed to watch an entire episode of the Simpsons from across the street from where it was being played.  We of course didn’t need audio because I narrated the entire thing.  Christine didn’t mind at all.  It was the one where Marge is afraid of flying.  Classic.  (Ex: Homer (gasps): That man is my exact double! (Seconds pass) That dog has a puffy tail!  Here puff!  Here puffy!)

But enough television, let’s get down to the really thrilling part of our time in Funny McFuntown: the tubing.  I used to think the lazy river at Michigan’s Adventure or the tiny creek behind Grandma’s cottage would be my greatest tubing times but low and behold, the addition of alcohol, music, hundreds

Not our pic, but this is the jist!

upon hundreds of gleeful tubers, rope swings, and slides made this one of the most fun things I have ever done.  I am not sure if my description can possibly do it justice, but try to imagine a rushing river packed with happy people and dotted on each side with makeshift bars whose staff stands on the edge of rickety docks to throw lifesavers to passersby and then drag them in for free whiskey shots, dancing, mud wrestling, mud volleyball, mud slides, and, well, a lot of mud (it is the rainy season).

Unfortunately, as with most things that involve rushing rapids, poorly constructed slides, jagged rocks, and zip cords that snap just a little too roughly, (not to mention the endless drinking) many people get quite injured.  Before we decided to join in on all of the fun, Christine and I, being the Judge Judys that we were, decided everyone was crazy and we would take little or no part in all of the hubbub.  This was of course after we watched many a befallen tuber limp past our current “Friends” dispenser on crutches, or sit next to us with short shorts on to display an enormous bruise complete with muddy scratches and rock marks.  We decided to join timidly (at first–espceially since I entered the first bar bleeding in two places) but somewhere during our first muddy volleyball game we just let loose and had the time of our lives.  So much so that we decided to cancel our bus ticket and go tubing again before we left, where we met the most amazing life long friends in such characters as Tire Girl, Olivia Newton-John and her boyfriend Tall Guy, Elbow Pads, Bad Volleyball Guy, Middle Guy, Saved our Lives Guy (true story) and Sword-Story Guy, who has not one but two stories that involve swords.

Our second time around we were less timid and thus a but more susceptable to injury; little did I know this danger would come from my very own tube-mate and “friend” (no, not you Pheebs) Ms. Christine Merker, who almost killed me twice our second time around.  The first time was very direct, we were attempting to mount our tube when she stumbled and, noticing the absencse of a sturdy rock, grabbed my head in the middle of the tumultuous rapids and thrust it under water.  Apparently heads containing inches upon inches of glorious hair feel just about the same as river rocks.  Who knew?  The second time I almost met my end was a but more indirect, it was somewhere around our third bar when she suggested something along the lines of, “Hey, there’s that Irish guy who threw me in the mud at that last bar! (apparently he’d already kicked her ass once, but that was not enough proof for her that it may happen again) LET’S GET HIM”  and my idiotic response “Wait, you have our beer in your hand.  I”LL GET HIM!”  What ensued was the most insane wrestling experience of my life, which I can only compare to Pete Becker’s foray into Ultimate Fighting, which left him sans Monica and confined to a giant body cast.   Let’s just say I am not sure if the fact that we were caked in mud lead him to believe we might not be tiny little women, or he just didn’t care cause he was drunk and Irish.  Let me also add the hilarious image of him using my body as a weapon against Christine, and later grabbing me by the ankles and pulling me around in the mud in a move I believe to be called the reverse-lawnmower.

In conclusion, we all survived, had the time of our lives, made some great friends (who can forget Got Arrested For Having a Penis Girl?) and you parents out there can’t get mad at us now because we both lived, so HA!

–kt

ps.  Since Christine survived the tubing adventure that means she’ll be living through another birthday soon, in the words of the woman who almost prevented me from seeing my next birthday, please send money.

Laosing around in sleepy, lazy Laos

If Laos were an animal, it would be a sleepy house cat. Or a sloth. But a beautiful, friendly one that cooks up tasty food and contains plenty of rivers in which you can float down in a big tube. Even the capital city, where we usually re-up on comforts from home (aka; movies, western food, etc.), Vientienne, has a sleepy village-like feel to it.

We started our Laosy travels by crossing the border in the south from Cambodia, which meant walking about 500 meters between 2 shack-like structures which turned out to be the oh-so-professional immigration offices. The road between the two looked like it had been freshly cut through the jungle and I wouldn’t have been surprised to see a tiger or monkey cross my path as I walked, hunched over from the weight of my pack,  from Cambodia to Laos. We crossed easily and without hassle, the most difficult part of the process being my trip to the bathroom, which was similar to a terrifying and dark exhibit in the insect/reptile section at the zoo. I literally backed my ass into a huge spider web containing multiple massive spiders eagerly awaiting their chance to wrap me up into their web of terror and consume me (so I imagined).

Rickity Death Boat

After the border crossing, we got a ride about 10 kilometers up the road to the Mekong river “ferry” (an old wooden boat which looked as if it was about to capsize at any moment), which would take us to an area in southern Laos called the 4000 islands. The muddy waters of the Mekong wrap around lush green mounds of earth, creating islands as far as the eye can see. We first stayed on the biggest one, called Don Khong, which consisted of about 4 guesthouses, a few restaurants (all with the same menu) and a vast area in the middle filled with glistening green rice paddies surrounding small villages containing several rickity wooden huts on stilts, lots of cute children who delighted in chasing after our bikes shouting “SABAADII!!” (“hello” in lao), and of course, plentiful colorful buddhist wats (temples).

What most of southern Laos looks like, as far as I can tell

We explored the island via bicycle, which was a really great way to see the island until we had biked almost the entire perimeter and had to screech to a halt because the road had been replaced at one part by a huge, deep, un-go-aroundable hole in the ground. A local woman saw us look at this roadblock, befuddled, and told us “no, no, cannot pass!”. Yes, thank you, we see that. I’m still not sure why it was there, only that we had to go back around and it took quite awhile to get back to our guesthouse.

 

We called that "Pig Island" due to the large amount of wild pigs that roamed free

We switched islands due to lack of activity on Don Khong (unless you just want to wile away your days rolling around in rice paddies) and met some people to share a boat with to another island, called Don Det.  We found a great little guesthouse on the river which we picked predominantly because it was the cheapest place to stay, and (AND) contained a plethora of hammocks to choose from. Unfortunatly, it also came with a constantly screeching baby, a crazy old woman that would speak incessantly to us in Lao, and 4 very loud british boys who just graduated from college and couldn’t seem to get enough whisky in their system.

Where we spent the majority of our time on Don Det. There's a tiny Katie face with a pink nose peeking out in the bottom corner!

We spent most of our days on that island not doing much of anything except swinging in hammocks and…well that’s about it. We did, however, witness the illusive irrawaddy dolphin, who is shockingly still around despite the locals using the river as a place in which to dispose of any and all trash.

Either this picture of this amazing waterfall in the Mekong River was taken in 1920, or Katie was playing with the sepia tone on her camera.

We left the islands after several days enjoying the impossibly slow and peaceful pace of traditional rural Laotian life, and headed up north to Vientienne, the capital. To do this, we had to take an overnight sleeper bus which boasted comfortable beds for all, and refreshments! What we discovered, actually, was that our beds were in the back row, which ment there were 5 very very narrow beds all next to each other, tucked into a claustrophobic, cave like crevice of the bus. This lead to at least 15 minutes of uncontrollable giggling and hoping to god that we wouldn’t be forced to sleep next to any creepy men, crying babies, or smelly/fat people. Turns out we were lucky, and shared this ridiculously small space with 2 tiny asian women.

We arrived in Vientiane in the morning, not exactly refreshed from our bumpy night sleep, and stumbled our way to a guesthouse near the river. I imagined the capital of Laos to be similar to other asian capitals that I’ve visited- chaotic, loud, vivacious, and packed with things to do and see. Well, unless I’m in the dead zone in the city, I can’t seem to find a trace of any of these traits. This is by far the sleepiest capital city I’ve ever been to. Just our luck, to be in a city that doesn’t have a movie theater when Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince comes out (did anyone else hear that Ron has swine flu?). Although today we did go to the Laos National Museum, which turned out to be more like the Lao National Museum of American Hating Communists, with an entire wing dedicated to photos of American imperialist pigs and their “puppets” (their words, not ours).

Tonight, we’ve decided we will find life in this city if there is any, so help us god! If not, we’re throwing in the towel and heading north.

*Update: last night, we tried our darndest to find a bar or club with some sort of fun to be had, but all we could find was empty, sad bars, bars filled with couples and old people, and a terrible bar with live music- Celine Dion’s greatest hits. We’re heading north tomorrow.

One of the only good things we found in The Most Boring Capital City In the World

~Christine

The Mighty Mighty Temples of Angkor

In the grand tradition of doing things, organized things that have been planned and put on the schedule such as tours, long trips that begin early in the morning, and of course visiting temples/ancient ruins in the boiling heat and unbelievable humidity that surrounds them, we were of course hungover and sleep deprived during our trip to Angkor.  Me especially.  For some reason the night before a visit to hot hot ruins must be spent guzzling cocktails (Chichen Itza, Mex ’01) and dancing with strangers (Copan Ruinas,

Angkor Wat

Honduras, ’04),  rather than in bed with books in our hands where the worst thing that could happen is Christine falls asleep first and I have to make the inevitable trek across our room to turn the lights off.  On this particular night we drank and swapped stories with the other falangs in town at the most well known bar in Siem Reap, cleverly (well, I guess) titled Angkor What? after the temples themselves.  This bar has plagued or beckoned us (depending on how you look at it), for months by handing out free t-shirts to anyone who orders two buckets of booze at once.  Which means about every 3rd person we have seen east of Kolkata has been a walking advertisement for this bar, so we had to go and see what all the hubbub was about.  Mostly cheap drinks (if anyone wants to consume an entire bucket of rum and coke), loud music, bad dancing, and white, white people.

Thus the next morning was a difficult one for me.  When Christine woke me for breakfast I gave her a look of scorn and elected to sleep for another precious 40 minutes.  Finally the dreaded hour approached and I dressed for real, we got a map of the nearby area and found a place that would rent halfway decent bikes for 1$ and set off to see what all of this hubbub was about.

Once we arrived at the first/main temple area I decided I was in hell and cursed myself for being such a drunken fool the night before.  The sun beat down on me with it’s poisonous rays as I walked about 5 yards, sat down, collected myself, fake smiled at passersby, walked another 5 yards, and repeated the whole cycle.  I cursed the constructors of these temples, with their endless stairs and scorched open walkways leaving me vulnerable to the elements and prayed to the Gods to open up the sky and let it rain.  They ignored me, so I cursed them too, which caused the sky to open up at only one point in the day; our 30 minute bike ride home.

Finally Christine, who I might add seemed to be having a gay old time and didn’t appear to contain an ounce of sympathy for her supposed “pal”,

Christine chillin on a rock

suggested I eat something so I choked down some strangely colored fried veggies and rice and started to feel better.  The whining decreased, the hilariously witty jokes and laughter increased, and I was back to my old lovable self again.

Since the temples themselves are spread out among a vast area of km (I don’t know exactly how many and I don’t feel like looking it up on Wikipedia so you must simply deal with the vagueness of this sentence) biking was definitely the best option, and we had a great time cycling among the narrow streets surrounded by jungle or vast rice paddies, waving to the seldom passerby, squealing at whatever disgusting and mangled canine creature had just crossed our path, and singing random songs from MJ to Enrigue Iglesias.  Out of all of the groups of ruins we had our minds set on seeing the main one, Angkor Wat, which is so well recognized and respected in Cambodia that it is on the flag and has a beer named after it, and two others; the faces of Bayon, which consist of giant rock like structures carved out into many a face of Buddha…they are very large and cavernous and we were able to climb to the top of them, which was wonderful,  and Ta Prohm, which is probably the most recognizable because of the giant roots of silk-cotton trees that grow in and along the ruins.  By the time we made it to Ta Prohm, our last stop in the hot afternoon sun, we were the sweatiest people on the planet (the Cambodian jungle was set to about 900% humidity that day) and a little embarrassed to be standing near the locals, who always keep their cool, and even the package tourists who were decked out in their fancy Eddie Bauer safari gear and arrived at each site via air-con shuttle.  While posing for a shot in front of one of the most well known sites we were too grossed out to touch each other, until Christine just went for it, (most likely unable to contain herself) put her arm around me and it just slipped right off.  The resulting picture is one of us giggling so hard you can visibly see Christine attempting to not pee her pants.  In front of about 30 people.

The ruins themselves are mostly Buddhist (like the people of Cambodia) with a few Hindu relics dedicated to Vishnu.     They, like most of Cambodia, faced a tragic confrontation with the Khmer Rouge, whose officers despised Buddhism and destroyed many of the temples.  However what stands today, a true testament to the strong foundation of the culture of Cambodia, will take the breath out of even the most whiney, hungover ruins-hater.  They are the most amazing I have ever seen (sorry Tikal…we have a new winner!) and I hope the pictures can do them at least a little bit of justice.  When we finally returned to town (I think we were gone from about 10 am – 6 pm) we were filthy, slimy, famished, and in serious need of a drink.  Luckily Siemp Reap is a cute little happening town with almost anything a foreign visitor could want, so we saddled up at a Taqueria (after a shower and proper change of clothes, por supuesto) and had burritos, nachos, enchiladas, sangria, and of course the ubiquitous margarita.  Afterwards we promptly went home and passed out, only to arise early again the next day to begin a multi-day journey to Laos, where I am currently writing this while we wait for an afternoon downpour to end and an overnight bus trip to begin.

–kt

ps.  Uploading pics for this extravaganza was quite difficult so we admit these aren’t the best shots….stay tuned for the real winners.

Life goes on in Phnom Penh

Well, we drew straws (figuratively, not literally) and I got stuck with the gruesome task of describing the Killing Fields and the other horrors from the Khmer Rouge Era that we witnessed in Phnom Penh, and Katie gets to write about the lovely trip to Angkor Wat, the incredible ruins that we spent the day biking around until our asses were so sore we couldn’t do anything but drink margaritas for the rest of the day.  Such is life, ay?

Anyway, after a multi-hour bus ride from Sihanoukville, we arrived in Phnom Penh, the capital of Cambodia and checked into a dingy hotel whose  only draw was the random soft satin sheets that adorned the comfortable beds. 

aerial view of the lively Phnom Penh

The city itself is really a cool city, very lively with a prominent french flair (gee thanks, colonialism!), all built charmingly on the banks of the confluence of the Tonlé Sap, Mekong, and Bassac rivers.  Expansive grassy parks are everywhere, and serve as a meeting place at all times of day. People play badmitton, kick soccer balls around, lounge, and at night, have group aerobics.  Dozens of people gather together, turn up some traditional Cambodian tunes, and do a slow, mezmorising  line dance together for their nightly exercise.  Children run around playing and laughing, street venders sell everything from iced coffee to fried tarantulas, and gaggles of young men tail groups of giggling, stylishly dressed young women.  One would never guess that only 30 years prior to this seemingly carefree and happy scene in the park, there occured one of the most horrific genocides in the history of mankind.  

We visited a place while we were there called the Tuol Sleng museum, commonly known to locals as the infamous S-21 prison complex.  Before Pol Pot (whose real name was Saloth Sar) and his entourage took over, it was a bustling high school in the middle of a suburban-like area of the capital. 

Outside of the S-21 prison complex

When the capital was evacuated, the school was taken over for use as a brutal prison. It was surrounded by electrified barbed wire (which prevented anyone from commiting suicide by throwing themselves out of the windows of their cells) and the classrooms were converted into tiny prison cells and torture chambers.  The building has remained essentially untouched since it’s discovery by the Vietnamese who found it by following the stench of rotting human flesh, and only photos of the victims have been added to certain rooms and brief historical information adorns the crumbling walls.  The cells still contain the original devices used for torture and photos that the Vietnamese took of the final victims as they were found.

Cells inside of a former classroom

In one room, the photo on the wall depicted a man bludgeoned to death by a shovel, next to the original the bed that he was murdered on and the actual shovel used to kill him.  

Most of the prisoners included soldiers, government officials, as well as academics, doctors, teachers, students, factory workers, monks, and engineers.  Pol Pot was known to arrest and kill anyone he perceived as a threat, which included anyone from an educated adult to a child wearing glasses.   Later, the party leadership’s extreme  paranoia turned on its own ranks and purges throughout the country saw thousands of party activists and their families brought to Tuol Sleng and murdered.  It is estimated that at least 17,000 people entered this prison.  Only 12 people ever managed to come out alive. One such prisoner was kept alive for his artistic ability, and was forced to paint portraits of Pol Pot.  He later painted pictures depicting the horrific day to day life of a prisoner in S-21, which are on display at the museum today.  One painting that stuck with me the most was an illustration of the ways the prison guards used the playground equipment as instruments of torture;  it looked identical to what we played on in the school yard when I was young.

The Killing Fields

Many prisoners detained in S-21 were taken to what is now known as the Killing Fields, which are about 15 kms away from the prison.  There are dozens of mass graves that were discovered there, containing the remains of thousands.  It is said that during the 4 years of the regime, over 300 prisoners a day were executed here.  The skulls of 900 victims, almost all cracked or full of bullet holes, are on display in a large stupa in the middle of the fields. 

Remains of the victims of the Khmer Rouge

Remnants of the clothing and skeletons of the victims stick out of the dirt and grass all over the grounds.  The fields are now located next to a elementary school, so the exhuberant shrieks of laughter and chatter echoe throughout the grounds, making the tragic place even creepier; but reminding you that life does go on. 

 

 

A fountain in the middle of a vast park in Phnom Penh, with a Buddhist temple in the background

~Christine

River and Beachside Fun- and Learning!

We stayed in the quiet, slow riverside town of Battambangfor several relaxing days. Although the staff at the guesthouse we stayed at were a bit over attentive (to say the least), it was quite a welcomed change from Thailand, which can remind one of a drunken beach rave, complete with techno music and glowsticks. At our guesthouse one morning, after having slept in and leaving through the back exit, the staff ran out to greet us upon our return several hours later withexclamations of “where have you been?!”and “we were worried about you!”.  Very odd, but I suppose it’s nice to have someone looking out for you. Also, I am pretty sure we crushed a poor fellow’s soul who worked there by telling him we weren’t interested in taking a tour withhim. I was literally afraid he was going to cry.  Another day, we had a confusing moment with a youth that worked there when we tried to tip him for bringing me my laundry.  He refused it at first, but upon our insistence,  took it reluctantly.  A few minutes later, he came back with2 bottles of water for us. A few minutes after that, he came baring toilet paper.  We tried to explain that it was a tip, not money to go buy us groceries, but the language barrier was just a bit too vast to get the point across. Plus, I think the fact that Katie was only wearing a towel during the whole debacle may have had something to do with his reoccurring appearances.

The town itself was really interesting, a vast array of winding roads lined with crumbling french architecture (which I learned about from the local expert, Kt ray), all built upon the banks of the murky Sangkerriver.  Ornate Buddhist temples decorate the city on almost every corner, with friendly monks bedecked in orange robes frequently inviting you in for a chat.  

Katie, becoming enlightened

One time leading to a very awkward conversation about religion at one temple, when a monk asked us “what we thought about religion”.  It’s rather difficult to tell a monk that you’re an atheist at a buddhist temple, so I simply stated that I was  raised christian.  That was followed by a gentle interrogation of our opinions on Buddhism, to which Katie hilariously replied “It’s…nice”  but then followed it up by saying “the more peaceful the religion, the better”.  

The entire province of Battambangwas evacuated during the Khmer Rouge  regime, along with the capital, Phnom Penh and several other cities.  The Khmer Rouge was in power from 1975-1979, during which 1 out of every 4 Cambodian citizens perished as a direct result of the policies of Pol Pot, the leader of the Khmer Rouge. The people of Battambang were either relocated to remote and mountainous areas or subject to torture, starvation, and murder.   Reminders of the brutal 4 year massacre and the relentless famine that followed are everywhere; the dilapidated buildings, the poverty, the constant talk about the Khmer Rouge tribunals that are occurring at the moment. There’s a massive structure built in the center of town depicting a 3 headed serpent, all made from the guns and ammo collected after the Vietnamese invaded and put a stop to Pol Pot’s tortuous regime.

ooOOooOOo scary!

It is said to be a reminder of peace, although it looks more like all the anger of the people summed up in one large bitter metalic beast. What is so astounding to me is how even after the incredible devastation of Pol Pot’s regime, is that the people here can still be so welcoming and warm to everyone they meet.  Everyone is just living their daily lives, going to school and work, riding bikes, and visiting with friends, even though virtually everyone you meet will have a story of  someone close to them that died as a direct result of the Khmer Rouge regime and Pol Pot’s brutal policies.  This is truly a country that has risen from the ashes. 

A delish Cambodian snack; fried snake. Also frequently available is fried tarantula, grubs, cockroaches, and other huge disgusting crunchy bugs.

After Battambang, we made our way south toward Sihanoukville, a beach town that although once bustling, seems to be suffering from a lack of tourist activity as of late, leaving most of the dozens of restaurants and bars empty and left to offer (literally!) free beers to their patrons in order to attract more customers. Which lead to many-a-tipsy nights, I must say. 

We ended most nights at a bar called the Nap House, who’s very good-looking owner (Katie said his hair looked as if it was styled by the sea) somehow managed to convince expats to work in the bar for free in exchange for free drinks. The only catch was that the bar was to be open until sunrise, or later, if the people were still a-drinkin and a-dancin. Which they usually were, due to the bartenders habit of giving away free shots to anyone who requested one.  After a few nights of dancing until sunrise, we decided to retreat to the next beach over and relax for a few days. For a total of $3, we stayed in a simple guest house literally steps away from a tranquil, crystal clear beach with not a soul in sight.  It was beautiful.  The most activity that occured during those days was switching our laying positions; from hammock to beach to mattress back to hammock to sand to water and repeat.  It was probably the closest to paradise that I’ve ever come to, without the aid of chemical substances (coffee, mom, geez…).

beat THAT, Cleveland!

We decided to come back to Sihanoukville after learning that the Nap House was to have a 4th of July party at our request, even though we were most likely the only Americans in town. Upon arrival, we learned 2 unfortunate things. First, they decided not to have an Independance Day party because of all the British citizens in attendance (“Um, why would we celebrate us giving up our land to you?) and second, we learned a common nickname  for Americans among Australians. Sepos. As in, Septic Tank Yanks. Yes, that’s right, my American friends! That is what we are known as by some Australians and Brits, due to our apparent obnoxiousness and loud manner.  Which, after spending many months among the company of Australians, I think is geared toward the wrong continent.  No offense, my aussie friends.

After a 4th of July without fireworks, hot dogs (tofu dogs), or the joyful waving of the American flag, we were to move on to the capital, Phnom Penh for a few days.  Little did we know at the time that we were about to learn much more about the Khmer Rouge regime in the capital, due to it being the epicenter of most of the sickening atrocities that were commited during those years.  Stay tuned for more depressing facts and images!

~Christine