Wait Just a Ho Chi Minute!

Ho Chi Minh Highway, Vietnam. The Ho Chi Minh Trail was an ingenious supply line that the North Vietnamese devised to safely ferry war materials from one end of the country to another. The trail covers over 1500km of vertiginous landscape, snaking up and around jagged peaks between dips into dense jungle. To think that human beings, flesh and blood human beings, carried heavy artillery over this mountainous terrain for such great distances truly boggles the mind.

Today, portions of the Ho Chi Minh Trail have become the Ho Chi Mihn Highway, an equally daunting drive across a narrow stretch of broken tarmac spiraling through this same terrain. And what spectacular terrain it is. The mountains along the west edge of Vietnam are like nothing I have ever seen. Imagine, if you will, the scope of the Rocky Mountains combined with the striking sheared rock faces that embody Yosemite National Park. Sounds nice, right? Now drop a verdant jungle on top for a little extra pizazz, and maybe a few cloudscapes for some nice framing. My brain nearly exploded trying to take in the grandeur.

The road itself resembles more of an overdeveloped sidewalk as opposed to a highway, lined with small concrete posts every few yards--an unlikely impediment when hurtling off a curve into the infinite abyss. After some serious consideration, I settled on the best possible way to experience the thrill of the ride. Trekky had served me well but she would need a major upgrade to handle this type of challenge. So I traded her 21 gears of human powered pedals for 125cc of thrust, I swapped her modest braking power for stop-on-a-dime disk brakes, and I traded her ass-chafing seat for a comfortable saddle of relaxed leather. I was fairly certain that the Honda Master motorcycle I purchased, even second-hand, would tackle the curves with aplomb.

With the face shield up the wind whipped across my face, nicely cooling the inside of my helmet. It was way too hot for cycling anyway. I relaxed my body in a slight recline as I negotiated each curve, every peak and trough, each narrow straightaway. Very few people live in this part of the country. Even less could be found zipping along this hidden road. The screeching, belching trucks of the highway were no where to be found. The road was mine and mine alone. I raced around Eden with a smile on my face, leaving nothing but a whisper of my happiness in the wind behind me.     

Another Huế-Dunnit...

Huế, Vietnam. Shifting back into tourist mode has been a bit jarring for me. I had gotten so used to my routine--waking up at ungodly hours to load the boat, diving until midday, lending a hand at the dive shop in the afternoon, teaching English at night, hitting the sack early, rinse and repeat--that the days now seem rather long and empty. I have to admit that I have not been overly enthused about the touristy happenings around Huế, though I will admit to childish enjoyment while pronouncing it: HOO-eh. Like a Canadian owl.

There is nothing inherently wrong with Huế. It is yet another UNESCO World Heritage Site, rife with ancient things of historical importance, and blah, blah, blah. The city is a bit of a jigsaw puzzle. Surrounded by modern buildings stands a massive walled Citadel, inside of which sits a walled Imperial City, inside of which reveals the walls of the Forbidden Purple City, so named due to its--I am making an assumption based on visual evidence--complete and total exclusion of the color purple.  The city is the architectual equivilent of a Russian matryoshka doll. And since anything Russian is evil, we completly bombed the shit out of the place during the war, despite its location south of the DMZ. What a mess. And all this due to an errant conversation involving a child's Tonka toy sinking in the bathtub. (Sigh)

The Imperial City is actually quite striking, so I my interest in history may just be waning. There's just too damn much of it. Maybe I was just tired. Regardless, a great deal of restoration work was going on inside of the Citadel. Scaffolding covered many of the building, others were fully restored, as good as new, and I got to thinking. Let me pose a philosophical question here, if I may. At what point does restoration work become so extensive as to no longer be productive in its aims? Can excessive restoration work diminish the historical significance of its subject? Are we interested in a Huế that is frozen in time, a Disney-esque theme park, replete with costumed characters and musical numbers? Or would we prefer it splintered and broken, a tragic reminder of...um...not to forget the, uh....oh fuck it, lets just bomb Iraq.

Here's Cooking with You, Kid

Hoi An, Vietnam. With my Divemaster certification complete, I felt the sun begin to set on my time in Nha Trang. Basic training was over, the DMZ was looming on the horizon. Though I was going to miss my new friends, my wonderful English class and the slow, systematic liquidation of my liver, the open road was calling. It was time to head Up Country.

Hoi An was such a striking change from Nha Trang that at first I had a bit of trouble adapting. A UNESCO World Heritage Site, the French-influenced architecture of Hoi An, although maddeningly uniform at times, is simply stunning in its homogeny. Endless rows of crumbling, mustard-colored colonials line the narrow, crowded lanes, each housing another cheeky cloth merchant, aspiring artist, illegal DVD vendor or assertive restauranteur. Hidden in the nooks and crannies of this orgiastic market are a handful of buildings of pure historical interest or provincial importance, including, I shit you not, the Hoi An Department of Managing and Gathering Swallow's Nests. This may sound like pork-belly politics at first blush but lets see if you still think so after you've collected two tons of feathery, spit encrusted swallow's nests.

Hoi An is also home to a staggering 500 or so tailors (no exaggeration), all of whom were vying to measure every inch of my anatomy. Sure I was flattered, maybe even a little curious, but not one of them even so much as bought me a drink first. I don't know about you but I need a little alcohol in my system before I'll let a strange women pull out a ruler and start putting notes in her diary. I'll admit, it was tough to resist the allure of an inexpensive, handmade, double-breasted wool suit for relaxing in the 95 degree heat. And with the humidity pegged at 100 percent I could have easily steamed some rice in my pocket for an on-the-go lunch.

But the best part of Hoi An was the cooking class that I took. Along with a dozen older women, I sailed down Hoi An's lazy river to the Red Bridge Restaurant and Cooking School, easily identified by, you guessed it, a red pier. I have no idea where the bridge comes in. Regardless, the cooking school was fantastic. I learned how to make fresh rice noodles, rice paper, rice pancakes, rice spring rolls and an eggplant claypot, deliciously accompanied by rice. There is not a piece of rice around I don't know intimately. But I knew it was time to pack it in for the day when I started naming each individual grain. When I get back, Snap, Crackle, Pop and I will make a nice meal for you. Dinner is served.

20,000 Leagues, I Have to Pee

Nha Trang, Vietnam. Far be it from me to deny the events of the previous evening, but for the record, it was a really attractive bar stool, and if you look at it with just the right level of intoxication, you could easily mistake it for a dark, bald and shiny headed woman wearing a cushiony leather hat. Behold, the Snorkel Test!

I am primed and ready. Note the look of guiltless malevolence on Martin's face as he prepares to funnel his jungle juice into my adapted snorkel

Down she goes. Mmmmm...is that rice wine, beer, vodka, soy sauce, raw egg and vinegar I taste? Why, yes it it! I start gagging a few moments later.

Jessica (another Divemaster candidate) and I successfully balance ourselves after completing our test. Our night has just begun.

No, wait, Jessica, I'm sure you need to pee but now is really not the best time.

And he is officially down for the count. I got up after this one but was TKO'd in the final round by a bottle of vodka.

Really, what better way has been devised to separate the wheat from the chaff? Though I can't really remember most of it, I have been told that I passed my snorkel test with flying colors. Congratulations to me, I am a Divemaster!

Umm....can someone call in sick for me? I don't think I am going to be able to make it to the boat tomorrow. Cheers!

Minding Nemo

Nha Trang, Vietnam. We had just finished our dinner, eaten, as always, at a small folding table directly on the sidewalk. The single chunk of ice that dominated my beer mug was slowly melting into the frothy foam, further weaking the already stale and bitter taste. My giant American body was crammed into one of the miniature plastic chairs that spawn around every roadside restaurant in town, my knees to my chest. It's Thanksgiving and I am back at the kid's table, except I am surrounded by adult Vietnamese, all sitting comfortably, room to spare. This is not helping my self-esteem.

None of us noticed the man pull up on the bicycle, so we were all startled when the music blasted rhythmically from the precariously balanced speakers strapped to his bike frame. A younger man with shoulder length hair, rail thin yet muscular, stood next to the bike, immobile. You could tell he was waiting for it. When the beat finally hit he snapped his head to the side and exploded into dance. His long black hair flew around his face as he twisted and turned, jived and jumped, a tangle of arms and legs, hip clothing. The electronica was nearly deafening. I asked my students what in the world it was all about. Oh, he selling the peanut candy. 2,000 dong, you try. Heck yes, I tried. This man, who was putting his heart and soul into winning the next Who's Got Talent competition, was selling small peanut candies for a dime a piece. Welcome to life in Nha Trang.
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Living in Nha Trang has cracked the window of Vietnam for me, and the air is awful nice out there. In exchange for my English classes, the girls have been exposing the real Vietnam to me, every nook and cranny, every tendon, tendril, and tumor, all of which is likely in the dish I am not asking about until I am done eating it. I could write dozens of posts about daily life here, so I thought I would share a few of my favorite moments, the one's you probably won't read about in the guidebooks.
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Cycling around in the early evening is delightful. The hellish sun gave me a brief reprieve to clear my head and take in the cool air. I should have been paying more attention, but nothing could have prepared me for the massive, inconceivable paw that swiped at the top of my head. Welcome back, reality. Imagine my shock when I looked up and found two black bears leashed to the back of the pickup truck in front of me. I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised. After all, the half-dozen exotic birds and three monkey's also loosely tied to the jury-rigged frame in the truck's caboose should have tipped me off. The circus was in town.
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I had just finished showering. I'm used to having a few friends with me when I wash up, mostly waterbugs and the occaisional cockaroach. They generally spend their waking hours--plotting, I gather--in the soggy mop that hang in the corner of the bathroom. Normally, I am prepared to aim the showerhead and wash them down the train. But something caught my eye. Something small, something hairlike, something....wriggling. I looked in horror at the small writhing worm splashing happily in the dirty puddle of water. I still have yet to decide whether he was looking for a way in or recently found a way out. Of where, I refuse to ponder.
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I was cycling down the street when I came upon a military-style, canvas topped truck. In the back were two men holding fiery torches. Another man was throwing handfuls of small, colored paper out of a plastic bucket. They caught in the air, fluttered and danced. Time was stopping. The mopeds all slowed around me. The torchbearers were somber, stonefaced and cold. I followed along for a while before noticing another vehicle filled with women in simple white gowns, strips of white cloth tied around their heads, bundles of fabric around their arms and chests. The lead car, which now came into view, was adorned with religious symbols, flowers and bells. In the darkness of the open cavity, I spotted the coffin. I fell back behind the torchbearers, let the fluttering paper float like a dream past my head. My God, it was beautiful. We rode on in silence.
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One of the most curious cultural aspects of Vietnam is a concept called washing. This has little to do with cleanliness, at least in a practical sense. No, this is far more devilish. Whenever you buy something new for yourself, you need to wash the item with your loved ones, spreading your good fortue by spending money on those (i.e. your friends and family) who are less fortunate. To make it more interesting, washing is a percentage of the value of the item. Recently buy a new pair of shoes? Not too bad, buy a round of smoothies. Thinking of buying a new motorcycle? You best be prepared to double the cost, because you are going to be taking your friends to dinner at Spago's. A few weeks ago I bought a basic Vietnamese phone to keep in touch with the dive staff and my students. I had to wash this $20 phone with dinner and a round of drinks. I don't know, I think I've been had.

English Crass

Nha Trang, Vietnam. Teaching English is a far more rewarding experience than I would have imagined. The difference between compulsory attendance and personal volition in a classroom setting is astounding. My students are eager, engaged, determined and genuinely excited to learn. This is in marked contrast to my own school years, from which I recall tedium, sleepiness, scribbling lyrics in the margins of my notebook and surreptitiously ogling my female classmates. Somewhere along that oblivious path I managed to graduate with a degree in something or other. I am clearly prepared for this.

There are some interesting challenges in teaching a language that has both sounds and letters that are unfamiliar to non-native speakers. I often find myself pursing my lips, contorting my face and drooling down my chin in a futile attempt to encourage emulation. We once spent an entire class lesson simply trying to pronounce the letter X. We finally cracked that particular nut by remembering that there are piles of chicken "necks" in the market, and by removing the "N" you get the correct pronunciation for "X". I can't deny that my methods veer (or careen) from standard teaching orthodoxy but then again, I slept through most of my English classes. I scarcely want to mention what demons I had to pacify in order to get them to correctly say "next".

We have an incredible amount of fun though. Once they understood "X", it was only a short jump to the subtleties between "six and sex". Little in this world is more amusing than watching four grown women giggling uncontrollably about sex in an English class. It is a widely held belief in Vietnam that the only reason Vietnamese women attend English class is to find a husband, and the only reason foreigners teach English is to bed a potential bride. One of my students obligingly offered a quip from her friend:  "I don't think you learn English, your teacher show you how to love!"  This set off a fresh round of giggles and a teasing question about the methods I would employ. Then the real laughter starts.

Even a class as industrious as mine likes to cut loose every now and again. Most nights we end class with dinner at a local restaurant or sip smoothies at a juice bar. But last week class ended before it started when a bottle of wine and a suspicious bottle of brandy magically appeared with the notebooks. Nothing claims authenticity in brandy like a giant label across the front that reads "AUTHENTIC". Still, it didn't take long for the bottles to drain or for the singing to start. I nearly split in two when the girls belted out the 60s hit, Sealed With a Kiss. Brian Hyland must be rolling in his grave. And I quote:

"Doh we gotta sah goo-bye forda summa,
Darlin I promise you diss...
I sen you aw my love, evry day inna letta
Seal wit a kiz!"


My God, I love Vietnam.

Rescue, Rescue, Read All About It!

Nha Trang, Vietnam. The path to divemaster has been fraught with perilous obstacles, most of them wet. To succeed I needed to master a variety of practical dive skills, exhibit expertise in theoretical dive knowledge, prepare myself to react to a host of rescue scenarios, build up my stamina for an endurance test, and, if it all goes well to that point, ready myself for the infamous snorkel test.

For lack of a better pun, my training has gone swimmingly. To kick things off I received training as an Emergency First Responder, allowing me to legally start poking bodies at the scene of an accident. I'm an Emergency First Responder, can I help you? Those ten magic words unlock a treasure trove of litigious defense mechanisms know as Good Samaritan Laws. So if I happen to snap a few ribs while over-enthusiastically performing CPR--and believe me, I am very enthusiastic about it--no problem, I'm covered.  No matter, I was prepped for the challenging road ahead.

As the boat slid languidly from swell to trough, I anxiously awaited the next test. My eyes darted rapidly across the deck, muscles tense, adrenal glands primed. The customers were blissfully unaware of the pressure cooker around them. And then a shout...Rescue! Rescue! Game on. I grabbed my fins and a flotation device and dove in, pointing straight towards the flailing instructor. Arms thrashed wildly, water splashing all around me. As soon as I got within striking distance he lunged, climbed on top me, held me down as my breath ran low, tried to drown me. I broke free and swam to the surface, gasping for breath. Welcome to the Rescue Diver course.

For the next four days I was on constant alert, waiting for the next tragedy to strike. And strike it would, both on the surface and deep below. People ran out of air, collapsed unconscious at twenty meters, convulsed wildly, pulled off my mask, grappled my tank, yanked the regulator out of my mouth, and generally exhibited a level of gleeful malevolence whenever I or my training partners were nearby. For the coup de grâce, without warning, not one, but two divers simultaneously ran out of air at depth. While one grabbed my backup regs, I had to pass my air source back and forth to the other diver while the three of us ascended to the surface. It wouldn't have been so bad if one of them hadn't lost consciousness and stopped breathing at the surface, requiring me to drag him back to the boat while simultaneously stripping off his scuba gear (making it easier to perform CPR once back on the boat). Throw it at me, I'm ready.

Over the course of the next few weeks I rounded out my training with a variety of specialty courses. Navigation required me to complete an underwater scavenger hunt, finding compass bearings and collecting  words at each stop. Deep diving taught me how to sink to new depths, both literally and figuratively. For my Nitrox specification, we went deep to feel the effects of narcosis. For those unfamiliar, narcosis is toxification of the body tissues with nitrogen. It can cause the sufferer to feel a wee bit drunk--and make them increasingly likely to pull out their regulator and try to kiss one of the fish.

Next up, exams. Time to crack the books. Physics, physiology, equipment, oh my. I think I'll phone a friend.

Me Card Read Good

Nha Trang, Vietnam. Since I was going to be staying in Nha Trang for a while, it seemed prudent to put my hotel hopping heroics behind me and lease an apartment. Sure it was a touch less convenient--no more fresh towels, tucked in bed sheets, or housekeepers forced to hose down my general flotsam and jetsam--but it would give me the opportunity to get a better feel for daily life in Vietnam. With a little help from a diving colleague, I managed to luck into a cozy little place just two blocks from the dive shop. While not quite as robust as my African digs, it does have the benefit of being fitfully furnished. Standard features include a spacious living room with a pleather couch (guaranteed to bond to bare skin instantly), a bed with a fitted sheet, a mini-fridge, a countertop dual-burner butane stove, a shower/toilet area, and a healthy assortment of water bugs, cockroaches, winged insects and, god knows how it gets there, but a few nights a week an orange tabby mysteriously appears in my hallway.

Probably the most enjoyable part of having my own place is the ability to cook. I love trolling around the lively markets, where, with enough patience, I can find everything from tomatoes to televisions to tuberculosis--all in one convenient location. Women gleefully cleave through pig bones, hack slabs of tuna, hawk fruits and vegetables, and delightedly chortle at the American who abashedly picks up a basket of dried chicken necks thinking they are mushrooms. I particularly enjoy splashing through the water-logged pathways of the fish mongers, where women excitedly shake handfuls of shrimp in my face, entice me with mounds of freshly caught squid and carefully knot up live crabs with short lengths of twine. Sometimes I have to remind myself that despite the intense smells, the murky puddles beneath my shoes and the fish scales stuck to my legs, that this is probably the freshest seafood I will ever get my hands on.

Now that I had settled in I needed something to keep myself occupied. Sure, I go diving nearly every day, but that particular train starts at 5:30 in the morning and we are usually back by around 1:00pm. I generally take care of a little office work (e.g. drinking beer with the customers) and then I have the evening free for the finer pursuits (e.g. drinking beer with the staff). I felt that something was wanting. Then it dawned on me. Every single day of my life I have been speaking English. Most days of the week I read English too. And every now and again, as you are undoubtedly aware, I find myself writing in English. The signs were so obvious. If I can speak English, read English, and write English, it stands to reason that I would have no problem teaching English, right?

And so it is that I find myself spending three nights a week teaching a quartet of Vietnamese women the elementary principles of spelling, grammar and pronunciation. Every Tuesday, Thursday and Sunday, the ladies gather in my living room for two hours of rigorous English lessons, aided greatly by a dry-erase board propped awkwardly on a chair and the complete fearlessness I display in the face of my own ignorance. So far we have covered most of the ABCs and almost the entire itsy-bitsy spider refrain.  Next week I think I am going to teach them how to subjugate verbs and the importance of avoiding the dastardly dangling partynipple.

Only time will tell, but I think I have had a positive impact on their progression so far. In fact, at the end of each evening they seem loathe to leave--though I have to admit, it's possible they are just stuck to the couch.

Will Work for Scuba

Nha Trang, Vietnam. There is something philosophically circuitous about deciding to settle down for a while in the town my father was stationed in when he served back in '67.  So much has changed that I doubt he would recognize it at this point, but there is at least one remaining element that may strike a nostalgic chord--out here, everyone smokes. Men smoke, women smoke, little babies light up in their strollers. They smoke while driving, they smoke while walking, they smoke while eating, and I'm fairly certain that plume of smoke I observed emanating from the bathroom was not the outcome of a fiery bowl of noodle soup. Frankly, I'm thinking of taking up smoking full time if only for the benefit of adding a filter.

Still, that hasn't stopped me from deciding to stay. The diving has a way of getting under your skin out here--and I'm not referring to the nitrogen bubbles that cause decompression illness. Rainbow Divers made me an offer I couldn't refuse. Build a computer, install some software and mess around with their Web site, all in exchange for a free ride all the way up to Dive Master, with an Underwater Digital Photography Specialty.

This is exactly as confusing as it looks

Long story short, after a month or two of training I will learn all of the skills I need to be able to lead my own dives. All of which will take me that much closer to my life-long dream of being too lazy to ever consider opening a dive shop. 

In the mean time, I work with the dive crew and get to go diving almost every day. We get up with the sun, head down to the storage facility, load the truck with air tanks and scuba gear, drive to the harbor, set up all the gear, then relax over a hot steaming bowl of spicy noodle soup (a few extra cents for a couple of hard-boiled quail eggs on top) until the customers arrive. We smile and chat while the boat pulls away from the harbor, then head to the front of the boat (the pointy bit, as they say) to be introduced properly, as the rest of the instructors cheer and clap and laugh where they are supposed to. It's a hoot. 

The dive is done and I'm on the sun deck for the ride back to port. The wind is blowing through my hair. The sun makes short work of my soggy bones. The sea air is sharp and clear. All I need is my bottle of rum. Yo-ho, a diver's life for me.

Pork Lips Now!

He was close. He was real close. I couldn't see him yet but I could feel him, as if the boat was being sucked up river and the water was flowing back to the jungle. Whatever was going to happen, it wasn't going to be the way they called it back in Nha Trang...

Everything I saw told me that Kurtz had gone insane.

Hmmm....maybe it was a mistake to have watched Apocalypse Now last night. The only thing I could presage heading into Nha Trang was that the ComSec colonel in charge wanted Willard to hunt me down and kill me. This did not bode well. It seemed my only chance was to roll in fast, guns blazing from the back of the Humvee. I'm not much for guns though, and the army stopped requisitioning Hummers back in '71, so I settled for screeching like a woman whilst riding in an air conditioned tourist bus. Nobody messed with me, that's for sure.    

Back in real life, the United States used Nha Trang as a major base during the Vietnam War, stationing Army, Air Force, Navy, and Marine units there. In a bit of a strange twist, my father was actually stationed here back in '67. On odd Halloweens I would don his old gear harness and helmet. I remember the canteen water tasting bitter and metallic. Perhaps I should have rinsed it first.

Far from looking to billow the ghosts of the past, I came to Nha Trang for a far more hedonistic reason--world class scuba diving. Having been enticed by a few days of diving on Phu Quoc island, I was beginning to itch for another adventure deep water adventure. Nha Trang was clearly going to be the antidote, it being the premier diving spot along the whole of the Vietnamese coast.

I decided that it was time to advance my diving skills, so I signed up for my PADI Advanced Open Water Course with the leading dive outfit in the region, Rainbow Divers. The course was grand, the diving was superb, and the scenary--tourquise waters broken up by brilliant green islands--was stunning. I could see how a few days here could could easily stretch into a few months. Perhaps I'll stay for a while...

(Sigh) Gone in 60 Seconds

Ho Chi Min City, Vietnam.  At the conclusion of the Vietnam War, on April 30, 1975, the city of Saigon came under the direct control of the Vietnamese People's Army. Communism had won the day, plunging the American public into a troubling introspective period, dominated by heated debates over the implications of wielding overwhelming force against an enemy that, at best, could put a serious crimp on our import of fresh spring rolls. Many Americans, reeling from the emotional trauma wreaked by this unprecedented event, purportedly made the risky decision to look up "communism" in the dictionary. They were then left to ponder how a simple political theory and ideology that advocates holding the production of resources collectively compelled our government to sacrifice 58,000 of our fellow countrymen. On the plus side, we certainly got a few good movies out of it.

No matter. With the American War of Aggression (as it is referred to out here) at a close, Saigon was immediately re-dubbed Ho Chi Minh City and completely remastered in THX 5.1 Surround Sound. I spent a couple of days trolling down the crowded sidewalks and racing around the busy streets. I hate to admit it, but I really love weaving in and out of traffic at full tilt. Since there is so much congestion in the streets it's easy to squeeze between slow-rolling cars and keep pace with the mopeds. The locals seem to get a real kick out seeing me speed past. I get a lot of waves and smiles, though it's definitely possible they are just poking fun at the pale, sweat-soaked foreigner who thought it was a good idea to bike across a country whose humidity is so high that you could easily steam a lobster on the pavement.

Ho Chi Minh is a fairly standard Asian city otherwise, replete with skyscrapers, museums and landscaped parks--and it is completely overrun with coffee shops. If the idea of the local version of a Starbucks every thirty feet turns you off, don't visit Ho Chi Minh. In fact, stay out of Vietnam altogether. They have a cafe culture here, where dozens of joints vie for the opportunity to serve up the best ice-cold cup of black and bitter brew. Throw a little extra sugar into these small caffeine bombs and you start to get an idea why the streets run a bit like the Grand Prix. Unfortunately, coffee tends to knot my digestive system into a sheepshank, so I was more of a bench-warmer than an active participant.

The city was certainly pleasant. I enjoyed strolling the parks and visiting the various pagodas scattered amongst the multitude of shops. In many ways it is reminiscent of New York's Lower East Side, though with a whole lot less Jewish grandmothers. Reunification Palace, the site of the hand-over of power during the Fall of Saigon in 1975, is laden with historical significance yet burdened by unimpressive architecture. By far the most intriguing experience in Ho Chi Minh was a visit to the War Remnants Museum, which primarily contains relics of the American phase of the Vietnam War. In addition to devastating documentation on the deleterious effects of Agent Orange on the local foliage and population (it is still effecting births today), the museum contains a wealth of photos from hundreds of foreign journalists that most of us have likely never seen. If you were one of the people abhorred by the images of dead American soldiers being dragged through the streets of Mogadishu back in 1992, wondering what type of people would revel in such a horrific act, you may be disappointed to learn that we are those type of people. The stomach churning photos I witnessed of smiling American soldiers dragging mangled bodies behind tanks and Humvees were as disturbing as any war photos I have ever seen. The coup d'état was a grisly image of a smug and satisfied Marine proudly displaying the twisted, sinuous arm and lower trunk of a body obliterated by a rocket attack.


I am not at all trying to suggest that we did not suffer similar indignities, horror and personal devastation. War is a terrible thing. But the next time we think of sitting on our high moral horse, we may want to consider that we are far from the White Knights of justice we may like to think we are. In truth, the War Remnants museum is one of the best organized, referenced and compelling museums I have ever visited, and is definitely a must-see if visiting the region. Having spent a bit of time around the Vietnamese at this point, I cannot for the life of me fathom what compelled Curtis Emerson LeMay (General of the US Air Force and the vice presidential running mate of George Wallace in 1968), to emphatically state: "...we’re going to bomb them back into the Stone Age". I am eager to report that not only have the Vietnamese people weathered the storm of French imperialism followed by American intervention, but I have been completely charmed by this misunderstood and resilient country.

Come all Without, Come all Within / You'll Not See Nothing like the Mighty Mekong

Mekong Delta, Vietnam. The labyrinthine arms of the mighty Mekong snake and course across a palm fringed landscape, creating the extensive network of small islands, fishing villages, cobbled bridges and ferries that constitute life on the river. My mental image of the Mekong Delta has been always been a bit fanciful, mostly comprised of scenes from random movies that are occasionally pierced by a Martin Sheen voice-over.  So I was a bit discouraged when at first blush the Mekong Delta was so disappointing.

I am not sure if it was the massive shipping containers, the heavy industry dotting the shoreline or the profusion of irritable motorboats that first got my goat, but I am quite certain that watching people spill barrels of refuse directly into the river contributed to the foul taste in my mouth--well, that and the ashtray I mistook for my coffee mug during breakfast. I really have to stop getting up so early.

Something had to change. With my brother's trusty compass in hand, I oriented myself in the direction I desired to go, and went straight off the map. The good news is that the father I moved off the beaten trail, the more my mental image of the Mekong converged with reality. It turns out the Mekong was right there all along, and it has been wisely hidden from the greedy eyes of tourists and tour buses.

Trekky and I took to the back roads, the dirt and dust of uneven hard-pack filling our nostrils. With an eye out for Charlie (though everyone is named Nguyen) we pedaled through rural villages, past frustratingly green rice paddies, over wooden bridges, and straight into the heart of darkness--which, as it turns out, is quite sublime.

What experiences I had! No less than three people pulled up beside me and invited me to stop for a cup of coffee, a local black brew laced with sugar then dumped over ice. I chartered a wonderful trip on a skiff, wandering through narrow canals and backwater burgs to floating markets on the main arteries. In the town of Can Tho I watched a hundred kites take to the sky just before sunset--men, women, and children alike jockeying for position along a long riverfront roost.

But I am not one to just watch the action sail by. Which is why in Tra Vinh, when I spotted several youths hurtling themselves off a bridge into the river, I was easily enticed to join in. The assembled crowd cheered heartily as I stripped to my skivvies, stood precariously on the rail, and plunged without a moments hesitation. What fun. For an encore I raced a few teens across the river in a swim match, likely swallowed a few drops of river water that will burst from my stomach as a writhing alien three months hence, and jumped three more times into the fetid waters below. Not surprisingly, in all the excitement and hullabaloo none of my newfound friends remember to tell me that our actions--that of plunging off a narrow bridge thirty feet down into a busy shipping lane--were decidedly illegal. But I figured it out real quick when a quick shout of P'leet! Ph'leash! sent everyone scattering like cockroaches.


The two motorcycle cops thankfully ignored me as they chased away my pals, and I couldn't help but laugh as I buttoned up my shirt, still soaking wet, and pedaled off into the sunset towards my guesthouse.  There was no doubt about it, I had fallen in love with the Mekong Delta. 

They So Horny

Mekong Delta, Vietnam. There is no doubt about it, the Vietnamese are an incredibly horny bunch. I never thought I would say this, but enough is enough. I can certainly understand being horny from time to time. I'm human. We all get worked up every now and again. But when a man is simply standing on the side of the road, minding his own business, and suddenly--Blaaaaaaaaaatttttttt!!!!

Generally speaking I keep to the shoulder when riding if it's a major road. It's the safest place to be, but--honnnnnnkkkkkkkkk!!!! Seriously? There has to be twenty feet between us and no one is coming the other way. So, like I was saying, there comes a time when--blahalbhalhattt!!!! Dear Christ, Buddha, Vishnu and Zeus! Some of the vehicles out here have special horns, like getting a custom ring for your cell phone.

In Vietnam the horn is not a warning device so much as an announcement that you are the owner of vehicle. As such, it is of the utmost importance that you let everyone in the world know when you are driving one. It does not matter if everyone can clearly see and hear your vehicle coming. It does not matter if there are three lanes and two of them are empty. You must get horny on everyone's ass. Honk when you see children, honk at curves in the road, honk going over bridges, honk at people having coffee at cafes near the side of the side of the road, and definitely, if you at all value your license--what do you mean they don't have licenses in Vietnam?--honk at every last strand of rice you see growing in the fields. It helps them grow, like playing Vivaldi to your rose bushes.

Admittedly, traffic in these small towns is almost perverse in its intensity, so warning people of certain approach trajectories has some validity. It's still safer than walking around here. It is oddly preferable to be cycling down the street in this morass than crossing it on foot. In fact the only way to cross the streets out here is to summon enough courage to literally step into oncoming traffic, then quickly judge the momentary gaps in the onslaught of mopeds. The slightest crack between them can mean another step forward. I often find myself standing right in the middle of the lane, mopeds zipping past me on both sides, waiting until another gap opens up. It's kind of fun, actually. A bit like a real-life game of Frogger, only as far as I understand it, you only have one life. Here's to all you children of the 80s:

Froggy takes one step at a time, the way that he moves has no reason or rhyme. There's snakes and insects, otters and things, sometimes I wish froggy had wings. Go.........Go Froggy Go. 

Pluck that Magic Twanger, Froggy

The Island of Expat Moreau

Rabbit Island, Cambodia. I may have mentioned in a previous post that some expats have a peculiar way of detaching themselves from their country of origin. Some adopt local custom and dress, others crack wise at the expense of their own countrymen, many spend their lives at the bar, wistfully plowing their way through luke-warm local draft, drunkenly reminiscing about the time they met Jack Dempsey, or at least they think it was Jack Dempsey (they were drunk). Stretching the bounds of reality lies a lessor known breed of expat, as rare and evasive as an objective Fox News report--the Island Castaway Expat. 

A few miles off the Cambodian coast lies a tropical stretch of sand and swaying palms known as Koh Tonsay. Rabbit Island, as us white folks call it, is not named not for its indigenous wildlife, but rather for its shape, which, when viewed overhead, looks exactly like someone stuffed a rabbit into a tortoise shell and then smashed it with a mallet. Cambodian's have an imagination rivaled only by the Greeks. Sagittarius "The Archer", my ass. Good luck connecting those dots.

When people yearn for a real-life tropical escape, this is it. Completely uninhabited, save a small population of local fisherman, Rabbit Island consists of a 2km sandy white beach, warm turquoise waters, and perhaps four dozen rustic bamboo bungalows. That's it. No dock, no cruise ships, no tourist buses, no travelers, no showers. Nothing but hammocks, coconuts, and the shopping bags full of alcohol we brought. "We" being the group of blokes I met back at Bodhi Villa in our last installment.

This was paradise, if one keeps in perspective that the biblical description of Eden makes no mention of flushable toilets. Upon our arrival we hopped off the boat into the knee-deep waters and trundled up the shore to our new home. The bungalows were completely homogenous, save one, a peculiar outpost that at first glance looked like a small shop. In place of the beige bamboo, there was colorful splash of red and blue. Instead of the customary knitted hammock, there was a mattress swinging between two trees. In lieue of a front wall, there was an array of buffed and painted seashells suspended between a few cross beams. And instead of a young traveler, there was Peter, a sixty-something, chrome domed, bespectacled Brit with a small chest and a large gut, playing a flute recorder next to his friend Yvan, a thin, wiry Slovakian with a shock of wild grey hair, who was busy rolling a joint the size of a Cuban cigar.

A half dozen coconut husks, painted silver and gold, dangled from a horizontal pole in front of the mysterious bungalow. After settling in I went and had a chat with our new neighbor. Peter explained that after toiling away in England's public works for the better part of a century he wanted to spend his retirement "away from the riff-raff". He hired a local women to cook in his little hut, then went about decorating the place. He had been there for six months, and lamented that he needed to fly back to England "for my grandkid's birthday or something. You know, family and things like that". Yvan, his friend, was "ex-KGB, aren't you Yvan? Ha! HA!". Every now and again Peter would abrubtly stand up, race down his coconut line, and spin each husk wildly, the small planets hurling off their insectezoid denizens in every direction. At night, when combined with the flashing lights he had installed both in his open-front bungalow and in the trees behind it, he had the islands sole tropical disco. With his big gut and perfectly bald head, he was Marlon Brando, larger than life.

As for me, I splashed in the bathtub temperature waters, circumnavigated the island on foot, drank too much liquor, played a few card games and lounged in a hammock for the better part of two days. A guy could get used to a life like this. But there was still so much more to see. Vietnam beckoned on the horizon. The Mekong Delta was calling. I'm just about ready to answer.  

Children of the Random Contraption

Kampot, Cambodia. There was still nothing to do in Kampot, so I switched to a new guesthouse to spice things up. I'm glad I did. The prior evening I had met an interesting (i.e. few sandwiches short of a picnic), expat who claimed he would be harmonizing at Bodhi Villa the next night, along with a few other local musicians. As an expat, he immediately lay claim to intellectual superiority through such supposedly biting comments as "Hah, you are such an American" and "Here in Cambodia..." refrains. How droll.

He continued to get to know me by condescendingly injecting purportedly "important" book titles into the conversation, starting with Guns, Germs, and Steel. Imagine his surprise when I asked if he had read Jared Diamond's follow up, Collapse. All of a sudden I was interesting. We spent the next hour talking about Howard Zinn, Naomi Klein and Noam Chomsky, all of which made him no less of a douchebag. Though I have to admit, he was certainly a well-read douchebag. Still, this did not dissuade me from moving to Bodhi Villa come morning.

I wished I had found Bodhi Villa earlier. Located 2km out of town, it was in another universe. Set in a lush garden abutting the river, several open front bungalows sat just behind the main reception area (i.e. fully-stocked bar) which opened up to a beautiful veradana and dock. For an extra touch of excitement they had constructed a 15 ft high diving platform which consisted of two x-beams supporting a long, wobbly wooden board that extended twenty feet over the river. If you managed not to lose your balance while trundling to the edge, you could throw yourself headlong into the river with wild abandon, like a salmon.

I met a ton of people at the party that night. My expat "friend" turned out to be a violin player, of all things. He was joined by two acoustic guitarists and another expat with an accordian. I immediately began to suspect that they were intentionally deported. As it turned out, the music was quite good and I met a few English blokes, a trio of Irishman, and a few Americans, all of whom, amazingly, despite their various cultures, professions and unintelligible accents, enjoy drinking heavily. I know, I was shocked too.

I enjoyed the company of my new mates, so I asked if they might consider a minor adventure the following afternoon. Despite the hooks of a late day hangover I managed to convine a handful of them to join me in a 6km ride to some caves located on the edge of town. Having misunderestimated the amount of time it would take to wrangle such a group,  we didn't leave the parking lot until around 4:30pm. The sun sets fairly promptly around six so I didn't think it was going to be a problem.
The timing of the ride was perfect. School was just letting out. We were soon surround my dozens of giggling children, all shouting a cacophonous Hello! in a non-stop chorus. They chatted with us, they slowed and took pictures, and at one point I raced a kid who had another kid sitting on his bike rack. I would like to say that I let him win, so I will just say, "I let him win".

A small brigade of children led us right to the entrance of the cave, located in the center of a small village along a dusty, pot-holed dirt road. The brigade soon became an army led by a general, as an older gentlemen took the reigns and led us inside. We entered an absolutely stunning antichamber, where sheer rock faces climbed 100 ft overhead and opened partially to the sky, save a massive boulder that had collapsed across the opening. It was brilliant, so we headed father in.

Flashlights were lit all around us and the children became fireflies in the dark. Mind your head! Mind your head! they repeated ad naseum. They pointed the lights at the floor behind them, so we, the tourists, could find our way. These kids, barefoot, and most no older than ten, were as sure-footed as mountain goats in the dim passageways. I love caves, so I soon found myself scrambling where my new mates dared not follow. My guideling, however, was right there by my side. I scrunched, squatted, crawled and wedged myself in a nice crevasse that opened up into the main chamber, my head dangling out of a hole 30 ft up the wall, an unmounted hunting trophy.

We spent another 40 minutes racing around the cave before indicating we needed to get going before the sun set. Instead of leading us back out, they led deeper into the cave until we hit a dead end. A large shaft of light cracked through the ceiling about 60 ft off the deck. There was only one way out--up. The kids started the train. Mind your head! Mind your head! they continued as they pointed out each and every handhold, assisted to by nicely placed vine that crawled up the wall towards the light, towards air. It was exhilirating. We finished our jaunt back down to the bikes, crossing a ridge that looked down over the entire village as the sun was setting. It was a stunning sight.

The sun was nearly snuffed so we thanked our army of guides, passed them a few dollars each, then sped off towards home. We were filthy, exhausted and happy. As we pedaled back, discussing our good fortune, we spied three children dangling from a large, intricate see-saw style metal contraption that rose twenty feet in the air. Helllloooo!!!! they all chanted in unison. I cannot yet say what prompted my oddly phrased response: "Hello, my Children of the Random Contraption!". We all had a good laugh, and as we continued to pedal, I promised I would make that the title of my next blog. I am a man of my word.  

The House on Bokor Hill

Kampot, Cambodia. The riverside town of Kampot is nothing to write home about. Decrepit French colonial homes rust and crumble along the crowded lanes, several parts of town are under heavy construction, and the main tourist attraction is a river bridge that is unnervingly composed of several various bridge segments from around Cambodia. Imagine, if you would, a man who decides to defend his doctoral dissertation in civil engineering by arguing that the ultimate suspension design would be attained by first razing, then haphazardly gluing together whatever twisted steel and concrete could be salvaged from the remains of the Brooklyn, Golden Gate, and Tower Bridges. Yet despite all of this, in a plot twist that would never pass even the most lenient of Writer's Guild critiques, deep in the heart of southern Cambodia, along this lazy
river, lies a small, ramshackle eatery known as the Keyhole that can lay claim to the best BBQ ribs this side of Texas. No foolin'


The real reason to stop in Kampot, besides the succulent pork, is its proximity to Bokor National Park, a 1500 sq km stretch of primary forest at the edge of town. Bokor is home to a wide array of elusive wildlife, including tigers, black bears and the warbling yellow-bellied sapsucker. Unicorns, too. That's all well and good, but the real reason to visit is to explore the creepy, abandoned town known as Bokor Hill Station. Built by the French in 1921, and located 3540 feet from sea-level at the apex of a treacherous 32km rock road, some 900 lives were lost during its initial nine-month construction--proving once and for all that the French are ingeniously stupid people. Abandoned in the 1940s during the First Indochina War and then
for good in 1972 when the Khmer Rouge chose the church roof as the ideal location for their anti-aircraft missile defense (Pslams 5:27-28 And the Lord did launcheth his magic missiles across the skies, and his enemies did explodeth like party favors) , the Bokor Hill Station is now home to a dozen bullet-riddled structures in various states of collapse. Fun.


I had intended to rent a moto and take myself to the top, but the road had recently been leased by the government to the Sokimex oil company for the next 99 years, who are in midst of rebuilding it. That left one option, a tour and a hike. Normally I am not particularly fond of tours but I lucked out with a great group of travelers. We started our ascent at 8:30 in the morning, with an unconventional if interesting briefing from our tour guide, a 55 year old Khmer who informed us, rather nonchalantly, that his entire family was killed by the Khmer Rouge, that he lived in the hills alone for three years, that he was then captured and conscripted into the Vietnamese army to fight the Khmer Rouge, planted thousands of land mines, killed dozens of his own countrymen, fought the Khmer Rouge at the Hill Station, felt stupid for betraying his countrymen, escaped back to Cambodia, then spent the next five years digging up the landmines he buried. Now he's a tour guide. At one point we stopped at a relatively dry waterfall, but that didn't stop him from stripping to his skivvies and splashing around in a pool of fetid water, giggling as if he had just met Santa Claus. I found him rather delightful.


Nothing could have prepared me for the vertical climb we encountered. Over the course of the next three hours we walked straight up hill in 93 degree heat, often clambering over rocks and through sandy dry washes. We had our first official dropout about 45 minutes in, followed by our first vomiting from overexertion about 20 minutes later. Thank god I have been biking so much over the last month. Mercifully, we ascended to a stretch of road where a beat up lorry was waiting to take us the last 10km up the hill. As we rounded the final curves over the ass-bumping road we caught sight of the Hill Station.


As if on cue, the clear sky began to cloud over. Waves of mist raced up the steep canyon walls and curled over the ridge around the shattered facades. It was fast becoming a horror movie set. I split from the group to explore the expanse privately. The main attraction, The Bokor Palace, was once an old hotel and casino. Green moss and orange lichen gripped the walls amidst blocks of crumbled stone and collapsed doorways. Broken glass littered the window sills, where a few small panes of thick glass still managed to survive. Tiled
bathrooms were ripped up and rotten. Stains of various degrees and colors bled down every wall.The temperature was at least 20 degrees cooler up here and a light wind howled through the bullet holes in the
walls. At one point the clouds literally began pouring through the windows. Calling it atmospheric would be a bit like calling War and Peace a childhood bedtime story.


I flicked on my headlamp and managed to find an intact staircase. Four floors later I was on the roof. The world had disappeared beneath the clouds. Visibility had dropped to less than ten feet. I could not see another building, another person. I was alone on the roof of the world and it was disintegrating beneath my feet. The day was perfect. I was so elated that on the hike back down, another three hour jaunt, I took to jumping and running part of the way. Several of us sped down as if possessed. Perhaps we were. If anyone
knows of a good knee surgeon, I may need a bit of fine tuning when I get back home.Cheers.

I Pedal On...

The Road, Cambodia. My alarm goes off at 5:45 in the morning but the roosters beat it to the punch  again. A sliver of sun has lazily peeked over the horizon, billowing pastel sheets across the dusky fields. The air desperately clings to the last brittle coolness of midnight, held tight in cottony layers of humidity. Within a few hours the sun will squeeze the mercury to a towering 96 degrees.  I mindlessly throw on shorts, button a shirt, zip a security pocket. Within 15 minutes my bags are secured to my bike, and a thin layer of sweat is threatening to break over my brow.  As I begin to pedal, the still crisp air breathes relief across my entire body. I'm on the road.  

Life starts early in Cambodia. Women busy themselves setting up shop for the day, men zip by on mopeds, mobs of children bicycle to school. We all busy ourselves at first light, trying to outrun the zenith that will knock us flat on our backs, victims of the sun's fiery madness. I am leaving the beach-side town of Sihanoukville, pedaling up massive hills shaded by coconut palms, racing down the spines at 45km/hr. The wind in my face is a glorious reward. It is 6:30am. I pedal on.  

Saffron-robed monks, a pair of them, walk slowly down the lane of a peaceful village, an alms bowl tucked carefully under the crook of one arm. The younger, the student, holds an umbrella over his master's head. A women hands the apprentice some food, then kneels and genuflects in the dirt for a benediction. It is 7:00am. I pedal on.

Mopeds and motorcycles zip around me, carefully cradling the days wares for the markets. I dodge around a clucking moto, dozens of live chickens dangling by their feet, secured by two perpendicular crossbeams that mimic a hanging glass rack. An oinking pig-moto cuts around my feet, the massive five-foot hog tied across the rack like a piece of luggage. A goose-cycle zips by, pulling wide to stop the barrel-shaped wicker tube  from hooking my clothing, dozens of quacking duck heads poking through the slats.  It is 7:30am. I pedal on.


After two hours I need a break. Every small town has a few places sporting plastic tables and chairs set under a sun shade, a sure sign of food. Some mornings I have to big through a few villages before I find what I am looking for. Ah, there it is. A large pot and a half dozen men. I pull up on my bike amidst disbelieving stares and curious smiles. Chatter and laughter erupt without fail. I bumble my way through ordering some breakfast--samlor, rice noodle soup. Now start the questions. Where from? What your name? Where go? More disbelief, more laughter. My food arrives. Six men quickly push a dozen different condiments towards me. I better put them in. Lime, sugar, fermented fish sauce, hot peppers, salt, and cardamom, I think. The flavors mercifully fuse. It is delicious. More laughter. More questions. We smile and nod a lot. I am stuffed. A man takes my picture with his cell phone. We all laugh at the silly white man. It's 9:00am. I pedal on.   
 
Little children, naked and filthy, splash down together in muddy ponds and streams. They giggle and scream until they notice me. Then it starts. Hello!!! The dam has broken, and they all come pouring out of the woodwork. Hello! HELLO!!!! HeLoHELLOHelo! Good BYe! They never ask for the anything. They never chase. They are proper. They sound desperate and pleading. I have to respond. I must. I do. Hello! HELLO!!!! HeLoHELLOHelo! Good BYe! they immediately reply, waving madly. I pull away but it is no avail. It carries over the wind, it bends around trees, it makes its way to your ears. 'ellllllllllllllloooooooo! 
It's 9:30am. I pedal on.
 
The road is a river, its asphalt stream carrying me past thatch homes, wooden vending shacks, wild dogs, brilliant palm trees, verdant rice paddies, muddy oxen, snickering women, toothless old men, rotten-sweet-sour-spicy-fetid-sweaty smells, garbage, dust, filth, decay, delighted children, and smiling, bemused adults.
I see them all. They see me too. Sometimes the river is rough, sometimes the river is smooth, and sometimes the river dries up completely. But through it all, I pedal on.  

Lipstick, Eyeliner and a Hint of Khmer Rouge

Phnom Penh, Cambodia. Once known as the "Pearl of Asia", Phnom Penh was considered one of the loveliest of French-built cities in Indochina. That was back in the 1920s though, when women were "dames" and men still spouted misogynistic anachronisms, like "dames".  It may be time for a new moniker, one that is more reflective of the times. Nowadays, perhaps something along the lines of "Zirconium of Middlingville" might be more apropos.

It's not that there is anything inherently wrong with Phnom Pehn, its just that it doesn't really have that much going for it either. I trekked around most of the city and can say with absolute certainty that the addition of one more shop selling  mobile phone cards, various auto parts, rows of soap and imported Chinese candy--the very same thing available at 763 shops across the city--may very well tip the tide in favor of supply over demand. Much more Friedman than Keynes if you ask me, but sans the strong-arm dictator to keep people in line. But I'm no economic theorist, so perhaps there is some grand design that eludes me. I bought some soap.

At one point I crossed an imaginary boundary and was in a different city. It was still Phnom Pehn but the zirconium had been spit-polished to a sparkly shine. A narrow corridor in the northern section of town is home to upscale hotels, posh restaurants and the grounds of the Royal Palace, containing a few really nice temples and some beautiful gardens. Walk a block out of the corridor and you're right back in the ring, paying city prices for a mirthless open-air garage sale.

Lets move onto something a bit more cheery, shall we? Genocide. It was all the rage back in Cambodia in the late 70s. Most of you have probably heard of Pol Pot, a dastardly fellow with big teeth and a fat bottom lip who executed approximately 1.6 million of his own countrymen. Pol Pot was the leader of the Cambodian Communist movement known colloquially as the Khmer Rouge, which, despite the evincing name, had nothing to do with powdering one's face. Mr. Pot and friends thought it would be a real hoot to revert to an agrarian society post-haste, so they evacuated the city centers, abolished money, religion, foreign languages and good cheer, and sent everyone to the countryside to farm rice. Lots of rice.

Phnom Pehn is home to the Tuol Sleng Genocide Museum, a one-time High School that was converted into a prison and torture facility, temporarily housing thousands of unfortunate souls until they were sent to Choeung Ek, the infamous Killing Fields. I visited both Tuol Sleng and Choeung Ek to get a deeper understanding of the conflict and its aftermath. Though important memorials both, they seemed to be lacking in both real gravitas or enlightening information. One sign in Choeung Ek declared the Pol Pot regime to "be the most worst even than the atrocities of Hitler" in their depravity. Having previously visited the concentration camps in Poland, all I can state is that the death toll during the Cambodian atrocity was not nearly as high nor was as coldly "production-oriented" in its methods. Tough call, comparing genocides. I'll leave that one for the historians. Undoubtedly some people reading this will find my glib attitude towards genocide rather distasteful, which is why I propose we round all of those people up and bludgeon them to death with this.

Angkor Hot

Temples of Angkor, Cambodia. I got up before dawn and cycled the 7km to the gate entrance, hoping to beat the crowds when I arrived, a smidgen past six. Despite the early hour, it was already hot and muggy. Sweat dripped down my face in streams, pooling together at my collarbone to form a river down my chest. Ugh. Damn, it's hot out here.  

Still, I was excited to catch a silent sunrise at Angkor Wat. It would not be an exaggeration to state that I was stunned from the moment I walked through the main gate. Not by the temple, no, it was still rather dusky out---it was the hundreds of people already spread out across the expansive courtyard waiting for the sun to crest the temple's grand triple stupas. I was speechless, which may have been moot given the fact that I am traveling solo, but still. Angkor Wat had become a zoo, the lion pen at the center of the park, replete with food and drink vendors lining the entire northern wall. And, to add insult to injury, part of the main structure was obscured by scaffolding, part of a restoration project meant to keep the temples from collapsing on all of the tourists. Pish-posh, I say. 

The only saving grace to this unexpected first impression was that people seemed somewhat unfamiliar with how the sun works. Let me explain. Like many, I have observed that the sun typically rises in the east and sets in the west. Pretty simple, right? Now, on this fine morning, east happened to be behind the stupas, leaving hundreds of people waiting to take a back-lit photograph of three lumpy, dark shadows. Hmmm.

Using all the powers of deductive reasoning I've honed selling deep fryers and potato ricers  online, I went around the main entryway to see if anyone had mowed the backyard. Nope, just me and three other people. Amazing. The sun rose in its typical brilliant fashion, painting deep orange hues across the backside of the temple. I sat quietly on the lip of a boundary wall for 30 minutes and got some great shots. 


The interior of the temple, though a bit crowded, was still worth it. Detailed bas reliefs lined dozens of walls, intricate carvings grace the inside of nearly every doorway and column, stone buddas, goddesses, and naga encircle dozens of massive stupas. 

The most famous of the bas reliefs, covering three-quarters of the outer wall around the central courtyard, is known as the Ocean of Milk, but tastes a lot more like eight centuries worth of dust, lichen and bat guano when you lick it. Even licking it and then biting into a chocolate chip cookie didn't help. Blecch. 

One could spend days lost in this wonderland. I got tired after a few hours and went home to take a nap. Angkor Wat takes a lot out of you. Next, it's on to the capitol, Phnom Penh. 

The Shilling Fields

Siem Reap, Cambodia. After three days of slogging through the heat across Route 4, I elatedly, if not belatedly, arrived at my new base camp. Sitting at the foot of one of the world's greatest treasures--the wallets of foreign tourists--Siem Reap is also home to a slightly less well known archaelogical wonder: The Temples of Ankor. Welcome to the The Shilling Fields.

What a difference a day makes. After casually pedaling past laid-back villages, rice paddies and a wide assortment of extras from The Road Warrior, I was a bit taken aback by Siem Reap, a town with enough louts, touts and bumbling tourists to start its own traveling circus. Apparently realizing the draw that crumbly bits of rock has on foreigners, massive hotels have sprung up like proverbial weeds from every nook at cranny. You can't walk five feet without running into a new spa, gourmet bistro or the army of tuk-tuk drivers ready to carry the populace of Siem Reap to Vietnam for a bargain price. It felt a bit as if an exterminator had helped rid a house of an infestation by lovingly carrying the invader's insidious brood to several new areas of the home, then ladled a heaping dollop of jelly next to each clutch.

No matter, I was going to make the most of it. I purchased a three day pass to the temple complex so that I could explore at leisure. I was excited. Angkor Wat. The very name itself seemed laden with historical significance or at least dangerous electrical currents--either way, I was set. Like many, I had not realized that the temple complex was so massive, housing dozens of lesser known temples. I decided to spend my first day circling what is known as the Grand Tour, a road that carried me a full 21 kilometers around the outer temple ring. Starting out at Banteay Kdei, I was immediately set upon by an unexpectedly formidable foe--little girls who learned English from tourists.

They looked like normal little girls, with their bright smiling faces, joyful giggling and souls forged in the fiery flames of hell. As I said, normal little girls. They approached me like jackals. Jackals who learned English by watching Titanic and Terminator 2. Buy a scarf for your girlfriend? No, thanks. Then buy scarf for your mother, she loves you. No, really. I'm on a bicycle and can't carry anything. Oh, my gawd! Look see, the scarf, it's very light. No problem to carry (she drapes it over my arm). It's a good color.  I really don't need a scarf, thanks (I drape it back over her shoulder). It looks better on you, matches your eyes. (Big pout now on face) Oh, MY gawd! Nooo, not my color. Pink is my color. See? (She points out the pink in her outfit). You buy painting instead? No, no paintings. Like I said, I'm on a bike. Ohh, my gawwd! I know you are on bicycle. You are very strong (grabs my bicep). We can roll up paintings, very small. You can carry. Did you paint them? If you painted them then maybe I buy one (I say sarcastically). OhMYgawd, of course I paint them!  What, you don't believe? You paint me one right now and I'll buy it. (Smirk on face)  Ok, I did not paint (laughs). OhMyGawwd! (At this point I'm laughing out loud) You will come and look again on your way back out, yes? Maybe (I laughed, entering the gateway). Hasta la vista, Bay-Bee! (she giggled and waved)......Did I mention this girl was only seven years old?

The Temple was spectacular, as were Ta Sahm, Neak Pean, and my favorite, Preah Kahn, a tumbled wreck of partially collapsed structures that created a fun maze of broken passageways, fluttering bats, and trees growing right through the cracks of the walls, slowly destroying everything in their stretch towards the sun. I decided to save the heavy hitters--Ta Prom, Ankor Thom, and the mother of all temples, Ankor Wat--for the next day.  As for that little girl, she was waiting for me as soon as I came back out. You said maybe! 

We sparred for another ten minutes but in the end I prevailed. At least I think. I didn't walk away with any painting or scarves but she was so entertaining that I gave her a few bucks for effort. Oh....My.....Gawd.