The Penguins Delved too Greedily and Too Deep

Do you know what the penguins awoke in the darkness? Shadow and flame….yes, shadow and flame. The final day of our extraordinary journey would not to be a disappointment. The sky was dark and foreboding as we entered the mouth of the cove. Neptune’s Bellows, a narrow passage lined with toothy rock walls, towered over us. The clouds hung low, obscuring the jagged, shadowy peaks. The water was glass. It was eerily silent. We passed through the maw of this formidable place into a massive, sea-filled caldera formed by an ancient volcano. Welcome to Deception Island.

Active thermal vents released boiling water into the caldera, causing steam to rise lazily over the black shores of Whaler’s Cove. No irony here. The rust-eaten remains of massive boiling tanks and dilapidated barracks line the coast, where whalers once boiled carcasses for valuable oil. Seals were clubbed. Penguins, already dressed in their tuxedo-like feathers, were presumably forced to serve cocktails. Weathered bones protruded from the ashy sand like ivory fingers from long deceased giants. A pair of small, decaying wooden boats, abandoned long ago, appeared ghostly in the mist.  A handful of chinstrap penguins and crab-eater seals appeared then vanished in the rolling fog. Stephen King would love this place, if he lived to tell the tale.

All in all it seemed like a great place to go swimming. I stripped down to my skivvies, adjusted my knit cap, then dashed headlong into the icy waters. After a few long steps the ground went out from under me and I was up to my neck. At that point it took all of about five seconds for my extremities to go completely numb. I slogged back to the shore, more secure in my manhood than ever, despite the fact that my nipples could now cut through glass. Forget shrinkage, this was more like inversion.  All of you wusses who think you belong to one of several purported “polar” clubs can suck it.

Our final stop, Hanna Point, could not have been better. It was like being in a zoo without the cages. Craggy rocks and grass filled slopes housed hundreds of mud-stained penguins, elephant seals and giant seabirds. Juveniles waddled around sheepishly, curiously approaching then squawking away. Last but definitely not least, we had the pleasure of watching a leopard seal dine on an extremely unhappy penguin. I was surprised to see white wine chosen for the meal.

I could not conceive of a better way to close the door on this fantastic world. Sure, we still had a few more days of crossing the Drake, then a flight to Argentina, Peru, and New York, but that part is all a blur. The final tally was something to behold. Fur seals, elephant seals, crab-eater seals, leopard seals, skuas, petrols, gulls, albatross, gentoo penguins, macaroni penguins, chinstrap penguins, minke whales, humpback whales, fin whales, old people by the dozens, and pair of extremely rare asian travels. What else can I possibly say? Wow.

Weather or Not, Here We Come!

The weather in Antarctica is not what you would call “pleasant”. To some, it may not even qualify as dreadful. Barely any sun sneaks through the overcast skies, and what little does somehow seems disingenuous, often glimpsed flirting with a far-off mountain or dancing with distant horizons. The winds can become awfully disagreeable, whipping the sea into stiff peaks, and if the stories are true, occasionally hurling seabirds violently into the hull of passing ships. One can argue that it adds just the right amount of atmosphere to the expedition. It is Antarctica, after all.

Truth be told, it is not really as bad you might think. Despite mountains full of purported evidence, Antarctica rarely sees fresh snow. Though it seems hard to believe, the continent sports a desert climate with very little precipitation. Yet the snow and ice is literally hundreds of feet thick. How can this be? It turns out that snow has been accumulating at a rate of only a few hundred millimeters per year. It is just that it never melts. In other words, exactly the opposite of what happened to Michael Jackson’s face over the course of his career.

Strangely, it is not all that cold. Despite our long-johns, turtlenecks, fleece sweaters, down parkas, wool caps, ski gloves, scarves and thermal crotch warmers, the temperature was generally in the mid-thirties during the day. That’s right, you had worse weather back home.While it’s true that the center of the continent can see extremely severe weather, the shoreline is actually quite nice.

There was only one day when the weather prevented us from following our itinerary. The wind picked up, the seas became rough, lunch became tenuous, and we could not risk embarking on the small Zodiacs that ferried us from our vessel to shore. But backup plans are de rigueur on these voyages, and we instead navigated into a protective cove to explore an old British base called Port Lockroy, now a museum, which is currently manned by three attractive, young women. According to the brochure “Port Lockroy is one of Antarctica’s most historic locations and a highlight of any voyage to the frozen continent”. Presumably this is due to the fact that Antarctica is generally uninhabited, and, hey, three attractive young women living alone on an Antarctic island.

The base was originally built during WWII to spy on the Germans, but was abandoned when the British realized that even the German’s weren’t stupid enough to send their boats through the Drake Passage. The base has been fully restored and now houses a small museum, as well as a gift shop. Because, really, who can stomach an entire trip to the most remote place on earth without getting in a little shopping? The women run the shop, post mail, study the local penguin population, and, I imagine, have topless snowball fights with each other when no one else is around.

It was a great stop, and an interesting slice of history. And anyone can volunteer for the summer shift. Four months of island living, and all the penguins you can eat. It turns out that not too many men sign up. Seems like a missed opportunity to me. Maybe I'll volunteer next year.

Crappy Feet

The beloved documentary March of the Penguins, a film that effortlessly argues how living life as an Emperor Penguin would completely suck, spurred a massive revival of interest in our flightless friends. The public was soon flooded with a variety of me-too movies, saccharine TV specials and kindly magazine spreads, all of which successfully tugged at our heartstrings. Yet none of these sympathetic portrayals prepared me for the fact that penguins burst guano from their ass like a power sprayer and generally smell like the inside of a Turkish prison.

To be fair, they are still fantastically cute. Sentiment ranged from the standard "Aww..." to the slightly more expressive "Awwww…GOD what is it doing to my shoes?!" For a visual, just imagine what would happen if you stomped on one end of a Twinkie. Luckily we were well equipped to deal with the absurd amount of guano we encountered. Our knee-high rubber boots were all but impervious, though they had to be scrubbed clean with a toilet brush before heading back to the boat.

During the course of our trip, we were fortunate enough to observe a variety of species in nearly every stage of development. Massive colonies of gentoo penguins waddled comically across stone and snow, ascending unbelievably steep inclines without pause. Chinstrap penguins proudly preened their brilliant white chest feathers, in sharp contrast to their dark and striking foreheads. A handful of macaroni penguins, so named for their streaks of bleached blond head feathers, posed artfully for the cameras. Heh…blondes.

“Penguin Highways”, narrow snow paths tramped down by heavy foot traffic, crisscrossed the landscape as penguins shuffled to and fro. This time of year brings adorable chicks, inquisitive juveniles and jittery first-time parents. The new parents were easy to spot, their nervous stomachs constantly regurgitating straight into the mouths of their children. Gross. And I thought going to bed without supper was bad. Juveniles flopped around in the mud, their fluffy down giving way the waterproof feathering that would allow them to survive the cold and freezing seas. Chicks stuffed themselves underfoot, gaining protection from predators and the elements. Vicious brown birds known as skuas probed for a weakness in mom's defense, hoping to snag a fly-through snack. 

It was all quite amazing. Walking amongst these gentle, majestic creatures one can easily get lost their....ughhh, not again. Get the hose. 

You Ain't Seen Nothin' Like the Mighty Fin

Antarctica. The first order of business for any intrepid Antarctic explorer should be to get to know ones shipmates. You spend a great deal of time in close quarters with these people, and without gaining intimate knowledge of their diet and lifestyle, it can become incredibly difficult to choose exactly who to eat when the ship runs aground and food supplies start dwindling. Yes, the obese may store a wealth of calorie rich blubber, but think twice before dismissing the septuagenerian crowd. Their sad, wrinkly faces and pockets full of ribbon candy only serve to distract from the fact that they are little more than wobbly sticks of human beef jerky.

My personal menu selection was cut short as our boat came in sight of the South Shetland islands. I am not sure what I had expected, but it wasn't this. The entirety of the landmass was covered, edge to edge, with tremulous peaks. Dark volcanic daggers sheathed in thick crusts of shimmering snow seemed to erupt straight from the sea floor, slicing through the azure sky to bleed wispy clouds from thin air. Blustery winds tore across the deck of the ship where we stood, blindly searching for a weakness in my parka. My brazenly uncovered face burned with an icy sting, bringing tears to the corners of my eyes. It was a jaw-dropping sight.

Between the ship and the shore a narrow jet-spray shot vertically into the air before catching the wind and exploding into a cloudy mist that descended like a miniature rainstorm. It was followed by another, then another. Methinks there be whales here.

The arched back and distinctive dorsal fins of the ingloriously named Fin Whale soon breached the surface. As the captain navigated in for a closer look, the fountains of Bellagio had begun. Blow holes erupted both port and starboard, sending plumes 30 feet in the air. No less than eight to ten whales straddled our vessel, pursuing an unknown agenda. Massive black torsos split the surface one after another in graceful arcs, as if orbiting an unseen planet. With a final reveal of their lone shark-like fin, the whales quickly vanished beneath the waves. Our encore lasts a full 45 minutes, which I presume is the time it took for them to securely attach the tracking beacon to our vessel.

The day drew to a close, as even the best of days must. After a mere two days at sea we had finally reached the Antarctic peninsula, and our real journey had only just begun. Now how's that for a cliche' ending?

Uncharted III : Drake's Passage

The Drake Passage is the only unbroken stretch of ocean in the world. With no continental obstacles in its path, the several hundred nautical miles making up the gap between Argentina and Antarctica are the roughest, swelliest, frothiest seas around. If swallowing boats were a competitive sport, the Drake would dominate the league, likely forcing a collective bargaining agreement that would end up sending our best oceans to the wealthiest continents. And trust me, nobody wants to see the Drake Passage take on the Ural Sea. Where is the sport in that?

The word "seaworthy" sounds suspiciously like a plea to Poseidon if I ever heard one but we were assured of our vessel's status as such, despite its recent misadventures.  Most of you have likely heard of the Clellia II, though you might not realize it. It was only a month ago that the now infamous vessel was front page news, victim of a vicious storm that hit the Drake with little warning. Pounded by 30-foot seas, the window of the captain's bridge was smashed, knocking out their communications and forcing the crew to sit in the eye of the storm for two days. Most terrifying of all, they were disastrously flooded by a phalanx of international reporters once reaching port.

To be fair, they aren't very subtle when it comes to expectations. There were several signs that our voyage might not be a smooth one, first and foremost being the strategic placement of barf bags along most of the ship's interior railings. The second clue would be the necessity of interior railings. Third would be the directive to make our cabins "Drake Proof" prior to departure. All personal items were to be secured, valuables stowed, and it was suggested that we consider sleeping on the floor to avoid rolling out of bed during large swells. This proved unnecessary though, since the beds had convenient straps to keep you comfortably immobile throughout the duration of the trip.

It would take us a minimum of two days to cross this oft violent stretch of water, and at least another three to unclench our bowels. I generally think of myself as having a solid pair of sea legs, having spent a good deal of my youth aboard my parents boat, but I would be lying if I didn't claim a modest amount of anxiety. We departed in the early evening, as scheduled. For the first few hours we drifted peacefully through the Beagle Channel. Terns and gulls soared gracefully past the bow, swooping starboard and port, shepherding us far beyond the harbor and into the open sea. The waves began to pick up almost immediately. Fifteen foot swells rocked the boat, sending passengers, myself included, from wall to wall. After a few hours I found the rhythm almost soothing. One more day until landfall. Rock-a-bye Baby, indeed.

It's the End of the World and We Know It

Ushuaia, Argentina. As much as it pains me, I would be remiss not to mention that I am part of a tour group during this adventure. It turns out that hitchhiking to Antarctica is a little more difficult then sticking out your thumb and hopping the next tug out of the harbor.  Apparently not even the mighty albatross, with its enormous nine-foot wingspan and uncanny ability to remain alight in hurricane force gales, can bear the weight of a single man from Denver. Let me tell you what a disappointing experiment THAT was--though probably more so for the albatross.

I was willing to do whatever it took to reach this frozen Valhalla, this land of icy milk and solid honey. And if that meant getting on a boat with a bunch of geezers with their socks pulled up to their hearing aids, so be it. The sad part is how many of them are blissfully enjoying retirement, completely unaware that their children have paid the staff handsomely to drift them out to sea on an ice flow. Did I mention that I am here with my father? He was issued his official bifocals a few years back but he still has some spring left in his step.

Before embarking on our journey we had the pleasure of spending a day in Ushuaia, the southernmost city in the world. Spread across the banks of the Beagle Channel, Ushuaia is also home to the world's southernmost restaurant, the southernmost lighthouse, the southernmost golf course, and the single most inanely repetitive marketing slogan on Earth. The city itself is nothing to crow about, but the scenery is epic. Ushuaia is graced with a rare natural beauty. Rugged snow-capped peaks give way to a brilliant green tree line, where a natural bowl cups the city gently in its hands, right at the edge of the brilliant blue shoreline. Insert any of your preferred adjectives here.

On the edge of the city lies Tierra del Fuego National Park, which is Spanish for "Fire Crotch", I think. We spent the better part of the day wandering the boggy shores amidst lichen coiffed trees, trying to keep our minds off the journey ahead. Cuddly bunnies ran to and fro, while sly red foxes nipped at their hairy little heels. It would be cute if it weren't for the fact that they ended up being lunch.

They day wore on and the sun began to set. We boarded our vessel, the Clellia II, and prepared our cabin for the voyage through the Drake Passage. Dramamine pills were swallowed. It was time we bid the City at the End of the World a fond adieu.

Don't Spy on Me, Argentina!

Buenos Aires, Argentina. Reaching the Antarctic peninsula is not quite as simple as it might seem. First off, one needs to navigate the terrors of the Miami International Airport. If the slow, zombified and frustratingly incontinent travelers don't delay you at the check-in line, you can make your way to Buenos Aires--the most consistently overthrown capital in modern history. The good news is that if you manage to escape the political unrest it is a relatively short hop to Ushuaia, the southernmost city in the world. Next comes the fun part. Two days travel aboard a seafaring vessel through the Drake Passage, the roughest seas on earth. The reward for this perilous journey? Ass loads of penguin tail and enough ice to keep the cocktails flowing past midnight. You can guess where I am heading.

Well, we got to Buenos Aires with no problem. Truly it is a fascinating city. The French inspired architecture is visually stunning, and there exists a level of modernity that is uncommon in most of South America. Apparently a great number of Italians immigrated to Argentina around the time of the second World War, adding their own special sauce to the mix. Improbably, pasta and pizza are found on nearly every corner. Call it Little Fritaly, if you will.

While most of the political unrest has subsided in recent years, it took all of about three hours before one of my trip mates was jumped by a pair of ruffians on motorcycles who targeted his watch. Luckily he escaped with watch, and wrist, intact. And while the city is splendid in many ways, a negative undercurrent can be felt in the voluminous graffiti striping the city's federal buildings, and in the continued growth of the shanty towns, now 30,000 citizens strong, that ring the glimmering spires of downtown. Worse still, their empanadas suck.

I actually learned a great deal about the socio-political history that I was not able to glean even from repeated viewings of Evita. I won't bore you with it, but suffice to say, there is a lot less singing at a whole lot more people spilling shit on your shirt, then pretending to wipe it off while they steal your wallet and jewelry, as nearly happened to another person in our crew on our second day here.

All in all, I have enjoyed the place but it is time to move on. Next stop: The City at the End of the World.

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