October 30, 2011
I am the master of the mountain. The champion of the climb. A goddess of the Himals. I knew I had earned each of these prestigious titles the moment a Nepali guide told me that I was "a strong sporting man", and loudly admired my ability "to eat like a starving Nepali boy". The poetry! He asked me what 'sporting' I did... And I put some serious thought into the best way to describe Dodgeball ("well the outfit is the most important part, but you see, you try to hit the other players with your balls...") Instead, I settled for the easy out, and told him that I was Arnold Schwarzenegger's personal trainer. The questions stopped there, and I continued on my merry way pretending that every step wasn't even more exhausting than the last. I'd sworn I wouldn't go all the way to Nepal to have someone else carry my bag, so with 15kg strapped on my back, I tried my damnedest to make the whole thing look easy. After the first five days it WAS easier, and I daresay extremely enjoyable, though this was apparently underscored by the fact that I eat like a pig. Ah, and I was still in better shape than Sander, which was very motivating.
The expansive Himalayas found us with no porter, no guide, no map ... sticking to the trip motto: "we'll deal with it when we get there". It's impossible to get lost when you have no destination, and you feel all the more clever for it. And besides, where's the fun in planning? This way when you turn up at the only accommodation for miles and find it full, you can just pretend you didn't want to stay there anyway. Very nonchalant. The only outline we'd given was to our loved ones, who were expecting our return to civilization within 8 or 10 days. So naturally, on day 13 I made emergency phone calls assuring everyone that (against better odds) Sander was NOT, in fact, dangling by backpack straps over a gaping canyon with hungry Sherpas sharpening yak-butter knives in the depths below. It was just too awesome to leave. And so, we remained trekkers without a plan and headed away from the only village large enough to have an international phone.
Every morning we struggled off of the wooden planks sometimes referred to as 'beds', at the leisurely hour of 7:00a.m. Some places were homestays and others were guesthouses, but every morning was perfect and crisp with the echo of woodfire stoves crackling under giant pots of masala tea. There is nothing more epic than brushing your teeth at dawn, watching the sun bathe 360 degrees of snow-capped mountains in golden light, and managing to avoid drooling toothpaste all over your hiking boots while you do it. As we ascended, fantastic emerald forests teeming with old world monkeys made way to rocky cliffsides perfectly covered in purple and blue wildflowers. By 4500m I was feeling inspired and completely invincible. So naturally, it snowed 15cm unexpectedly overnight and we woke to howling snow sweeping over the frigid lakes and through the yawning cracks in our goat-shack of a lodge. Someone who made 'plans' might have had a winter coat, but again, where's the fun in that? We're Canadians, after all. A skiff of snow is nothing! So instead of stay put, Sander squeezed into all three pairs of underwear at once and we hiked over the frozen Pass. No worse for wear, we survived the climb to continue bathing in shallow bowls of kettle-warmed water, playing 'walnut-rock' with screaming village kids, and sampling all kinds of dairy products lovingly produced by the illustrious yak. Finally, after 22 days we emerged from the wild and breached the Kathmandu city limits on foot. We had devoured the newly dedicated Tamang Heritage Trail, the charming Langtang Valley Trail, the super-climb to Gosaikund and the Laurabina La Pass, and finally the Helambu trail, which had dumped us unceremoniously back into the city. We have returned to hotel life, desperate for proper showers and falling out of clothes that no longer fit. I am now forced to go shopping: the master of the mountain could use a few new outfits.
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Fitness First
October 3, 2011
When Sarah headed home in mid august to re-familiarize herself with her job, I was left in Prague with seven weeks to kill before we would reconvene, and begin our most strenuous traveling to date in the Nepalese Himalaya. I had seven weeks to get in shape.
I decided to start my preparations with the only type of hiking I was already trained for, hitchhiking. I made my way for the highway, and within 10 minutes, got my first ride. After getting lifts with a local landlord, a junk truck driver from Romania, a long haul milk trucker, a waitress, a pair of Swiss tourists, and a WWII ordinance surveyor who smoked two pipes simultaneously, I arrived in the Mecca of healthy eating and exercise that was Ravensburg, Germany. I quickly settled into a little cafe and sampled the local fare. Much to my dismay, I was presented a pint of beer and a plate of dense noodles fried with mounds of cheese and onions. My training had hit its first roadblock. Simone, my gracious host and friend since our travels in Thailand, explained that this would be temporary, and I could continue with my disciplined diet after a brief introduction to Germany. I waited for three days, sampling the high calorie local dishes and brews, biding my time to get back on the wagon. Eventually i realized she lied to me, and was forced to leave, lest I continue to add pounds to the body I would soon have to haul up the side of a mountain. I was now left with only 6 weeks to train, and a few extra kilos to loose. A manageable feat, but it would take some extra dedication.
I jumped on the first train out of Germany and headed for the two people nearby that I knew would be sympathetic to my cause. Ted and Becky (read back to blogs about Turkey if you have not met them yet) in Baden, Switzerland. Visiting hikers, in the most outdoorsy country in the world would have to get me back on track... Right?
I arrived in Baden to an email instructing me to meet them in Zurich, a short train ride away. Did they have some sort of training exercise planned? Perhaps some orienteering? I stowed my bag at the station and hopped on the train. I began to feel a bit suspicious as hoards of Swiss ruffians crowded onto the train with me, beers and vodka coolers in hand, and dressed up for Carnivalle. Was this a cruel jape? Would even Switzerland prove to best my utmost attempts to get in shape? Not wanting to insult my new friends I accepted offered refreshments, and wandered out of Zurich station into the city's biggest music festival, the Zurich Street Parade... My timing could not have been worse. Beer after beer was forced into my hand and urged down my throat, extinguishing my hope of redemption with each bittersweet and frosty swallow. The Swiss had so undermined my plans of exercise that walking from band to band wasn't needed as every group was staged on flatbed trucks that drove though the crowd, bringing the music to you. My inactivity had reached it's peak, and at this pace, I never would.
My next stop, again in Germany against my better judgement, was with another friend from our travels. We had travelled much of Laos with David and I knew if anyone could help with my dilemma, it would be him. A German punk rocker and student could not possibly lead me away from my path to fitness. It seems I was wrong. David and his bandmate Lars quickly conspired to liquor me up again. I was helpless against the joined forces of delicious local brewed beer and mornings of coffee and 'ketten fet' ('chain oil', a fitting moniker for a syrupy licorice flavored vodka filling Lars' freezer). I do, though, have to thank David for providing my first taste of training since Prague. Climbing The Dom, while a good start, barely scratched at the deficit of fitness I had found myself in over the last two weeks... But it was progress nonetheless.
After a quick stop in Amsterdam I was back on my way to the Orient to continue my training under the wise tutelage of my dear and unorthodox friend, Jack. To be certain, a black belt, professional teacher, living in the land of Kung-Fu would be the best person possible to see my training goals fulfilled. Oh, how wrong I was... As it turns out, even with the best intentions there is no way to ignore the lights, sounds and *ucking delicious smells of Seoul's night life. The routine that should have included 'high knees', 'jumping jacks' and 'deep lunges' quickly devolved into something resembling a day in the life of an alcoholic food critic. Major decisions of each day included which district of the megalopolis (known as Seoul) to discover and which fiery, meaty and delicious Korean dish to make our main course. Would it be the deceivingly named 'potato soup'(actually a pig spine stew with some potatoes in it), thick slices of uncured bacon on the BBQ, or fresh sashimi from the nearby fish markets? Soju became my protien shake, beer bottles my barbells, and as quickly as one hangover faded another was on it's way... Even days off included at least a few bottles of Soju with dinner to keep ourselves prepared for the inevitable return to excess the following day. Jack and I had not seen each other in over a year, but by the time I was heading to the airport to catch my flight to Delhi, our livers were completely caught up.
So here I sit halfway up the staircase at the hotel in Kathmandu, huffing and wondering exactly where i went wrong. I can only conclude that in the end it's all Sarah's fault.. She really should have known better than to leave me alone for 5 weeks with the likes of fantastic friends like Simone, Ted, Becky, David, and Jack.
When Sarah headed home in mid august to re-familiarize herself with her job, I was left in Prague with seven weeks to kill before we would reconvene, and begin our most strenuous traveling to date in the Nepalese Himalaya. I had seven weeks to get in shape.
I decided to start my preparations with the only type of hiking I was already trained for, hitchhiking. I made my way for the highway, and within 10 minutes, got my first ride. After getting lifts with a local landlord, a junk truck driver from Romania, a long haul milk trucker, a waitress, a pair of Swiss tourists, and a WWII ordinance surveyor who smoked two pipes simultaneously, I arrived in the Mecca of healthy eating and exercise that was Ravensburg, Germany. I quickly settled into a little cafe and sampled the local fare. Much to my dismay, I was presented a pint of beer and a plate of dense noodles fried with mounds of cheese and onions. My training had hit its first roadblock. Simone, my gracious host and friend since our travels in Thailand, explained that this would be temporary, and I could continue with my disciplined diet after a brief introduction to Germany. I waited for three days, sampling the high calorie local dishes and brews, biding my time to get back on the wagon. Eventually i realized she lied to me, and was forced to leave, lest I continue to add pounds to the body I would soon have to haul up the side of a mountain. I was now left with only 6 weeks to train, and a few extra kilos to loose. A manageable feat, but it would take some extra dedication.
I jumped on the first train out of Germany and headed for the two people nearby that I knew would be sympathetic to my cause. Ted and Becky (read back to blogs about Turkey if you have not met them yet) in Baden, Switzerland. Visiting hikers, in the most outdoorsy country in the world would have to get me back on track... Right?
I arrived in Baden to an email instructing me to meet them in Zurich, a short train ride away. Did they have some sort of training exercise planned? Perhaps some orienteering? I stowed my bag at the station and hopped on the train. I began to feel a bit suspicious as hoards of Swiss ruffians crowded onto the train with me, beers and vodka coolers in hand, and dressed up for Carnivalle. Was this a cruel jape? Would even Switzerland prove to best my utmost attempts to get in shape? Not wanting to insult my new friends I accepted offered refreshments, and wandered out of Zurich station into the city's biggest music festival, the Zurich Street Parade... My timing could not have been worse. Beer after beer was forced into my hand and urged down my throat, extinguishing my hope of redemption with each bittersweet and frosty swallow. The Swiss had so undermined my plans of exercise that walking from band to band wasn't needed as every group was staged on flatbed trucks that drove though the crowd, bringing the music to you. My inactivity had reached it's peak, and at this pace, I never would.
My next stop, again in Germany against my better judgement, was with another friend from our travels. We had travelled much of Laos with David and I knew if anyone could help with my dilemma, it would be him. A German punk rocker and student could not possibly lead me away from my path to fitness. It seems I was wrong. David and his bandmate Lars quickly conspired to liquor me up again. I was helpless against the joined forces of delicious local brewed beer and mornings of coffee and 'ketten fet' ('chain oil', a fitting moniker for a syrupy licorice flavored vodka filling Lars' freezer). I do, though, have to thank David for providing my first taste of training since Prague. Climbing The Dom, while a good start, barely scratched at the deficit of fitness I had found myself in over the last two weeks... But it was progress nonetheless.
After a quick stop in Amsterdam I was back on my way to the Orient to continue my training under the wise tutelage of my dear and unorthodox friend, Jack. To be certain, a black belt, professional teacher, living in the land of Kung-Fu would be the best person possible to see my training goals fulfilled. Oh, how wrong I was... As it turns out, even with the best intentions there is no way to ignore the lights, sounds and *ucking delicious smells of Seoul's night life. The routine that should have included 'high knees', 'jumping jacks' and 'deep lunges' quickly devolved into something resembling a day in the life of an alcoholic food critic. Major decisions of each day included which district of the megalopolis (known as Seoul) to discover and which fiery, meaty and delicious Korean dish to make our main course. Would it be the deceivingly named 'potato soup'(actually a pig spine stew with some potatoes in it), thick slices of uncured bacon on the BBQ, or fresh sashimi from the nearby fish markets? Soju became my protien shake, beer bottles my barbells, and as quickly as one hangover faded another was on it's way... Even days off included at least a few bottles of Soju with dinner to keep ourselves prepared for the inevitable return to excess the following day. Jack and I had not seen each other in over a year, but by the time I was heading to the airport to catch my flight to Delhi, our livers were completely caught up.
So here I sit halfway up the staircase at the hotel in Kathmandu, huffing and wondering exactly where i went wrong. I can only conclude that in the end it's all Sarah's fault.. She really should have known better than to leave me alone for 5 weeks with the likes of fantastic friends like Simone, Ted, Becky, David, and Jack.
Location:Kathmandu, Nepal
Saturday, October 1, 2011
Holy Cow...
The most adventurous thing you could do in Europe was eat leftovers that hadn't been in the fridge. "Eeek. It's been left at room temperature for almost 7 hours! Is it still safe to eat?" This ridiculous sentiment had spiraled out of control, given that in Cambodia I had watched Sander adjust the classic '5 second' rule, to a '30-seconds-that-also-applied-to-drinks-and-yogourt-if-you-could-slurp-them-off-the-table' rule. The development of unprecedented health concerns aside, Europe was a veritable vacation. Everyone spoke English, getting lost was an impossibility, there were bread products on every corner, and I didn't have to pee standing up. (I did anyway, just for fun). I did love it though: relaxed and art-snoot, often simultaneously. Thanks to the thick rimmed 'Ray Bon' glasses I bought in Indonesia and my obsessive quest for great nap spots, I fit right in.
The biggest problem, though, was doing it all on a budget. Budapest was the first European city that struck the bankroll digits in red. The reintroduction of fashion, after 6 months in the same smelly clothes, had been a tempting option ... but then again, so was food. The ever present aroma of gourmet Euro-cooking, after 6 months of rice, was another tempting option ... but then again, so was coffee. Thus, priorities were established: we were to be underdressed but exceptionally awake backpackers. The lazy days rolled by, and the nights blurred together in a technicolor metropolitan haze. It was an escape from the hurried madness; a return to a romantic normalcy.
... But who likes more than a week or two of that?! Take me back to the scorching chaos where every task is an adventure. If there's no risk of being killed, contracting a virus, or spontaneous human combustion I don't want to go. Take me to India! And here we sit, back in the middle of exhaust pumping rickshaws, mind-bending street markets, and urban whirlwinds of satisfied looking birds of prey. I intend to be stomach sick before the week is up, and won't regret my undisciplined consumption of delicious street snacks for an instant. And, I'm exponentially more likely to be run down by a herd of holy cows, than a redneck in an SUV.
It's nice to be back.
The biggest problem, though, was doing it all on a budget. Budapest was the first European city that struck the bankroll digits in red. The reintroduction of fashion, after 6 months in the same smelly clothes, had been a tempting option ... but then again, so was food. The ever present aroma of gourmet Euro-cooking, after 6 months of rice, was another tempting option ... but then again, so was coffee. Thus, priorities were established: we were to be underdressed but exceptionally awake backpackers. The lazy days rolled by, and the nights blurred together in a technicolor metropolitan haze. It was an escape from the hurried madness; a return to a romantic normalcy.
... But who likes more than a week or two of that?! Take me back to the scorching chaos where every task is an adventure. If there's no risk of being killed, contracting a virus, or spontaneous human combustion I don't want to go. Take me to India! And here we sit, back in the middle of exhaust pumping rickshaws, mind-bending street markets, and urban whirlwinds of satisfied looking birds of prey. I intend to be stomach sick before the week is up, and won't regret my undisciplined consumption of delicious street snacks for an instant. And, I'm exponentially more likely to be run down by a herd of holy cows, than a redneck in an SUV.
It's nice to be back.
Monday, August 8, 2011
Touring the Alps of the East... In a Skoda
July 28, 2011
After another stifling ride in eastern Europe from the Bulgarian border to Romania's capital, Bucharest, we resolved to see the rest of the country in some what higher style. Motorbike? Hovercraft? German convertible!? The possibilities were endless. We arrived in Braşov, a skip north from Bucharest and immediately called the first rental agency in the online yellow pages. No bikes ... Damn! We called the second ... No hovercrafts!!! Blast! We called them both back inquiring about German convertibles and were laughed off the line. We called six more agencies before we were able to rent anything for the days we wanted... €55/day for a Skoda Octavia... a midsize sedan. Sigh... Instead of a salt shaker half full of cocaine and a whole galaxy of multicolored uppers, downers, screamers and laughers, our trunk was full of dirty backpacker laundry, empty water bottles and tomorrow's breakfast. Ready for a road trip nonetheless.
Few vestiges of Caucescu's reign in Romania stir as much mixed feeling as the Transfăgărășan highway that aptly flies over the Carpathian Făgărășan mountain range. From an engineer's standpoint, the road was a fools errand or 'make-work' project, but from a driver's standpoint, a more awesome road does not exist on the planet. Either way, it took the mind of an obsessed communist dictator to devise it. Convinced that either a Hungarian or Russian invasion was imminent, he commissioned the road as a route for tanks from Wallachia to cross the range to Transylvania to confront the invasion. Climbing to, and then descending from, 2100m over less than 150km, it's strange the Bran pass (1300m) only 50km east didn't do the trick. But then we do all know the saying: a crazed communist dictator gets what a crazed communist dictator wants.
The road twists back upon itself time and time again, climbing only a few meters with each hairpin. Slowly the road climbs out of the forest and into the alpine where you're suddenly surrounded by waterfalls, sheep grazing, and merchant stalls hawking smoky cheeses and cured meats.. Clearly all traditional features of the Romanian mountain tops. The road continues up, climbing into the clouds, and at the top something comes into view that's been nagging at you for the last 20 switchbacks. A tunnel... While it seems that would have been a good solution some 200 switchbacks ago, I have to trust it was overlooked for a good reason. Perhaps a tunnel at 1000m just wasn't quite as 'bad ass' as one at 2100m... Oh, all the things hasty executions fail to extract (sigh)...
The far side of the tunnel was home to a veritable mountain town of eateries and souvenir shops, with the shoulder-less road squeezed to a single lane by parked cars. The only souvenir I needed was another checkmark under the 'landmarks I've pee'd off' heading of my bucket list which already includes a number of bridges and a hydro-electric dam. While Nick stole more photo angles from Sarah, and Sarah, in protest, decided to decorate the car with woven daisy-chains instead, I went about my business enjoying the scenery until all our feet were numb from the cold, and we started down the mountain.
Two more days zig-zaging over the Carpathian mountains, visiting medieval castles, and sampling the cheapest local vintages brought us back to Braşov just in time. Sarah criticized the lack of heads on spikes at Vlad the Impaler's 15th century stronghold, Nick shot wide-angle photos of the nude statues at Peleș Castle, and I quietly admired every 600 year old structure that will likely outlast new buildings today. Upon our return, we miraculously recouped our entire deposit and made plans to head west: a whirlwind tour of central Europe to finish off this leg of our trip, and whatever is left of our bank account.
Sander.
A werewolf in ... Belogradchik
July 19, 2011
Nothing can prepare you for receiving a tour of a 3rd century Bulgarian fortress from a middle-aged guy who thinks he's a werewolf. A raving Jehovah's Witness? Sure. A male Elementary School principal? Alright. A song-struck transvestite? Why not. A werewolf? Noo. Lets backtrack a bit. We: Nick (who seemed to be stuck with us, poor guy), Sander, and I ended up in Belogradchik as a convenient stopping point on the bus journey to Romania. It turned out that the town was teeming with cuteness, friendly people, and delicious Bulgarian yogurt all topped with one of the coolest ancient strongholds of all time. The initial fortress was constructed in conjunction with the unique rock formations in the area during the time of Roman occupation. A Bulgarian tsar extended the fortress in the 14th century, adding fortified garrisons and making it one of the most important strongholds in the region. Just like everything else, the Ottomans busted in and manned it in 1396. In the 19th century the Ottomans expanded it further, and used it as the hold that helped crush the Bulgarian uprising on 1850. It was used in warfare as recently as 1885. Phew, thanks for letting me nerd-out just there. That's the information I knew before we headed up to check out the site. After walking up a rather steep hill on the way from our quiet hostel, the three of us took a quick beer and snack break. That's when the hairy guy at the table next to ours offered to leave his friends and give us a tour. How could we say no? He walked us through the fortress, up to the tops of the towering rocks, telling us all of the local legends. Almost every rock is rumored to be a person, who, in one gruesome way or another got themselves turned to stone. The air was calm, and the sky a cobalt grey with wispy fog twisting through the trees far, far below; it was a perfect day for such stories. That's when our guide admitted that the previous night's full moon had found he 'and his pack' in the woods below, howling. I giggled, thinking he was polishing off the last of his legends. Continuing as if he hadn't heard me, he explained that he was 700 years old, and I distinctly noted Sander and Nick nodding vigorously. We left the fortress unharmed, which means that he was either the nicest werewolf ever or extremely delusional. To this day, I'm still trying to decide which.
We only stayed one night, which the three of us spent dining and drinking at a local cafe/B&B. A 'born-and-bred' Belogradchik family runs the place, called the Castle Cottage, and I would recommend the accommodations and the food to anyone headed that direction. The best part about Bulgarian cooking is their obsessive use of local cheeses and yoghourt. Everything is fresh and filling, and leads to such a delightfully regular digestive process, that I'm convinced a single 'Bulgarian Cleanse Cookbook' could be forerunner of the next diet craze. Needless to say, it was time to move on. Time to visit Dracula and the Carpathian forest ... time to re-invest in black clothes, red lipstick, and plunging necklines. Nick and Sander are gonna look so GOOD!
Slaughter.
Nothing can prepare you for receiving a tour of a 3rd century Bulgarian fortress from a middle-aged guy who thinks he's a werewolf. A raving Jehovah's Witness? Sure. A male Elementary School principal? Alright. A song-struck transvestite? Why not. A werewolf? Noo. Lets backtrack a bit. We: Nick (who seemed to be stuck with us, poor guy), Sander, and I ended up in Belogradchik as a convenient stopping point on the bus journey to Romania. It turned out that the town was teeming with cuteness, friendly people, and delicious Bulgarian yogurt all topped with one of the coolest ancient strongholds of all time. The initial fortress was constructed in conjunction with the unique rock formations in the area during the time of Roman occupation. A Bulgarian tsar extended the fortress in the 14th century, adding fortified garrisons and making it one of the most important strongholds in the region. Just like everything else, the Ottomans busted in and manned it in 1396. In the 19th century the Ottomans expanded it further, and used it as the hold that helped crush the Bulgarian uprising on 1850. It was used in warfare as recently as 1885. Phew, thanks for letting me nerd-out just there. That's the information I knew before we headed up to check out the site. After walking up a rather steep hill on the way from our quiet hostel, the three of us took a quick beer and snack break. That's when the hairy guy at the table next to ours offered to leave his friends and give us a tour. How could we say no? He walked us through the fortress, up to the tops of the towering rocks, telling us all of the local legends. Almost every rock is rumored to be a person, who, in one gruesome way or another got themselves turned to stone. The air was calm, and the sky a cobalt grey with wispy fog twisting through the trees far, far below; it was a perfect day for such stories. That's when our guide admitted that the previous night's full moon had found he 'and his pack' in the woods below, howling. I giggled, thinking he was polishing off the last of his legends. Continuing as if he hadn't heard me, he explained that he was 700 years old, and I distinctly noted Sander and Nick nodding vigorously. We left the fortress unharmed, which means that he was either the nicest werewolf ever or extremely delusional. To this day, I'm still trying to decide which.
We only stayed one night, which the three of us spent dining and drinking at a local cafe/B&B. A 'born-and-bred' Belogradchik family runs the place, called the Castle Cottage, and I would recommend the accommodations and the food to anyone headed that direction. The best part about Bulgarian cooking is their obsessive use of local cheeses and yoghourt. Everything is fresh and filling, and leads to such a delightfully regular digestive process, that I'm convinced a single 'Bulgarian Cleanse Cookbook' could be forerunner of the next diet craze. Needless to say, it was time to move on. Time to visit Dracula and the Carpathian forest ... time to re-invest in black clothes, red lipstick, and plunging necklines. Nick and Sander are gonna look so GOOD!
Slaughter.
Zombification in Varshets
July 15, 2011
Traveling with an itinerary (or even a plan for that matter), does have its upsides but the drawbacks are only revealed to those who choose to go without one. If you always leave home with a plan, you will never end up in a great place you had not intended. Less than a month ago, we drew names out of a metaphorical hat and ended up in Istanbul. Now we find ourselves sitting next to a Soviet era, Olympic length (but strangely un-Olympic depth) swimming pool in the mountains of northwestern Bulgaria; nursing beers and hangovers and chuckling quietly to ourselves about the happenings of last night.....
We arrived in Sofia, the capital city of Bulgaria, after one of our worst bus journeys to date. Please keep in mind that we have already overcome, and even enjoyed Asian bus service. Thus, we were unprepared for a bus that lacks both air conditioning and the ability to open a window. Plus, some genius included a sun roof on that very same vehicle. Absolute madness. With a new found hatred of "Metro" bus company, we quickly partnered ourselves with another traveler upon our arrival: a 'book-ahead-type' Australian named Nick, and crashed his intended place of sleep. We spent the next two days meandering the cobbled streets of Sofia, hopping from gallery to gallery, from cafe to market, Sarah admiring the street art adorning the city walls. We found wine available everywhere, and at less than $2/L, my liver was quickly formulating a new-found hatred of me. Our third blurry morning in Sophia took us to the bus station, and at the behest of a local theater celebrity / hostel owner we made for the town of Varshets, about 2 hours north of Sophia.
Pulling into the 'bus station', we glanced at each other quizzically and shrugged. Had we made a huge mistake? The parking area was completely overgrown with weeds, windows broken, graffiti on the walls and no one in sight. The world wide web had insisted there was a local population of 5000, but aside from the bus driver and 3 other people on the bus, no one was around. Sarah and I instinctively scanned the area for crowbars, boards with nails in them, or conveniently discarded revolvers, simultaneously hoping that Nick had played at least one Zombie Apocalypse game. Wishing I'd brought the Zombie Survival Guide instead of the Lonely Planet, we marched off in the direction of the hostel Nick assured us was still operating in the town.
As it turns out there was no zobification in Varshets, just a steady decline in tourism in the area since the 1930's that had killed the local economy. Rest assured, it was in no danger of rising from the grave. We settled into our well priced apartment on the 'quiet' side of town and after a shower to steady ourselves, went downstairs for a beer. Completely out of nowhere, a group of locals had populated the only table at the foot of our building, giving the town a new sense of habitation. With fresh beers, and internet translators abound, we set to making conversation. Ten minutes later we had exchanged names ..... it was going to be a long night. The most talkative of the bunch was the local police chief/fire fighter/school bus driver and self proclaimed 'retiree'. He was unwilling to yield to the pace of typing conversation, so it was left to us to decipher his statements through his son. Some were easy: roads in Bulgaria were 'Afghanistan', while Canada, swimming pools, and the local cucumber soup were all "Zuper!" At dusk, he piled us into his car for a tour of the nearby swimming holes, although at the time we were sure we were headed out for dinner. Splitting time between insisting that seatbelts were not necessary because he was the police, and complaining about the 'Afghanistan' quality of the roads, we made it to 5 different swimming pools within 10 minutes of our accommodation. Strings were pulled at each location to garner a late night tour of the facilities so we could make an informed decision for the next day. Somewhere in passing, we must have mentioned we wanted to swim the next day. We had serious decisions to make: would we go an extra 2 km for a newer pool with towel service but at twice the cost of the public pool ($2.50 instead of $1.25) or go for the extra-lux hotel spa which included a hottub and sauna for $3 more. The tour continued at 'don't worry I'm a police officer' speed while The Chief pointed out the Mafia hidouts to avoid, natural springs to collect free drinking water from, and all the other landmarks useful for the only western tourists in the region.
We decided to patronize cheapest pool in town, just to round out our exposure to modern Bulgarian culture. I don't think we could've done any better: swimming and lazing beside a half-full Soviet pool, with rainbow budgie smugglers (Australian for 'speedo') and bulging waistlines everywhere ... Cheers! ... And here's hoping the hike we've planned for tomorrow into the forests and farmlands around Varshets will provide more photogenic scenery.
Sander
Pinch my bum and call me Mustafa....
July 3, 2011
Göreme, Turkey, is a magical town, carved right into the bizarre landscape. Between rocky valleys with formations that look like whipped strawberry cream, are expansive clusters of great golden stone spires. These natural formations, some reaching 5 stories in height, have been hollowed out, smattered with window-holes, and house everything from pigeon shit to hotel guests. Pleased to check "sleep in the coolest cave ever" off my bucket list, I picked a place that boasted a stunning view and had flushing toilets. Also, the owner agreed that the kitten Sander was trying to conceal in his shirt pocket could stay as well. We had accidentally adopted a flea-bitten street kitten twenty minutes prior, and had become rather attached. His royal cuteness was in need of a shampoo and a good meal, just like the rest of us. We drank Turkish tea and Feta slurped homemade kitten milk, while the cave-hostel owner explained that 'love' was the extra laundry ingredient that made his whites whiter. I sipped at my tea and reflected upon life's plentiful curiosities as Sander tried to teach the kitten to use an iPhone.
We spent the days hiking through bewitching hills, fresco covered caves, garden-filled valleys, while the temptations of cheap wine and good company (or was it the other way around) got the better of us in the evenings. The days stared late and ended late, like all good travel days do. Of serious note was the seriously good Turkish food in a cave run by Mustafa. Sander and I ventured in for dinner, and found no menus and no prices. "You can pay me whatever you have", he said "and I will cook for you until you say 'stop'". Unlike the name Mustafa, this style of service is decidedly unusual in Turkey. Needless to say, the plates kept coming even after we begged for mercy, and Mustafa only agreed to write us a 'bill' if we returned the following day for cooking lessons. Wishing there had been more hours of dedicated fasting between then and the time that Sander and I returned for lessons, I prepared myself for the 'one for the saucepan, one for me' style of Turkish cooking. We started by hitting the "big" weekly Wednesday market, which turned out to be about 20 vendor stalls hastily set up by the Post Office, most of which were brimming with delicious local fruits and veggies. The rest were dedicated to assorted toiletries and underwear your grandmother would be embarrassed to wear. Resisting the temptation to buy supplies for the making of a hilarious but functional emergency parachute, we left with armloads of fresh produce instead. Sander scribbled furious notes and I crushed the occasional garlic clove while Mustafa chopped, diced, sauteed, rolled, roasted, and baked our ingredients into a Turkish repast of epic proportions. With the help of some Australian girls who had impeccable timing, we finished all of the food that we'd managed to create, and limped away with bellies stuffed and arms full of leftovers. Cooking aside, I was feeling a little art-restless. Forgive me, friends and family, for saying that I could spend a lifetime moving; waking up in new and unfamiliar places. I've missed the company of several people, but haven't been homesick for an instant. I diagnosed myself with what I would call studiosick. A lack of place to spread out the tools of creation, (and an additional series of spaces where I make a mess of those same tools, even though I'm not supposed to) had left me feeling a little empty. Sketching only gets you so far when you're used to splattering paint, inadvertently staining household objects and pets, and using aerosols in improperly ventilated areas. Nearing our proposed final days in Göreme I met my savior by stumbling into the workshop/studio cave of a local leathercraftsman. His name is Kori and his cave was full of leather, jewelry, glasswork, and paintings. It turned out to be what can best be described as an artist collective; people coming and going, shoppers and artists, everyone welcome. I built them a massive bead loom from scrap lumber and borrowed nails (okay, so I pulled them out of old buildings), and Kori tutored me in the finer points of leather stamping and binding. In the two days I spent in the art-cave, I met a linonophobic cellist, a stone carver who specialized in headstones, a mute carpet weaver, and the town drunk who turned out to be an exceptionally talented painter. We drank tea, strung beads, sketched ideas, hammered leather, and chatted about art (except for the mute guy, obviously. He just watched). I left my misfit collective weaving dream catchers in the art-cave the following day, and Sander and I headed west - we are Bulgaria bound.
Slaughter.
Friday, July 29, 2011
An ass like Freddie Murcury....
June 28, 2011
Good morning, my name's Sarah. Did you know that you snore AND talk in your sleep?" Sander grinned from behind his coffee cup, watching me try to butter up the big bearded guy next to us, who was in control of the breakfast table's only salt shaker. With Asia and it's deliciously cheap ramshackle bungalows well behind us, it had been time to suck it up and go old school: dormroom accommodations. This landed me, predictably, toe-to-toe with the worlds most amusing sleep talkers, farters, droolers, mumblers, coughers, and snorers. The big bearded guy eyed me maliciously, so I recovered smoothly with something like "...but it's okay, I have a brother, and you're only HALF as bad as that loud bastard in bed three". It worked! The salt shaker was mine, and that's how we met Ted and Becky. With these two Americans, who both live and teach in Switzerland, we exercised our mutual adoration of good food and Scrabble from the rooftops of Istanbul. Imagine, if you will, four new friends linked at the elbows skipping through cobblestone streets in slow motion, to 'Good Day Sunshine' by the Beatles ... Ted's beard flowing majestically in the summer breeze. After a moment like that, how could we possibly part ways? They were in Turkey to hike the famed Lycian Trail, one of the "best walks in the world" according to Becky ... and how about we just go with them? 'Yeah,' I thought, 'a walk! Let's do it. We have no hiking gear, no closed-toed shoes, and we've been drinking beer on the beach for 2 months...' How hard could it be? Did I google it? No. What does it say?
.... [The Lycian way] is a 509km long rocky mule trail/foot path around the coast of southern Turkey, from Fethiye to Antalya. The route is graded medium to extremely hard; it is not level walking, and has many ascents and descents as it approaches and veers away from high cliffs over the sea. It is easier at the start and gets more difficult as it progresses. Should be attempted in February-May or September-November; summer in Lycia is too hot ....
Yup. Sounds like a "walk", doesn't it? Expecting a mild meander through the grasslands we bought hiking boots, 1/4" sleeping foamies (skipped the tent), and were 'gifted' socks from the guy who found boots big enough for my size 39 (gasp!) feet. Off we went. In the middle of June. With Sander's backpack stuffed full of important but nonessential hiking items (like my exotic collection of Cambodian horror flicks and a toothbrush) left in a lockbox in a hostel, we had one 18kilo pack and one Dora The Explorer knapsack, which we borrowed from Ted, full of food for four people.
Day One featured spectacular views of the Mediterranean from teetering seaside cliffs, very sore quads, and a brilliant orange sunset from a goat-herders shack. I spent most of Day Two maintaining my motivation by imagining myself racing Freddie Murcury on a stairmaster and wishing I'd packed at least one sparkly sweatband. Midday break rolled around and the temperature hit 43 degrees celsius. Predictably, I was sitting in my underwear with my feet in one of the trail's drinking water fountains, while everyone else lounged in the shade. Right as I started washing my only athletic-bra in a ziplock bag full of soapy spring water, a 19 year old Swiss boy trekked by. Readers: meet Luke. Fresh out of Switzerland's mandatory military training, carrying twice his weight on his back, and grinning ear-to-ear while doing it ... he hiked with us for the rest of the trip. That evening saw all five of us sneaking one-by-one into a posh seaside resort for showers and then sleeping open-air on the beach with the tide breaking at our toes. Well, Sander and I did. Ted, Becky, and Luke camped on a grassy plateau in their snazzy tents, from where we could still hear Ted's illustrious snoring. For Day Three we were up at the ungodly hour of 5:30am to beat the heat on a climb that would take us up over 900m in a mere 3km. We put nine hours of solid hiking in that day, with a single break for midday tea at a home nestled near the peak. During our wicked climb, we stumbled upon the only other person insane enough to climb in mid-June: Roc, a Slovenian trekking solo with a classical guitar strapped to his bulging backpack. He charmed the local family with his serious musical skills before taking off, keeping a wildly aggressive pace for a guy who looked like the love child of Harry Potter and John Lennon. Meanwhile Luke, the boy of boundless energy, played soccer (an empty 2L pop bottle as the 'ball') with the youngest son. We rolled into a tiny town late that evening, hungry, tired, and chaffed in unspeakable places. Thankfully, the first person we asked (in charades and broken Turkish) for direction to a camp site, invited us to set up on the flat-top roof of his corner store. We offered him money, he refused, and cooked us dinner instead. With a birds eye view of the cutest town on earth, we settled in and devoured all of the sweet snacks we'd bought from the shop. If I have to eat three chocolate bars to say 'thank you' for your hospitality, so be it. We bypassed a portion of the trail by hitching a ride with a local bee-keeper in the back of his sticky pickup truck to the next town, which is perched on the best sandy beach Turkey has. A mostly empty 18km stretch of sand gave the four of us ample space to set up camp, nestled between huge dunes, and watch the stars blaze as the night hours ticked by. Having taken a vote and the time to inspect Ted's blistering toes (most of which were in danger of falling right off) we pulled off the trail and rejoined civilization. The Internet, hot showers, and relatively comfortable beds awaited all. We gave our legs a much-needed break by sea kayaking over the ruins of a sunken city, and hoisting well-deserved pints all the way to our lips. Exhausting work, that bit. Having developed a bum like an underage rockstar after days of sweating into my ugly hiking boots was as good an outcome as one could hope for. Sander and I bid our companions goodbye and are headed for the 'faerie chimneys' and bizarre sweeping hills of Goreme, central Turkey, for more vertical punishment. We have hiking boots now, after all.
Slaughter.
Good morning, my name's Sarah. Did you know that you snore AND talk in your sleep?" Sander grinned from behind his coffee cup, watching me try to butter up the big bearded guy next to us, who was in control of the breakfast table's only salt shaker. With Asia and it's deliciously cheap ramshackle bungalows well behind us, it had been time to suck it up and go old school: dormroom accommodations. This landed me, predictably, toe-to-toe with the worlds most amusing sleep talkers, farters, droolers, mumblers, coughers, and snorers. The big bearded guy eyed me maliciously, so I recovered smoothly with something like "...but it's okay, I have a brother, and you're only HALF as bad as that loud bastard in bed three". It worked! The salt shaker was mine, and that's how we met Ted and Becky. With these two Americans, who both live and teach in Switzerland, we exercised our mutual adoration of good food and Scrabble from the rooftops of Istanbul. Imagine, if you will, four new friends linked at the elbows skipping through cobblestone streets in slow motion, to 'Good Day Sunshine' by the Beatles ... Ted's beard flowing majestically in the summer breeze. After a moment like that, how could we possibly part ways? They were in Turkey to hike the famed Lycian Trail, one of the "best walks in the world" according to Becky ... and how about we just go with them? 'Yeah,' I thought, 'a walk! Let's do it. We have no hiking gear, no closed-toed shoes, and we've been drinking beer on the beach for 2 months...' How hard could it be? Did I google it? No. What does it say?
.... [The Lycian way] is a 509km long rocky mule trail/foot path around the coast of southern Turkey, from Fethiye to Antalya. The route is graded medium to extremely hard; it is not level walking, and has many ascents and descents as it approaches and veers away from high cliffs over the sea. It is easier at the start and gets more difficult as it progresses. Should be attempted in February-May or September-November; summer in Lycia is too hot ....
Yup. Sounds like a "walk", doesn't it? Expecting a mild meander through the grasslands we bought hiking boots, 1/4" sleeping foamies (skipped the tent), and were 'gifted' socks from the guy who found boots big enough for my size 39 (gasp!) feet. Off we went. In the middle of June. With Sander's backpack stuffed full of important but nonessential hiking items (like my exotic collection of Cambodian horror flicks and a toothbrush) left in a lockbox in a hostel, we had one 18kilo pack and one Dora The Explorer knapsack, which we borrowed from Ted, full of food for four people.
Day One featured spectacular views of the Mediterranean from teetering seaside cliffs, very sore quads, and a brilliant orange sunset from a goat-herders shack. I spent most of Day Two maintaining my motivation by imagining myself racing Freddie Murcury on a stairmaster and wishing I'd packed at least one sparkly sweatband. Midday break rolled around and the temperature hit 43 degrees celsius. Predictably, I was sitting in my underwear with my feet in one of the trail's drinking water fountains, while everyone else lounged in the shade. Right as I started washing my only athletic-bra in a ziplock bag full of soapy spring water, a 19 year old Swiss boy trekked by. Readers: meet Luke. Fresh out of Switzerland's mandatory military training, carrying twice his weight on his back, and grinning ear-to-ear while doing it ... he hiked with us for the rest of the trip. That evening saw all five of us sneaking one-by-one into a posh seaside resort for showers and then sleeping open-air on the beach with the tide breaking at our toes. Well, Sander and I did. Ted, Becky, and Luke camped on a grassy plateau in their snazzy tents, from where we could still hear Ted's illustrious snoring. For Day Three we were up at the ungodly hour of 5:30am to beat the heat on a climb that would take us up over 900m in a mere 3km. We put nine hours of solid hiking in that day, with a single break for midday tea at a home nestled near the peak. During our wicked climb, we stumbled upon the only other person insane enough to climb in mid-June: Roc, a Slovenian trekking solo with a classical guitar strapped to his bulging backpack. He charmed the local family with his serious musical skills before taking off, keeping a wildly aggressive pace for a guy who looked like the love child of Harry Potter and John Lennon. Meanwhile Luke, the boy of boundless energy, played soccer (an empty 2L pop bottle as the 'ball') with the youngest son. We rolled into a tiny town late that evening, hungry, tired, and chaffed in unspeakable places. Thankfully, the first person we asked (in charades and broken Turkish) for direction to a camp site, invited us to set up on the flat-top roof of his corner store. We offered him money, he refused, and cooked us dinner instead. With a birds eye view of the cutest town on earth, we settled in and devoured all of the sweet snacks we'd bought from the shop. If I have to eat three chocolate bars to say 'thank you' for your hospitality, so be it. We bypassed a portion of the trail by hitching a ride with a local bee-keeper in the back of his sticky pickup truck to the next town, which is perched on the best sandy beach Turkey has. A mostly empty 18km stretch of sand gave the four of us ample space to set up camp, nestled between huge dunes, and watch the stars blaze as the night hours ticked by. Having taken a vote and the time to inspect Ted's blistering toes (most of which were in danger of falling right off) we pulled off the trail and rejoined civilization. The Internet, hot showers, and relatively comfortable beds awaited all. We gave our legs a much-needed break by sea kayaking over the ruins of a sunken city, and hoisting well-deserved pints all the way to our lips. Exhausting work, that bit. Having developed a bum like an underage rockstar after days of sweating into my ugly hiking boots was as good an outcome as one could hope for. Sander and I bid our companions goodbye and are headed for the 'faerie chimneys' and bizarre sweeping hills of Goreme, central Turkey, for more vertical punishment. We have hiking boots now, after all.
Slaughter.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
I, the Empress ....
June 27, 2011
It turns out that May has 31 days, which in itself, is not really important unless, say, you were supposed to leave the country after 30 days and you overlooked this ity-bitty detail. I discovered that punctuality, as it pertains to visas, is important to Indonesian authorities as they escorted me through their secure area. I've always wanted an armed escort ... of course, the lack of ankle shackles or epic music really dumbed down the experience. I received a tongue-lashing from a guy who looked like he hosted a bird sanctuary in his mustache, and a fine of about twenty Canadian dollars before boarding a plane bound for Turkey. Why Turkey? Why not! One decent seat-sale later we arrived in Istanbul looking like the scuzzy SE Asia backpackers we are. Needing desperately to blend into the super-chic cityscape, I showered up and thought (briefly) about combing my hair. Since looking cultured wasn't going to happen, I decided to take in some culture, instead. Sander and I headed directly to the crown jewel of Constantinople: the Aya Sofya. Yes, my dedicated reader, you are about to learn some history. The Aya Sofya is a former Orthodox patriarchal basilica, later a mosque, and now a museum in Istanbul. From the date of its dedication in 360 until 1453, it served as the Greek Patriarchal cathedral of Constantinople. That said, what we are looking at today is the third-build. The Patriarch Constantinople pissed off the wife of the emperor and was sent into exile in 404. During the subsequent riots, this first church was burnt to the ground. Don't mess with the ladies. The second-build was obliterated in 532 during the ultra-violent Nika Revolt. A politically motivated and angry populace watching chariot races finally lashed out: by the end of the days races, the partisan chants had changed from "Blue" or "Green" (the competing factions) to a unified Nίκα ("Conquer!") The crowds broke out of the hippodrome and began to assault the palace, killing tens of thousands of people, and destroying over half of the city, including the poor 'lil Aya Sofya. Instead of fleeing, the Emperor hatched a plan that involved a popular eunuch, some well trained generals, and a bag of gold. MacGyver, much? All that was missing was duct tape and Swiss Army knife. The Blues took the gold, the Greens sat stunned, then Imperial troops stormed the Hippodrome and killed the remaining rebels. BOOM. He then rebuilt Constantinople and the Aya Sofya, and was free to establish his rule. Nowadays this architectural masterpiece boasts a super-sexy 32 m dome, several 20 meter high solid granite columns weighing over 70 tons each, marbles of every auspicious color imported from faraway lands, and a never-ending collection of glittering pre- and post-iconoclastic mosaics that would make King Solomon himself pee his finest robes. Nothing like it was even attempted for nearly a thousand years ... and I was there. I stood high in the Upper Gallery upon the circular green stone that marked the position of the Empress. I laid my gaze upon the tiny people moving about the Great Hall far below, wondering whether it would be best to be a ruler who was greatly feared or dearly loved. Sarah the Tyrant, or Sarah the Not-So-Tyrannical-Tyrant? Surrounded by nothing short of architectural perfection, I was lost in imaginings of revolutions and royal jewelry, conquered lands and exotic fruits. I had just come to choosing the name of my undoubtedly magnificent war horse, when the 8 year old kid beside me pulled a huge glistening green booger out if his nose and wiped it on the mosaic in from of him. I would have had him drawn and quartered, the little bastard. Decidedly 'Empress Sarah the Tyrant', I left the Aya Sofya calm and artistically fulfilled.
Slaughter.
It turns out that May has 31 days, which in itself, is not really important unless, say, you were supposed to leave the country after 30 days and you overlooked this ity-bitty detail. I discovered that punctuality, as it pertains to visas, is important to Indonesian authorities as they escorted me through their secure area. I've always wanted an armed escort ... of course, the lack of ankle shackles or epic music really dumbed down the experience. I received a tongue-lashing from a guy who looked like he hosted a bird sanctuary in his mustache, and a fine of about twenty Canadian dollars before boarding a plane bound for Turkey. Why Turkey? Why not! One decent seat-sale later we arrived in Istanbul looking like the scuzzy SE Asia backpackers we are. Needing desperately to blend into the super-chic cityscape, I showered up and thought (briefly) about combing my hair. Since looking cultured wasn't going to happen, I decided to take in some culture, instead. Sander and I headed directly to the crown jewel of Constantinople: the Aya Sofya. Yes, my dedicated reader, you are about to learn some history. The Aya Sofya is a former Orthodox patriarchal basilica, later a mosque, and now a museum in Istanbul. From the date of its dedication in 360 until 1453, it served as the Greek Patriarchal cathedral of Constantinople. That said, what we are looking at today is the third-build. The Patriarch Constantinople pissed off the wife of the emperor and was sent into exile in 404. During the subsequent riots, this first church was burnt to the ground. Don't mess with the ladies. The second-build was obliterated in 532 during the ultra-violent Nika Revolt. A politically motivated and angry populace watching chariot races finally lashed out: by the end of the days races, the partisan chants had changed from "Blue" or "Green" (the competing factions) to a unified Nίκα ("Conquer!") The crowds broke out of the hippodrome and began to assault the palace, killing tens of thousands of people, and destroying over half of the city, including the poor 'lil Aya Sofya. Instead of fleeing, the Emperor hatched a plan that involved a popular eunuch, some well trained generals, and a bag of gold. MacGyver, much? All that was missing was duct tape and Swiss Army knife. The Blues took the gold, the Greens sat stunned, then Imperial troops stormed the Hippodrome and killed the remaining rebels. BOOM. He then rebuilt Constantinople and the Aya Sofya, and was free to establish his rule. Nowadays this architectural masterpiece boasts a super-sexy 32 m dome, several 20 meter high solid granite columns weighing over 70 tons each, marbles of every auspicious color imported from faraway lands, and a never-ending collection of glittering pre- and post-iconoclastic mosaics that would make King Solomon himself pee his finest robes. Nothing like it was even attempted for nearly a thousand years ... and I was there. I stood high in the Upper Gallery upon the circular green stone that marked the position of the Empress. I laid my gaze upon the tiny people moving about the Great Hall far below, wondering whether it would be best to be a ruler who was greatly feared or dearly loved. Sarah the Tyrant, or Sarah the Not-So-Tyrannical-Tyrant? Surrounded by nothing short of architectural perfection, I was lost in imaginings of revolutions and royal jewelry, conquered lands and exotic fruits. I had just come to choosing the name of my undoubtedly magnificent war horse, when the 8 year old kid beside me pulled a huge glistening green booger out if his nose and wiped it on the mosaic in from of him. I would have had him drawn and quartered, the little bastard. Decidedly 'Empress Sarah the Tyrant', I left the Aya Sofya calm and artistically fulfilled.
Slaughter.
Devotin' full time to floatin' under the Sea!
June 19, 2011
I'll begin this blog by profusely apologizing for the delay in producing this tome, which covers 3 weeks of our trip. Normally the A.D.D. nature of our travels leads to clear topic changes every 3-4 days. In this case, a single pursuit has occupied our time: Diving.
After 3 days of relaxed but average diving north-west of Lombok, in the Gili Islands, we made for Labuan Bajo, on this island of Flores. This town gives off vibes of a mid 19th century frontier town, with dilapidated wooden boardwalks, dust whirling into every pore and tearduct, and hanging signs rife with misspellings (granted, its a matter of Ye Olde English vs no English). We made ourselves comfortable in the most affordable shack in town, left the rats to arrange our belonging as they saw fit, and set out to find ourselves a boat.
We committed to 6 days of diving with an outfit called Bajo Dive Club, purely on a whim. 3 days of diving on the daily boat, and 3 days of diving aboard the Bajo II live-aboard. Rumors led us to believe that the diving around Komodo and Rinca was spectacular, but nothing prepared us for what was actually under the water. Our first guide, Joey, took us to a calm and sheltered reef to assess our abilities. We were both expecting this dive to be underwhelming, as is normally the case on assessment dives. I dipped my head under water and nearly lost my regulator as my jaw dropped. The slope was completely filled with color stolen from every possible point on the rainbow. While many of the corals I had seen before, it was the density that really blew me away. Every inch of space was covered in wavy, spiny, branching, or plating corals. There wasn't even anywhere to hold on briefly in order to snap a photo or catch a really close-up look.
Day two introduced us to an entirely new level of diving; swimming with the Manta Ray. These beasts grow up to 5m across and just as long, and swim effortlessly against currents pushing 10 knots; usually making ground where lowly divers need to hold onto rocks and their masks just to remain stationary. In lesser currents they simply hover, seemingly, without moving to take advantage of reef critters feasting on parasites and dead skin. A lucky drift left me directly under the path of one such Manta and I tried in vain to slow down my breathing as the spaceship cruised over me by no more than a meter. Not to be outdone, on day four, Sarah involved herself in a "Manta Sandwich" with one above and one below, narrowly avoiding a collision at 25m below sea level. We promptly repeated the dive an hour later to give me a chance to raise the stakes once more, but to no avail. The Sarah-Manta sandwich will stand, for now, against all our diving experiences to date as by far the most epic. To this day, Sarah insists one of them asked for her autograph as it grazed her cheek.
After 3 days porting out of Labuan Bajo, we packed our bags and boarded the Bajo II for a 3 day dive 'safari' to the farther reaches of the Komodo National Marine Park. With cabins for 6, we expected company, but what we found on board seemed too contrived for fiction. Our boat mates for 3 days were destined to be a mid-50's restauranteur, balding (ragged cul-de-sac style) and overweight, and his Thai 'friend' 20 years his junior, with english broken into more pieces than Humpty Dumpty. I smelled a fish... and not just the dead one floating in the harbor. Once the conversation steered to the behavior of their dog 'barbie' I was satisfied this was mutual, and not the typical 'arrangement' we have encountered throughout Asia. This unlikely pair and their bizarre habits made for a memorable trip.
After 3 dives a day for 3 days, just after 6 dives over 3 days, and the Gili's before that, I felt like I was sprouting gills. We had seen over 50 manta rays, Napoleon wrasse, Grey reef shark, white and black tip sharks, groupers, giant trevally, sweetlips, octopus, eagle rays, and sea fans as big as me; drifted in currents of almost 15 knots over and under mantas and through coral gardens like nothing Ive ever seen. Diving Komodo was easily one of the most special things I've ever done.
After 7 days in Labuan Bajo, we hopped over to Borneo, into the Malaysian province of Sabah, to do some more diving at the world renowned site of Sipadan. The only hiccup in the whole plan, was that we did not have a permit to dive Sipidan specifically; and at a site patrolled by the Malaysian coast guard, that apparently matters. Instead of diving the famous site, we spent 4 days languishing on the the waiting list, diving other nearby sites to pass the time. While the caliber of diving was nowhere near that of Komodo, the range of absolutely bizzare creatures under the water in Borneo was stunning. Over 4 days we saw all sorts of amazingly adapted cretins such at frogfish, ghost pipefish, common octopus, cuttlefish, mandarin dragonet, and more types of shrimp than a Louisiana BBQ. Having missed out on our permits for Sipadan, and our diving budget running out fast, we called it quits on Asia, and booked a flight to the cheapest destination west of Iraq: Istanbul.
Sitting on the plane, looking out over the tarmac and waving 'goodbye for now' to Asia, I looked over at Sarah... "Do we need Visa's for Turkey?"
Sander
I'll begin this blog by profusely apologizing for the delay in producing this tome, which covers 3 weeks of our trip. Normally the A.D.D. nature of our travels leads to clear topic changes every 3-4 days. In this case, a single pursuit has occupied our time: Diving.
After 3 days of relaxed but average diving north-west of Lombok, in the Gili Islands, we made for Labuan Bajo, on this island of Flores. This town gives off vibes of a mid 19th century frontier town, with dilapidated wooden boardwalks, dust whirling into every pore and tearduct, and hanging signs rife with misspellings (granted, its a matter of Ye Olde English vs no English). We made ourselves comfortable in the most affordable shack in town, left the rats to arrange our belonging as they saw fit, and set out to find ourselves a boat.
We committed to 6 days of diving with an outfit called Bajo Dive Club, purely on a whim. 3 days of diving on the daily boat, and 3 days of diving aboard the Bajo II live-aboard. Rumors led us to believe that the diving around Komodo and Rinca was spectacular, but nothing prepared us for what was actually under the water. Our first guide, Joey, took us to a calm and sheltered reef to assess our abilities. We were both expecting this dive to be underwhelming, as is normally the case on assessment dives. I dipped my head under water and nearly lost my regulator as my jaw dropped. The slope was completely filled with color stolen from every possible point on the rainbow. While many of the corals I had seen before, it was the density that really blew me away. Every inch of space was covered in wavy, spiny, branching, or plating corals. There wasn't even anywhere to hold on briefly in order to snap a photo or catch a really close-up look.
Day two introduced us to an entirely new level of diving; swimming with the Manta Ray. These beasts grow up to 5m across and just as long, and swim effortlessly against currents pushing 10 knots; usually making ground where lowly divers need to hold onto rocks and their masks just to remain stationary. In lesser currents they simply hover, seemingly, without moving to take advantage of reef critters feasting on parasites and dead skin. A lucky drift left me directly under the path of one such Manta and I tried in vain to slow down my breathing as the spaceship cruised over me by no more than a meter. Not to be outdone, on day four, Sarah involved herself in a "Manta Sandwich" with one above and one below, narrowly avoiding a collision at 25m below sea level. We promptly repeated the dive an hour later to give me a chance to raise the stakes once more, but to no avail. The Sarah-Manta sandwich will stand, for now, against all our diving experiences to date as by far the most epic. To this day, Sarah insists one of them asked for her autograph as it grazed her cheek.
After 3 days porting out of Labuan Bajo, we packed our bags and boarded the Bajo II for a 3 day dive 'safari' to the farther reaches of the Komodo National Marine Park. With cabins for 6, we expected company, but what we found on board seemed too contrived for fiction. Our boat mates for 3 days were destined to be a mid-50's restauranteur, balding (ragged cul-de-sac style) and overweight, and his Thai 'friend' 20 years his junior, with english broken into more pieces than Humpty Dumpty. I smelled a fish... and not just the dead one floating in the harbor. Once the conversation steered to the behavior of their dog 'barbie' I was satisfied this was mutual, and not the typical 'arrangement' we have encountered throughout Asia. This unlikely pair and their bizarre habits made for a memorable trip.
After 3 dives a day for 3 days, just after 6 dives over 3 days, and the Gili's before that, I felt like I was sprouting gills. We had seen over 50 manta rays, Napoleon wrasse, Grey reef shark, white and black tip sharks, groupers, giant trevally, sweetlips, octopus, eagle rays, and sea fans as big as me; drifted in currents of almost 15 knots over and under mantas and through coral gardens like nothing Ive ever seen. Diving Komodo was easily one of the most special things I've ever done.
After 7 days in Labuan Bajo, we hopped over to Borneo, into the Malaysian province of Sabah, to do some more diving at the world renowned site of Sipadan. The only hiccup in the whole plan, was that we did not have a permit to dive Sipidan specifically; and at a site patrolled by the Malaysian coast guard, that apparently matters. Instead of diving the famous site, we spent 4 days languishing on the the waiting list, diving other nearby sites to pass the time. While the caliber of diving was nowhere near that of Komodo, the range of absolutely bizzare creatures under the water in Borneo was stunning. Over 4 days we saw all sorts of amazingly adapted cretins such at frogfish, ghost pipefish, common octopus, cuttlefish, mandarin dragonet, and more types of shrimp than a Louisiana BBQ. Having missed out on our permits for Sipadan, and our diving budget running out fast, we called it quits on Asia, and booked a flight to the cheapest destination west of Iraq: Istanbul.
Sitting on the plane, looking out over the tarmac and waving 'goodbye for now' to Asia, I looked over at Sarah... "Do we need Visa's for Turkey?"
Sander
Thursday, June 16, 2011
From Rags to Ritzy
June 5, 2011
Our transportation 'package' began to stray slightly from the brochure once we left Bromo. In Yogyakarta we had procured AC transport to Bali, with a stop half way to see the famous Mt. Bromo. The nice AC bus turned into a minibus, which turned into a 15 passenger sardine can, which turned into a sweatbox local bus. The arrival time moved from 7pm, to 10 pm, then finally to 2am.
ASIDE: I've been swindled more in Indonesia than any other country, but for some reason it hasn't bothered me in the least. It's all still outrageously cheap, and given the lack of available alternate services, I likely would have paid more if they asked. I think it has to do with the Indonesian tendency to be 'yes' people. If you ask directions, they will give you some, regardless of whether they know the way or not. And if you ask for climate controlled transport to another island, they will sell you something, whether or not they can actually provide it. It's quite an ironic twist, but in my head, Indonesians screw you because they're friendly. END ASIDE.
We got off the bus, bleary eyed and grumpy, only to find that all the hostels in the area were all full. We were kicking ourselves for not packing a tent... that's what could have happened, but here's what actually happened:
We were greeted by Agung, staff driver for the Villa Uman Niepi; welcomed with glasses of ice water, and put down to sleep in pillowy soft beds and delicious air conditioning. That's right... Ice water!!
The villa is owned by Theodoor Bakker, an old friend of my dad, who has been working in Indonesia most of his life; Lawyer, sailor, and chief returning officer for Dutch nationals in Indonesia. That sounds like a lot to handle, but typically only about 20 people vote in any given election. It does, however, look very good on a CV. Even after not seeing each other for almost 40 years, upon hearing we were in the area, he insisted that we come by to stay a few nights.
We spent 4 days relaxing by the pool, strolling the streets of Ubud, and indulging in the delicious meals prepared by the Villa staff. Classically huge Indonesian feasts of curries, vegetables, peanut sauce, tofu, tempe, chicken, fish and/or duck. A world apart from the Aussie flooded beaches of Kuta. The stay in the villa felt like a vacation in a vacation. In the lap of luxury or a few short days before returning to the standard saggy double bed, clinging mosquito net and humming ceiling fan.
As time ticked away on our visas, we finally resolved to leave the villa and continue our trek east. Stops included: the Gili islands, a set of three small islands off the northwest coast of Lombok; Rantung beach, a small surfer village on the south coast of Sumbawa; and a very brief evening in the town of Bima, where we actually did have to sleep in the bus station waiting for an early morning shuttle to the ferry. There, unfortunately, was no luxury villa in the vicinity to crash at. (While the Gilis and Sumbawa were spectacular destinations, our activities included sitting, tanning, drinking and swimming... Not much to write about :-) ). Two weeks after leaving the cocoon of Ubud, we arrived in Labuan Bajo, capital of Flores, and port for some of the most mind-blasting diving on the planet.
Sander
Our transportation 'package' began to stray slightly from the brochure once we left Bromo. In Yogyakarta we had procured AC transport to Bali, with a stop half way to see the famous Mt. Bromo. The nice AC bus turned into a minibus, which turned into a 15 passenger sardine can, which turned into a sweatbox local bus. The arrival time moved from 7pm, to 10 pm, then finally to 2am.
ASIDE: I've been swindled more in Indonesia than any other country, but for some reason it hasn't bothered me in the least. It's all still outrageously cheap, and given the lack of available alternate services, I likely would have paid more if they asked. I think it has to do with the Indonesian tendency to be 'yes' people. If you ask directions, they will give you some, regardless of whether they know the way or not. And if you ask for climate controlled transport to another island, they will sell you something, whether or not they can actually provide it. It's quite an ironic twist, but in my head, Indonesians screw you because they're friendly. END ASIDE.
We got off the bus, bleary eyed and grumpy, only to find that all the hostels in the area were all full. We were kicking ourselves for not packing a tent... that's what could have happened, but here's what actually happened:
We were greeted by Agung, staff driver for the Villa Uman Niepi; welcomed with glasses of ice water, and put down to sleep in pillowy soft beds and delicious air conditioning. That's right... Ice water!!
The villa is owned by Theodoor Bakker, an old friend of my dad, who has been working in Indonesia most of his life; Lawyer, sailor, and chief returning officer for Dutch nationals in Indonesia. That sounds like a lot to handle, but typically only about 20 people vote in any given election. It does, however, look very good on a CV. Even after not seeing each other for almost 40 years, upon hearing we were in the area, he insisted that we come by to stay a few nights.
We spent 4 days relaxing by the pool, strolling the streets of Ubud, and indulging in the delicious meals prepared by the Villa staff. Classically huge Indonesian feasts of curries, vegetables, peanut sauce, tofu, tempe, chicken, fish and/or duck. A world apart from the Aussie flooded beaches of Kuta. The stay in the villa felt like a vacation in a vacation. In the lap of luxury or a few short days before returning to the standard saggy double bed, clinging mosquito net and humming ceiling fan.
As time ticked away on our visas, we finally resolved to leave the villa and continue our trek east. Stops included: the Gili islands, a set of three small islands off the northwest coast of Lombok; Rantung beach, a small surfer village on the south coast of Sumbawa; and a very brief evening in the town of Bima, where we actually did have to sleep in the bus station waiting for an early morning shuttle to the ferry. There, unfortunately, was no luxury villa in the vicinity to crash at. (While the Gilis and Sumbawa were spectacular destinations, our activities included sitting, tanning, drinking and swimming... Not much to write about :-) ). Two weeks after leaving the cocoon of Ubud, we arrived in Labuan Bajo, capital of Flores, and port for some of the most mind-blasting diving on the planet.
Sander
Location:Bali/Lombok
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Barefoot in warm volcanic ash...
May 20, 2011
Best I figure, all God does is watch us and kill us when we get boring. Thus, it is very VERY important that we never become boring. With that in mind I dragged myself out of bed at 3:30am to hike up an active volcano. Already at an elevation of 2300m and perched on a slope in eastern Java, Indonesia, my feet were cold for the first time in Asia. Everyone in our small group fitted up with heavy jackets, and hiking boots ... I slipped on my flip-flops. 'No sense - no feeling', my parents are fond if saying. Maybe a few frozen toes would be the coolest sacrifice the lonely volcano gods would have received in decades? Maybe, as a friend told me once, everything is just better in bare feet. Five of us stuffed our shivering selves into the back if a 4x4 designed to seat two, and we set off towards the smoking mountain in the pre-dawn darkness. Out the rattling windows, it looked like M.C. Escher had thrown up all over the hills: the twisted road shimmies between cultured plots that are set at such extreme angles, you'd swear you were looking at them from directly above. I was busy calculating how many summersaults it would take to get to the bottom, and whether wearing a very big hat would factor into the equation, when we arrived at the base of the ancient crater. Up, up, and up we trekked - like that little dog pulling the Grinch's sleigh - only I had a granola bar, not a bunch of stolen Who-presents. At the top of the switchbacking trail, we perched ourselves precariously on a rock ledge, securing what I was convinced would be a prime view of the sunrising over the smoking Bromo. I wasn't at all prepared for what appeared as the sun crept skyward to our left. The sweeping and desolate crater directly below us was dominated by the soaring purple volcano at its center, as yellow clouds swept by. Black smoke rolled out of it's peak and its ash fell, while the twilight stars disappeared into a haunting orange sky. Otherworldly and breathtaking, it was everything all at once: the writhing goop of primordial creation, the smoldering hours of a post-apocalyptic earth. Only one thing could have completed my soul shattering experience: a pint sized Sherpa with the La Pavoni EPBB-8 Europiccola 8-cup prized espresso machine and some go-cups strapped to his back. But, since we're always told we can't have everything, I settled for another granola bar and a few more minutes of perfect brewing silence. When it was light enough to match the shade if my toes to the violet stones of the trail, we scurried down to get closer to smoldering Bromo. Our 4x4 drove us through the great rolling planes of quiet grey ash, and dropped us near the base if the volcano. I flipped off my flops and dug my toes into the warm volcanic ash as we made fresh tracks past a partially buried temple and upwards into the strange canyons and sweeping dunes created by the shattering blast. Everything living was muted and dead, suspended under almost fluffy layers of ash that was falling like Christmas snow in the not-so-far distance. Everything is just better in bare feet. Getting closer and closer to the Tolkien-like stairs that the locals had carved out of the volcano side before it became active again in November 2010, we were turned back by resolute local men who were determined to save my lungs from being devoured by sulphuric gases. At the inclining slopes of Bromo I left my hand print in the cooling ash ... and added an extra finger, so that when aliens rediscover our obliterated earth, they will have some archaeological discrepancies to chat about over coffee.
Slaughter.
Best I figure, all God does is watch us and kill us when we get boring. Thus, it is very VERY important that we never become boring. With that in mind I dragged myself out of bed at 3:30am to hike up an active volcano. Already at an elevation of 2300m and perched on a slope in eastern Java, Indonesia, my feet were cold for the first time in Asia. Everyone in our small group fitted up with heavy jackets, and hiking boots ... I slipped on my flip-flops. 'No sense - no feeling', my parents are fond if saying. Maybe a few frozen toes would be the coolest sacrifice the lonely volcano gods would have received in decades? Maybe, as a friend told me once, everything is just better in bare feet. Five of us stuffed our shivering selves into the back if a 4x4 designed to seat two, and we set off towards the smoking mountain in the pre-dawn darkness. Out the rattling windows, it looked like M.C. Escher had thrown up all over the hills: the twisted road shimmies between cultured plots that are set at such extreme angles, you'd swear you were looking at them from directly above. I was busy calculating how many summersaults it would take to get to the bottom, and whether wearing a very big hat would factor into the equation, when we arrived at the base of the ancient crater. Up, up, and up we trekked - like that little dog pulling the Grinch's sleigh - only I had a granola bar, not a bunch of stolen Who-presents. At the top of the switchbacking trail, we perched ourselves precariously on a rock ledge, securing what I was convinced would be a prime view of the sunrising over the smoking Bromo. I wasn't at all prepared for what appeared as the sun crept skyward to our left. The sweeping and desolate crater directly below us was dominated by the soaring purple volcano at its center, as yellow clouds swept by. Black smoke rolled out of it's peak and its ash fell, while the twilight stars disappeared into a haunting orange sky. Otherworldly and breathtaking, it was everything all at once: the writhing goop of primordial creation, the smoldering hours of a post-apocalyptic earth. Only one thing could have completed my soul shattering experience: a pint sized Sherpa with the La Pavoni EPBB-8 Europiccola 8-cup prized espresso machine and some go-cups strapped to his back. But, since we're always told we can't have everything, I settled for another granola bar and a few more minutes of perfect brewing silence. When it was light enough to match the shade if my toes to the violet stones of the trail, we scurried down to get closer to smoldering Bromo. Our 4x4 drove us through the great rolling planes of quiet grey ash, and dropped us near the base if the volcano. I flipped off my flops and dug my toes into the warm volcanic ash as we made fresh tracks past a partially buried temple and upwards into the strange canyons and sweeping dunes created by the shattering blast. Everything living was muted and dead, suspended under almost fluffy layers of ash that was falling like Christmas snow in the not-so-far distance. Everything is just better in bare feet. Getting closer and closer to the Tolkien-like stairs that the locals had carved out of the volcano side before it became active again in November 2010, we were turned back by resolute local men who were determined to save my lungs from being devoured by sulphuric gases. At the inclining slopes of Bromo I left my hand print in the cooling ash ... and added an extra finger, so that when aliens rediscover our obliterated earth, they will have some archaeological discrepancies to chat about over coffee.
Slaughter.
Saturday, May 21, 2011
A Big Boat and a Big Lake
May 10, 2011
A tearful goodbye to Ibioh was followed by a taxi through the jungle, which led to a ferry across the water, which led to a 100 tonne freighter 4 km from the coast. The 2004 boxing day tsunami, while a distant memory for most of the world, has littered the city of Banda Aceh with daily reminders. The largest of which is an enormous electrical cable barge that was washed 4 km inland by the enormous wave. Miraculously, the boat settled upright and the one crewman that managed to stay aboard actually survived the ordeal unscathed. Standing in the bridge of the 4 story boat, I cant even see the water. The city, sprawling to the coast, was covered by 7 meters of water at the boat and as much as 20 meters nearer to downtown. Without the periodic immovable artifacts, you would not be able to tell. The homes and bridges have been rebuilt, the roads cleared, and the community grown tighter than ever. The only other reminders are the gruesome photo displays set up to remind people of the ocean's awesome power and to encourage donations to the reconstruction fund.
I spent only the single day in Banda Aceh before making my way to Danau Toba (lake Toba) and the forgotten island (technically a peninsula) of Samosir. I opted for the 'local bus' instead of the much more expensive 'executive' service. By the third stop to load various collections of livestock, produce and 'organic fertilizer', I regretted my decision. While it was very interesting to see how locals move about the country, I could tell that even they were beginning to gag on the rich, non conditioned air that was hanging in the bus. Thankfully the old woman with her bag of durian did not get hungry enough to start eating one (for those of you that know durian, you will sympathize, for those that don't, see wikipedia for an honest description of the fruit).
Lake Toba is an enormous lake, the result of what must have been a volcanic blast of epic proportions. The crater is over 100km long and 50km wide, with a second caldera (Samosir island) rising from it's center and filling about one third of the lake's area. The lake sits at a cool 950m above sea level, with the plateau of Samosir 200 meters higher; night time temperatures can actually dip below 15 degrees!! It was quite amazing to sleep under a blanket without the normally requisite AC.
Geographically, Samosir is quite an anomaly. It is an 'island' (technically it's connected to the mainland by a narrow isthmus, but who's keeping track?), in a lake, on an island, and has another lake on it. Still with me? It also repeats it's peninsular likeness to the east with another narrow isthmus and smaller peninsula called tuktuk. It's a veritable Matryoshka Doll of nature.
Tuktuk is the island's tourist center with 30-40 guesthouses and hotels lining the beach. The strange part was that there did not seem to be more than 30-40 people staying in all of tuktuk! What used to be a hippie hotspot, and host to full moon parties and throngs of foreigners has fallen victim to the rise of Bali as Indonesia's premiere tourist destination. The streets are quiet, the restaurants empty, and the prices so competitive that a night's stay can cost less than $3. I spent the days here touring the island on a small scooter. Visiting waterfalls, villages on the plateau, and dodging potholes on the one paved road that circles the island. On the rest of the roads, I was dodging asphalt bumps instead. I was greeted along the road by groups of young schoolchildren in their unmistakable uniforms, villagers offering songs on their bamboo flutes and buffaloes doing their part to clear the road of unwanted, but delicious, obstructions.
My stay on the island (on the lake, on the island) was magical, relaxing, and unbelievably scenic, but could not last for ever. With only a few days left before I would be re-united with Sarah, I started on my way to Jakarta... But with a short stop along the way.
Sander
A tearful goodbye to Ibioh was followed by a taxi through the jungle, which led to a ferry across the water, which led to a 100 tonne freighter 4 km from the coast. The 2004 boxing day tsunami, while a distant memory for most of the world, has littered the city of Banda Aceh with daily reminders. The largest of which is an enormous electrical cable barge that was washed 4 km inland by the enormous wave. Miraculously, the boat settled upright and the one crewman that managed to stay aboard actually survived the ordeal unscathed. Standing in the bridge of the 4 story boat, I cant even see the water. The city, sprawling to the coast, was covered by 7 meters of water at the boat and as much as 20 meters nearer to downtown. Without the periodic immovable artifacts, you would not be able to tell. The homes and bridges have been rebuilt, the roads cleared, and the community grown tighter than ever. The only other reminders are the gruesome photo displays set up to remind people of the ocean's awesome power and to encourage donations to the reconstruction fund.
I spent only the single day in Banda Aceh before making my way to Danau Toba (lake Toba) and the forgotten island (technically a peninsula) of Samosir. I opted for the 'local bus' instead of the much more expensive 'executive' service. By the third stop to load various collections of livestock, produce and 'organic fertilizer', I regretted my decision. While it was very interesting to see how locals move about the country, I could tell that even they were beginning to gag on the rich, non conditioned air that was hanging in the bus. Thankfully the old woman with her bag of durian did not get hungry enough to start eating one (for those of you that know durian, you will sympathize, for those that don't, see wikipedia for an honest description of the fruit).
Lake Toba is an enormous lake, the result of what must have been a volcanic blast of epic proportions. The crater is over 100km long and 50km wide, with a second caldera (Samosir island) rising from it's center and filling about one third of the lake's area. The lake sits at a cool 950m above sea level, with the plateau of Samosir 200 meters higher; night time temperatures can actually dip below 15 degrees!! It was quite amazing to sleep under a blanket without the normally requisite AC.
Geographically, Samosir is quite an anomaly. It is an 'island' (technically it's connected to the mainland by a narrow isthmus, but who's keeping track?), in a lake, on an island, and has another lake on it. Still with me? It also repeats it's peninsular likeness to the east with another narrow isthmus and smaller peninsula called tuktuk. It's a veritable Matryoshka Doll of nature.
Tuktuk is the island's tourist center with 30-40 guesthouses and hotels lining the beach. The strange part was that there did not seem to be more than 30-40 people staying in all of tuktuk! What used to be a hippie hotspot, and host to full moon parties and throngs of foreigners has fallen victim to the rise of Bali as Indonesia's premiere tourist destination. The streets are quiet, the restaurants empty, and the prices so competitive that a night's stay can cost less than $3. I spent the days here touring the island on a small scooter. Visiting waterfalls, villages on the plateau, and dodging potholes on the one paved road that circles the island. On the rest of the roads, I was dodging asphalt bumps instead. I was greeted along the road by groups of young schoolchildren in their unmistakable uniforms, villagers offering songs on their bamboo flutes and buffaloes doing their part to clear the road of unwanted, but delicious, obstructions.
My stay on the island (on the lake, on the island) was magical, relaxing, and unbelievably scenic, but could not last for ever. With only a few days left before I would be re-united with Sarah, I started on my way to Jakarta... But with a short stop along the way.
Sander
Two Weeks in Cambodia... oops!
May 10, 2011.
Well, you'll forgive the gap between my blogs - though I should say that I have been exceptionally busy, while Sander's lack of blogging is surely due to insatiable laziness. Or is it the other way around?
Having meant to spend 5 days in Phnom Penh, I can only smile and shrug when I tell you I spent two weeks there. Who could be surprised, with Ben as my host and an inexhaustible number of things to do, including my ultimate mission: buy the tuk-tuk. After shopping around for the perfect tuk-tuk, using Ben's contacts and friends of the OMB family, it occurred to me that if we did manage to (somehow) get a tuk-tuk across the Cambodia-Vietnamese border, neither Sander nor I was able to ride a motorbike big enough to pull it. Scooting about on a Vespa only qualifies one to wear a billowing white scarf and stylish sunglasses ... not to haul a metal cart filled with passengers. But! ... if Cambodia, with it's overladen trucks, swerving motodups, relentless potholes, and meandering road animals isn't the perfect place to learn, I don't know where is. How hard could it be? Plus, I had a good teacha'; one who had only been in ONE serious moto-related accident at the time this blog went to press. I vowed to be the only white person in SE Asia without a festering pipe burn on the inside if their right leg and set to it with Ben, my qualified teacha'. Thankfully, I had gotten most if my clutch-related swearing fits out if the way when Dad taught me to drive a manual car at home years ago, which made Ben's only job patience, not crowd control. On what could loosely be called a 'country road' outside Phnom Penh, Ben's fingers bruised my ribs while I worked to speed and we rode towards a fantastic looking storm cloud at the end of the highway. If I had had an internet connection when we pulled off the highway, with heavy tropical downpour only seconds away, I would have bought a big bike on eBay and had it shipped home immediately. I would buy an much cooler helmet to be sure, but riding a big bike is fantastic. We relaxed under a leaky canopy with some cool, albeit disgusting 'fruit' juice, while the street flooded. Seriously, it took me 10 minutes to put my finger on it, but this 'juice' tasted exactly like the milk left at the bottom of a bowl of Frosted Flakes. Having come from a house where we went through 4L of milk in a couple days because of the unholiness of cereal-contaminated milk, this says a lot. As suddenly as it started, the pouring rain abruptly stopped and the streets drained as quickly as they had filled. Ben drove us home, through Phnom Penh's mentally exhausting city traffic, where I promptly emailed my mom telling her what I had done and that it had ended safely all at once, thus avoiding any unnecessary maternal panic. Feeling like a master of the 250cc domain, I felt ready to explore the options for the border crossing. We planned a long weekend trip to the border, a simple task since May is Cambodia's month of public holidays, including but not limited to: the Kings birthday weekend, a couple Buddha days, and National Plough Day. I spent the week exploring Phnom Penh on foot, taking several amazing and memorable strolls, and adding some finishing touches to Ben's ever-changing bachelor flat. With his lady arriving within the next week, someone would have to clean the damn place, as well. The long weekend finally arrived and we headed to a small town near the border by the awesomely air-conditioned Cambodian bus fleet. To make a disappointing story simple, we discovered quickly that the only way to have a Khmer person take the tuk-tuk across was to register it to their name at the border, thus creating a world of problems for Sander and I, with a pile of mismatched ownership and registration paperwork. Deciding that two white people driving a tuk-tuk might attract more than a little attention from local law enforcement pretty much everywhere in Vietnam, I crossed this idea off the list. The only way it could be done would be to purchase the tuk-tuk and the bike (which by itself would have been difficult to get past officials), and head to the border with a pocket full of cash. But how much would they ask for? Needing to run the idea by Sander - the options being to give the unknown amount of cash to Vietnamese border officials on arrival or head to a different continent - we left the border area and tried to figure out what to do with ourselves for the rest of the King's birthday weekend. Having already left Phnom Penh, we decided to hit the beach and enjoy everything it had to offer: awesome rooms, cheap beer, and (for me) pounds and pounds of fresh mangoes from my 'fruit lady' (who made me pinky-swear that I would buy my mangoes from her, and her alone). No problem, fruit lady, you bring 'em ... I'll eat 'em.
To succinctly summarize the rest of my stay in Cambodia would be impossible. Like being anywhere familiar, you manage to accomplish so many things that are, especially in retrospect, difficult to describe since the time just seems to escape while you're busy enjoying it. Though my mission had failed: Sander and I will be excluding the Vietnamese tuk-tuk journey from this year's travel adventure, I merely blinked and more quickly than I had wanted, it was time to put my backpack back on. Plus, without me and my wily woman's intuition and knowledge of first aid, Sander was probably out of food and trapped at the bottom of a crevasse with both legs stuck in a bear's den.
Slaughter.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Lonely Sumatra
May 3, 2011
Sumatra has been an interesting experience for me. After having left Sarah at the KL airport two weeks before arriving, and then touring my mom around Malaysia in comparative luxury, landing in Medan was a shock. For the first time in 3 months on the road, I was alone. I was the only westerner on the flight in, I was the only westerner in the airport, and apparently the only person in Medan that spoke english. While tourism is an industry in Sumatra, it seems it's spelled with a small 'i'. My phrase book got me to an ATM and to the bus station where my taxi driver excitedly pointed out the window saying 'ke Banda Aceh!' (to Banda Aceh- port town to Pulau Weh). I smiled, nodded and grabbed my bag without a clue where I was. Within the first few minutes stumbling through my phrasebook trying to purchase a bus ticket, I was struck by the country's eagerness to communicate. A young student on his way to Jakarta was able to decipher what I wanted with his one year of English study and bought me a ticket to Banda Aceh. He sat with my for the next 6 hours in the bus station teaching me Bahasa Indonesia (lit. Language Indonesia) in exchange for some help with English. I left that station with a mild grasp of the numbers one through one hundred, 'thank you', 'where is', 'do you speak English?' and 'help'.
It took 2 days before I met any other foreigners in Sumatra. You rarely hear much positive about Islam, but I think, ironically, that there is credit due in keeping Sumatra as unspoiled as it is. I can only assume that the same negative press that inspires mosque graffiti and racial slurs has alienated much of Indonesia from the backpacker community as no other reasonable explanation comes to mind. Absolutely beautiful areas are neglected by all save some apparently 'brave' souls, but i have yet to see or experience anything to make me think twice about my route.
On the ferry to Pulau Weh, and the village of Ibioh, I met a german (yes, again...) couple that had also recently arrived in Sumatra. We talked a bit on the boat about where we had been, where we were going, and decided to make our way to Ibioh together. The jetty presented us with 3 clearly distinct options for transport. A taxi for 50k each, the back of a motorbike for 50k each, or imitation Kawasaki ninja's with sidecars for 50k each. It was not a difficult choice. The sidecar race was an amazing introduction to one of the most beautiful islands I have visited yet. The 25km trip through overhanging jungle, mind bending hairpins and breathtaking viewpoints delivered us to a quiet rocky beach on the most northern tip of Sumatra. My first beach in Indonesia was quieter than the last beach in Thailand.
Daniel, Miri and I spent the days relaxing in hammocks, snorkeling the crystal waters or waiting at mama's single table restaurant for another dinner of sambal fish, chicken satay, or curried snapper. (Dinners were served communally at a single family table, with orders made by 4pm) I am sorry mom, but your peanut sauce may have met it's match. Don't feel bad though, it was made by an Indonesian grandmother, in Indonesia, with peanuts and chilies that were grown less than 50km away; and everyone knows that grandma's recipe is best. :-).
The amazingly warm people, and the outrageously warm weather made my third week away from Sarah almost bearable. The only thing that made it all ok was knowing that I would certainly have to come back here to show Sarah what she missed.
The lack of English, and white people for that matter, while a shock initially, has forced me to learn the language and interact with the local people on a level I've not yet experienced in Asia. It's allowed me to look past the 'scary' religion and see a startlingly free culture and engaging people. It's allowed me to order off the 'local's' menu and see people's faces light up when you try to make conversation in what is obviously a new language. The loneliness disappeared almost as fast as my daily evening meals at Mama's.
Sander
Sumatra has been an interesting experience for me. After having left Sarah at the KL airport two weeks before arriving, and then touring my mom around Malaysia in comparative luxury, landing in Medan was a shock. For the first time in 3 months on the road, I was alone. I was the only westerner on the flight in, I was the only westerner in the airport, and apparently the only person in Medan that spoke english. While tourism is an industry in Sumatra, it seems it's spelled with a small 'i'. My phrase book got me to an ATM and to the bus station where my taxi driver excitedly pointed out the window saying 'ke Banda Aceh!' (to Banda Aceh- port town to Pulau Weh). I smiled, nodded and grabbed my bag without a clue where I was. Within the first few minutes stumbling through my phrasebook trying to purchase a bus ticket, I was struck by the country's eagerness to communicate. A young student on his way to Jakarta was able to decipher what I wanted with his one year of English study and bought me a ticket to Banda Aceh. He sat with my for the next 6 hours in the bus station teaching me Bahasa Indonesia (lit. Language Indonesia) in exchange for some help with English. I left that station with a mild grasp of the numbers one through one hundred, 'thank you', 'where is', 'do you speak English?' and 'help'.
It took 2 days before I met any other foreigners in Sumatra. You rarely hear much positive about Islam, but I think, ironically, that there is credit due in keeping Sumatra as unspoiled as it is. I can only assume that the same negative press that inspires mosque graffiti and racial slurs has alienated much of Indonesia from the backpacker community as no other reasonable explanation comes to mind. Absolutely beautiful areas are neglected by all save some apparently 'brave' souls, but i have yet to see or experience anything to make me think twice about my route.
On the ferry to Pulau Weh, and the village of Ibioh, I met a german (yes, again...) couple that had also recently arrived in Sumatra. We talked a bit on the boat about where we had been, where we were going, and decided to make our way to Ibioh together. The jetty presented us with 3 clearly distinct options for transport. A taxi for 50k each, the back of a motorbike for 50k each, or imitation Kawasaki ninja's with sidecars for 50k each. It was not a difficult choice. The sidecar race was an amazing introduction to one of the most beautiful islands I have visited yet. The 25km trip through overhanging jungle, mind bending hairpins and breathtaking viewpoints delivered us to a quiet rocky beach on the most northern tip of Sumatra. My first beach in Indonesia was quieter than the last beach in Thailand.
Daniel, Miri and I spent the days relaxing in hammocks, snorkeling the crystal waters or waiting at mama's single table restaurant for another dinner of sambal fish, chicken satay, or curried snapper. (Dinners were served communally at a single family table, with orders made by 4pm) I am sorry mom, but your peanut sauce may have met it's match. Don't feel bad though, it was made by an Indonesian grandmother, in Indonesia, with peanuts and chilies that were grown less than 50km away; and everyone knows that grandma's recipe is best. :-).
The amazingly warm people, and the outrageously warm weather made my third week away from Sarah almost bearable. The only thing that made it all ok was knowing that I would certainly have to come back here to show Sarah what she missed.
The lack of English, and white people for that matter, while a shock initially, has forced me to learn the language and interact with the local people on a level I've not yet experienced in Asia. It's allowed me to look past the 'scary' religion and see a startlingly free culture and engaging people. It's allowed me to order off the 'local's' menu and see people's faces light up when you try to make conversation in what is obviously a new language. The loneliness disappeared almost as fast as my daily evening meals at Mama's.
Sander
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Pimp My Tuk-Tuk
April 30, 2011
Work. Yes, "work". I'd heard of such a thing; a dustball of recognition rolled out from the little-used corner of my brain, as I remembered something involving payment for hours spent and polyester-wool blend trousers. I was sitting with my back to a coconut palm, when I decided to circumnavigate the globe to find out more about this adventure called "work".
As my tan peeled from my bones, my iron mindlessly pressed uniform collars into perfect points, and snow accumulated on April flowers, it dawned on me that this "work" thing was massively overrated. To paraphrase: work sucks, so I went back to Cambodia. Though I generally dislike feeling at home when traveling abroad, Phnom Penh seems to have settled in my blood, so here I am again. With Sander already diving his way through Indonesia in the company of some new friends, the purpose of my stop-over in Cambodia is to purchase a tuk-tuk. Yes, purchase a tuk-tuk. Additionally, Ben had admitted to hemming his own clothes, which, if you'd seen his stitching, was reason enough to come back. A joke tossed out over a round table stacked with empty pint glasses had originally given birth to the idea: Sander and I would buy a tuk-tuk in Cambodia, import it to Vietnam, and traverse the country in quirky and practical style, picking up passengers as we please along the way. Down the road, we could be the stars of our own show: "Pimp My Tuk-Tuk". I was already planning my outfits. This is how a backpack's worth of dirty lady-clothes and threadbare paperbacks have come to find their home on every available surface in Ben's bachelor apartment. A fellow CouchSurfer and an ever gracious host, he is walking around picking up stray hairpins while we brainstorm practical ways to get the tuk-tuk safely over a border.
As soon as I get over my jetlag and the scorching heat subsides a little, I will be ready to continue the adventure ....
Slaughter.
Work. Yes, "work". I'd heard of such a thing; a dustball of recognition rolled out from the little-used corner of my brain, as I remembered something involving payment for hours spent and polyester-wool blend trousers. I was sitting with my back to a coconut palm, when I decided to circumnavigate the globe to find out more about this adventure called "work".
As my tan peeled from my bones, my iron mindlessly pressed uniform collars into perfect points, and snow accumulated on April flowers, it dawned on me that this "work" thing was massively overrated. To paraphrase: work sucks, so I went back to Cambodia. Though I generally dislike feeling at home when traveling abroad, Phnom Penh seems to have settled in my blood, so here I am again. With Sander already diving his way through Indonesia in the company of some new friends, the purpose of my stop-over in Cambodia is to purchase a tuk-tuk. Yes, purchase a tuk-tuk. Additionally, Ben had admitted to hemming his own clothes, which, if you'd seen his stitching, was reason enough to come back. A joke tossed out over a round table stacked with empty pint glasses had originally given birth to the idea: Sander and I would buy a tuk-tuk in Cambodia, import it to Vietnam, and traverse the country in quirky and practical style, picking up passengers as we please along the way. Down the road, we could be the stars of our own show: "Pimp My Tuk-Tuk". I was already planning my outfits. This is how a backpack's worth of dirty lady-clothes and threadbare paperbacks have come to find their home on every available surface in Ben's bachelor apartment. A fellow CouchSurfer and an ever gracious host, he is walking around picking up stray hairpins while we brainstorm practical ways to get the tuk-tuk safely over a border.
As soon as I get over my jetlag and the scorching heat subsides a little, I will be ready to continue the adventure ....
Slaughter.
Friday, April 29, 2011
The last beach in Thailand
April 8, 2011
After a week along the coast of Cambodia, we were on our way to the south of Thailand for some more beach time, amazing scenery and throngs of shirtless Australians counting the days to the next full moon. Loki, Thor, Allah, God, Buddha, Ganesh, and probably a raven or two decided that wasn't a good idea. Instead of delivering Sarah and Sander to the area, they brought rain. And lots of rain. As we were about to buy our bus tickets south, a timely email from Kelsey and Steve let us know that floods had washed out roads and villages, and Thai government was using the navy to evacuate people. This is how we came to Koh Chang.
We spent the first day getting out bearings and testing out the 'good snorkeling' spot around the bay. To say I was disappointed would be a bald faced lie, I was shocked. In about an hour peering under the water I managed to spot about 5 corals and a handful of fish. A dismal showing for an area allegedly protected as a national marine park. If this was the 'good spot' where are all these boat loads of tourists heading??? At $50 per person per dive, we quickly ruled out that activity too.
Thoroughly disappointed with the marine life on the island, we decided to take a tour of the scenery above sea level and rented a scooter for the next day. At the very utmost end of the road (term is used lightly here), as far a possible from where we had originally chosen to stay, we stumbled upon what is rumored to be the last beach in Thailand.
Here there were no quick-e-marts or pad Thai snack stands. No daytime electricity or even ceiling fans. The accommodation options were termite infested bamboo and rattan huts slightly up the hill from the beach, or some slightly less structurally suspect lodgings further down on the beach. After inspecting the coconut shaped holes in each of the vacant beach hut's roofs, and marking their tendency for appearing directly over the bed, we decided to brave the termites. We felt our karmic score was good enough to avoid a full hut collapse, but a coconut through the roof had already been proven possible, an apparently quite likely; and the sky was looking a bit stormy.
This 'last beach of Thailand' was exactly what both of us were looking for after 2 long months landlocked in northern Thailand, Laos, and much of Cambodia. We lazed, we swam, we drank beer, we showered with buckets (careful not to scoop up the tadpoles), and slept in such humid, stagnant air that clothing hung up at night actually became wetter by morning. I taught Sarah to play chess, Sarah taught me to loose at Jenga. Good company when you want it, and total seclusion when you need it to even out a fee tan lines.
Sometimes its good to remind yourself that it's far more important when traveling to embrace where you are than worry about where you're staying. Sure we were sticky, wet, filthy, salty, clammy and smelly, but we were on the last beach in Thailand, with no sounds but the waves lapping at the sand, a machete chopping at a fresh coconut, and your girl periodically requesting a new application of sunscreen.
Sander
After a week along the coast of Cambodia, we were on our way to the south of Thailand for some more beach time, amazing scenery and throngs of shirtless Australians counting the days to the next full moon. Loki, Thor, Allah, God, Buddha, Ganesh, and probably a raven or two decided that wasn't a good idea. Instead of delivering Sarah and Sander to the area, they brought rain. And lots of rain. As we were about to buy our bus tickets south, a timely email from Kelsey and Steve let us know that floods had washed out roads and villages, and Thai government was using the navy to evacuate people. This is how we came to Koh Chang.
We spent the first day getting out bearings and testing out the 'good snorkeling' spot around the bay. To say I was disappointed would be a bald faced lie, I was shocked. In about an hour peering under the water I managed to spot about 5 corals and a handful of fish. A dismal showing for an area allegedly protected as a national marine park. If this was the 'good spot' where are all these boat loads of tourists heading??? At $50 per person per dive, we quickly ruled out that activity too.
Thoroughly disappointed with the marine life on the island, we decided to take a tour of the scenery above sea level and rented a scooter for the next day. At the very utmost end of the road (term is used lightly here), as far a possible from where we had originally chosen to stay, we stumbled upon what is rumored to be the last beach in Thailand.
Here there were no quick-e-marts or pad Thai snack stands. No daytime electricity or even ceiling fans. The accommodation options were termite infested bamboo and rattan huts slightly up the hill from the beach, or some slightly less structurally suspect lodgings further down on the beach. After inspecting the coconut shaped holes in each of the vacant beach hut's roofs, and marking their tendency for appearing directly over the bed, we decided to brave the termites. We felt our karmic score was good enough to avoid a full hut collapse, but a coconut through the roof had already been proven possible, an apparently quite likely; and the sky was looking a bit stormy.
This 'last beach of Thailand' was exactly what both of us were looking for after 2 long months landlocked in northern Thailand, Laos, and much of Cambodia. We lazed, we swam, we drank beer, we showered with buckets (careful not to scoop up the tadpoles), and slept in such humid, stagnant air that clothing hung up at night actually became wetter by morning. I taught Sarah to play chess, Sarah taught me to loose at Jenga. Good company when you want it, and total seclusion when you need it to even out a fee tan lines.
Sometimes its good to remind yourself that it's far more important when traveling to embrace where you are than worry about where you're staying. Sure we were sticky, wet, filthy, salty, clammy and smelly, but we were on the last beach in Thailand, with no sounds but the waves lapping at the sand, a machete chopping at a fresh coconut, and your girl periodically requesting a new application of sunscreen.
Sander
Outside Phnom Penh
April 1, 2011
To be perfectly honest, its quite difficult to remember what Sarah and I actually accomplished this last week. After leaving Phnom Penh, we made for the town of Kep. We were both dying for a little sea breeze, and figured east to west would be the best way to explore Cambodia's gulf (of Thailand) coast. All we found was crabs. Lots of crabs. We quickly decided that the resort town of Sihanoukville would be a better place for someone who already had an injured toe.
We arranged with Ben et al to meet us at Otres Beach on the weekend, a much deserved beach getaway for them, and just another day in the life for us. This is where the trouble started. With an open wound, I was strictly forbidden from walking in the clean-ish, but very much SE asian sand (please see previous posts for assessments of hygiene in SE Asian public spaces). This (and I've yet to decide if this was a blessing or curse) precluded me from any activities aside from drinking beer. No swimming, no tanning, no diving, no snorkeling, no volleyball, no walking, and no running (who am I kidding? Even with a good toe, there would be no running). At $1 a glass, or $3 a jug, this wasn't a significant strain on the budget; and with the likes of Ben, Hanna, Liz, Kolja, and of course Sarah, I was not lacking willing accomplices.
Over the 4 days we stayed in Sihanoukville, only a few highlights and lessons stand out. They are, in no particular order:
- Loosing a game of pool to a 9 year old. And in turn being obliged to purchase one of his bracelets for the prescribed price of 'one doooooollllar'...
- Having my upper arms and neck 'threaded' in what I now know is the most painful hair removal technique ever devised in the known universe.
- The added 1/2 glass of beer provided in a jug (vs 3 glasses) is not worth drinking at a keen 35 degrees. All my training (in the Canadian winter) led me to believe I could finish it before it warmed. One glass at a time is the wiser choice.
While the lasting memories may not seem so positive, our first taste of the beach in SE Asia was fantastic. No amount of gauze, russians in mongs, or blinding hangovers were going to ruin my weekend.
Sander
To be perfectly honest, its quite difficult to remember what Sarah and I actually accomplished this last week. After leaving Phnom Penh, we made for the town of Kep. We were both dying for a little sea breeze, and figured east to west would be the best way to explore Cambodia's gulf (of Thailand) coast. All we found was crabs. Lots of crabs. We quickly decided that the resort town of Sihanoukville would be a better place for someone who already had an injured toe.
We arranged with Ben et al to meet us at Otres Beach on the weekend, a much deserved beach getaway for them, and just another day in the life for us. This is where the trouble started. With an open wound, I was strictly forbidden from walking in the clean-ish, but very much SE asian sand (please see previous posts for assessments of hygiene in SE Asian public spaces). This (and I've yet to decide if this was a blessing or curse) precluded me from any activities aside from drinking beer. No swimming, no tanning, no diving, no snorkeling, no volleyball, no walking, and no running (who am I kidding? Even with a good toe, there would be no running). At $1 a glass, or $3 a jug, this wasn't a significant strain on the budget; and with the likes of Ben, Hanna, Liz, Kolja, and of course Sarah, I was not lacking willing accomplices.
Over the 4 days we stayed in Sihanoukville, only a few highlights and lessons stand out. They are, in no particular order:
- Loosing a game of pool to a 9 year old. And in turn being obliged to purchase one of his bracelets for the prescribed price of 'one doooooollllar'...
- Having my upper arms and neck 'threaded' in what I now know is the most painful hair removal technique ever devised in the known universe.
- The added 1/2 glass of beer provided in a jug (vs 3 glasses) is not worth drinking at a keen 35 degrees. All my training (in the Canadian winter) led me to believe I could finish it before it warmed. One glass at a time is the wiser choice.
While the lasting memories may not seem so positive, our first taste of the beach in SE Asia was fantastic. No amount of gauze, russians in mongs, or blinding hangovers were going to ruin my weekend.
Sander
Sunday, April 24, 2011
'C' for Cambodia
March 20, 2011
I travel with a first aid kit the size of a 10-pin bowling ball for a reason. It's got articles for all emergencies: IV tubing and butterfly needles, enough gauze for an arterial bleed, sterile eye rinse solution, and pain killers that could make a camel comatose. None of this kit is packed with ME In mind; let's not forget who my travel partner is. I pulled out this monstrous kit after hearing the usual cue: "Oh SHIT. Saaarraaah!" Now let's Tarantino it back a little: Sunday afternoon, not a cloud in the sky, and we have been invited to the home of Ung and his wife Mooni. They are family to the Oh My Buddha restaurant crew and their place is nestled "in the province", outside Phnom Penh. Somehow I ended up riding on the back of Hanna's bike, an American also living and teaching in Phnom Penh. Just like the rest of Americans, she is terrifying to drive with. Sander was safely on the back on Ben's bike with an armload of ice cubes, and Ben had a case of beer between his feet. 'At least the damn beer is safe', Was all I could think as Hanna and I tailgated a massive truck full of chickens. As it was, we made it to the country house in one piece, the bag of lettuce I had been 'casually' carrying, was crushed between my bloodless fingers.
We received a warm welcome from Ung, Mooni, and their two young daughters. We took a tour of their enormous house, picked some fresh mangos off a nearby tree, and I introduced Ung to the joy that is soaking your travel-swollen feet in ice water. 'How do you not do this every day?' I thought, as my feet briefly returned to their norm size. Liz read bizarre and grammatically incorrect Khmer children's books (written in English) to the girls, as we swung in hammocks on the patio overlooking the Mekong river. Something about that river was calling to the boys - they couldn't resist a swim. With the blinding whiteness of Ben's shoulders guiding the way to water deep enough to tread in, Sander and Ung hopped in too. I only had time to change into my bathing suit and was still towel-clad when I heard: "Oh SHIT. Saaarraaah!" Now here we are back at the beginning and, paying homage to Tarantino, here comes the gore. Sander had sliced the top of his big toe practically off on a lurking underwater rock ledge, leaving epic little pools of blood all the way up the ladder steps as he crawled up from the river bank. I rolled my eyes, and grabbed the kit. Using the one-for-you, one-for-the-wound technique that works well for Sander, we had him bandaged up in no time. No stitches, this time, mostly because he wouldn't allow it after I joked that I would cross-stitch a pretty pattern up his leg.
In days to come, Sander was put in charge of uploading photos from a cafe, keeping his throbbing foot elevated while I went to checkout a Cambodian Art, Dance, and Circus School. Somewhere between the juggling bearded man and a pint-sized dancer/contortionist, I felt more at home here than ever. The school is government built and funded, and therefore bereft of teaching tools, and equipment. But for what it lacks in supplies and space, it's students make up with enthusiasm and commitment. Most of the teachers cannot afford to support their own families with the pitfall pay that the government provides, but are there because they believe so strongly in the need to share and maintain traditional Khmer art culture. Mooni, the wife of Ung and a proud and talented teacher of Apsara dance, explained that the majority of their students come from extremely poor families. They are able to learn and practice their art of choice in the morning, and study reading and writing the Khmer language in the afternoons. The teachers do their own quiet fund raising for their programs, finding sponsors who can provide the money to buy thing like mirrors for the dancers to train with (they still do not have enough for this), or floor mats for the acrobats to fall safely on (right now, the concrete floor us covered by a thin carpet). My contribution will be designing, printing, and donating practice shirts for the monkey troupe': a large group of young boys training for the esteemed position of "chief monkey god, Hannuman" within traditional Khmer dance. Though it is my understanding that men of all ages enjoy behaving like apes, these 6-11 year old boys were particularly thrilled and enthusiastic to to rehearse a number, just for me.
Back on Street 172, home away from home, Sander was right where I'd left him: nursing the aching slice in his toe that is sure to heal into a great scar ... an arching 'C' for Cambodia.
Slaughter.
Call me "Your Highness"
March 18, 2011
Of all the strange things to look at in Phnom Penh, I find myself staring at dogs. Not because they are cute, not because they have great outfits ... but because they have BALLS. I realize that this is my second blog entry in two months that mentions balls, but I forgot dogs had them. Seriously, when was the last time you saw a dog trotting around, proudly waggling a giant set of balls? Poor little eunuchs at home; they make you forget what dogs actually look like from the back. All if this is a terrible thing to think about while you're trying to eat breakfast, which is what I was doing when Ben came by to pick me up. It was 7:00am, and I was ready for school: teacha' Ben (don't forget the English accent) was taking me to meet his K2 classes. We had spent the previous day stalking the city for balloons fit for twisting, and a pump capable of blowing them up. My goal: twist 80 animals, and get the hell out before they start popping. Each class started with a screaming chant in moderate unison: "Gooood mooorning teaaacha' Ben-10-alien-force. How aahh yoou toodayyy, I am fine thaaank you". Good lord, I thought, all of these Khmer children have English accents. Ben acted as the magician's-daughter's-beautiful-assistant, while I tried to teach the kids some real English between being mauled for balloons. I should mention that, for a large group of five and six year olds with a guest and balloons present, it was not total chaos. Part of it is Ben's gentle but firm hold on their attention, and the other is the teaching assistant who screams "SILENCE!!!" while whacking the closest, and most unsuspecting kid with a ruler. I know that every time she did it I wanted to sit down quickly and do some homework. The kids practiced spelling the names of their animals, and their respective colors while I fixed dog ears and elephant legs that had 'accidentally' come untwisted. Ben had so much fun not teaching, that he invited me to his High School English classes that the evening. Alas, we were out of balloons and all of my talents exhausted: I would just have to take the observers seat for this one. I was introduced to the Head Chancellor (who is addressed as "his highness") before sitting in on the class as 'an observer interested in teaching'. I told him I was Canadian, had a University degree, spoke some french and spanish, and had completed TESOL ... and he offered me a job. I laughed and told him I was already in love with Cambodia, and that if I came back to teach I would visit him again. It turned put to be 'test day', so teacha' Ben collected the exams and led the way. 'Sitting in' meant that I had to complete the the exam, according to Ben, and (theoretically) get a higher grade than a bunch if 16 year old kids. Right, I thought, that would be embarrassing, since English just happens to be my first language. What I didn't expect was that someone whose first language was obviously NOT English had written the exam. It boasted little gems like: "Write about a place that you used to visit before”, and “What is the bad affection of the western foods?” More bizarre, were questions like: "what was the title of the paragraph", when no title was given. Ben and I agreed later that if a student had responded "read the paragraph and answer, 5 marks" (the only text appearing at the top of the paragraph) that he would have given them 100%. I'm tempted to return to Cambodia after traveling to start what could be an extremely lucrative editing business. Unlike most other shops, the motivational poster on my wall would NOT read: "alone we are a drop, together we are fat as the ocean".
Slaughter.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Run, itchy dog, Run!
March 18, 2011.
Phnom Penh is like home away from home. There is just enough weird to remind you that you probably shouldn't stroke that toothless guys pet mercat on a string, and just enough normal to make you think the fried tarantula you ate is the sole source of your stomach ache. Beside every glossy corner store there are a couple kids, naked as jaybirds, riding limping dogs shouting "eeeeyyyyaaah!", which I imagine as the Khmer version of "run faster, you itchy little dog!" On the road, after every polished Mercedes, drives a 70's VW bus packed to the bursting point with Calvin Kleen jeans. Everytime you stop to admire the fact that they've put up a 'Caution: Construction' sign, a guy carrying rebar walks into the site rocking flip-flops and a hard hat.
Truly, it's perfect ... and just like all of the people we've met here so far, I've fallen in love and want to stay.
After Sander recovered from his identity-theft-prevention journey with a series of well-timed naps, we set off to explore the National Museum. The art lover in me was thrilled by the quality of the pieces that had been recovered (following decades of neglect and temple robbing), but my OCD yearned to rip everything off the walls and make some damn order of the place. The complete lack of signage was torturing my inner nerd. Why collect 12th century wedding cups, clean them up and display them, and not tell me what a goddamn 'wedding cup' is for?! Regardless, the museum has some serious promise.
For our first night in Phnom Penh, Ben had an action plan: stroll down the breezy river front, eat the most disgusting foods he could find for us, and settle in for cheap draft at a local pub. Now, if that's not a night on the town, I don't know what is. Having failed his quest to find Sander the Khmer favorite; fertilized and boiled chicken eggs, he settled on the sumptuous looking crispy-fried bug trolley. Whatever your black little heart could desire: tarantula, cockroach, grasshoppers, scorpions, and other less distinguishable treats. While I threw up in my mouth a little, Ben and Sander discussed the intricacies of properly eating a cockroach. Don't forget that Ben has an Oxford-English accent, making the whole conversation seem all the more intellectual. They settled on the ever popular snack-you-can-love-by-the-handful: two big scoops of fried crickets. 'Well,' I thought to myself, 'those singing bastards have been keeping me awake at night' .... why not? It's karmic. Enjoy boys. Follow with a few swift pints of Angkor draft, and enjoy.
Slaughter.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
Phnom Penh is like home away from home. There is just enough weird to remind you that you probably shouldn't stroke that toothless guys pet mercat on a string, and just enough normal to make you think the fried tarantula you ate is the sole source of your stomach ache. Beside every glossy corner store there are a couple kids, naked as jaybirds, riding limping dogs shouting "eeeeyyyyaaah!", which I imagine as the Khmer version of "run faster, you itchy little dog!" On the road, after every polished Mercedes, drives a 70's VW bus packed to the bursting point with Calvin Kleen jeans. Everytime you stop to admire the fact that they've put up a 'Caution: Construction' sign, a guy carrying rebar walks into the site rocking flip-flops and a hard hat.
Truly, it's perfect ... and just like all of the people we've met here so far, I've fallen in love and want to stay.
After Sander recovered from his identity-theft-prevention journey with a series of well-timed naps, we set off to explore the National Museum. The art lover in me was thrilled by the quality of the pieces that had been recovered (following decades of neglect and temple robbing), but my OCD yearned to rip everything off the walls and make some damn order of the place. The complete lack of signage was torturing my inner nerd. Why collect 12th century wedding cups, clean them up and display them, and not tell me what a goddamn 'wedding cup' is for?! Regardless, the museum has some serious promise.
For our first night in Phnom Penh, Ben had an action plan: stroll down the breezy river front, eat the most disgusting foods he could find for us, and settle in for cheap draft at a local pub. Now, if that's not a night on the town, I don't know what is. Having failed his quest to find Sander the Khmer favorite; fertilized and boiled chicken eggs, he settled on the sumptuous looking crispy-fried bug trolley. Whatever your black little heart could desire: tarantula, cockroach, grasshoppers, scorpions, and other less distinguishable treats. While I threw up in my mouth a little, Ben and Sander discussed the intricacies of properly eating a cockroach. Don't forget that Ben has an Oxford-English accent, making the whole conversation seem all the more intellectual. They settled on the ever popular snack-you-can-love-by-the-handful: two big scoops of fried crickets. 'Well,' I thought to myself, 'those singing bastards have been keeping me awake at night' .... why not? It's karmic. Enjoy boys. Follow with a few swift pints of Angkor draft, and enjoy.
Slaughter.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
Location:Phnom Penh
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