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.

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.

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

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

Location:Bali/Lombok

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.

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

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.