christinasworld's TravelStream™ — Recent TravelPod.com entries TravelStream™ news feed for member christinasworld on TravelPod's free travel blogs service http://www.travelpod.com/syndication/rss/christinasworld en-us Copyright ©2009 TravelPod.com Sat, 18 Jul 2009 12:08:51 -0400 http://www.travelpod.com A Recipe for Something... — Lahore, Pakistan http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/christinasworld/3/1223400720/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/christinasworld/3/1223400720/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/christinasworld/3/1223400720/tpod.html Sat, 18 Jul 2009 12:08:51 -0400 How Far is Too Far? And Once You've Survive it --the Answer's the Same -- You Changed the Question.
Lahore, Pakistan

And so what exactly makes someone of sound mind, without any agenda other than to explore, visit a place like Pakistan?

I've tried explaining this to non-travelers and yes, even to serious and well-expierenced travelers. I would have never even considered traveling to this part of the world in my twenties -- I was far too busy dreaming of -- and jetting off to chic European hot spots. The hot spots, as they were, have changed to more, shall we say edgy political hot spots. It's a bit like having your first spicy meal -- the next time you feel the heat less and so you order your dish medium spicy -- later you order the vindaloo: your eyes glaze, your face flushes, you laugh as you blot your brow -- you take another bite. The question is however, just how hot is too hot, and how can you know until you've tasted it?

I could see a large illuminated mosque bathed in amber, streams of cars lights and little else as my flight was touching down in Lahore Pakistan late last night. I thought my business class upgrade a most auspicious omen and with several flutes of Moutard for courage I inhaled deeply as the cabin door popped open and I, now had the coveted position of being the first to exit --alone.

I'm also the first and only person in customs and as I hand over my passport I scour the men in the distance with their long Punjabis waving their handmade signs -- and I cannot see my name on any of them. As I come nearer I look more closely and pass the luggage carousel --there are no more men with signs. I near the exit and stand beside the armed militia and I stare.

Throngs of people -- hundreds -- are waiting to pick up the other passengers and here I stand alone between men with machine guns strapped across their chests. My heart sinks and my stomach knots. I turn to my left, "I'm looking for my driver and I don't see him." He motions with the tip of his gun for me to step back and explains that I must wait inside "you be safe --go." I spin my carryon toward the Tourist Office and the solider yells back for me, "You called Christina? Adja! Come! Your boy is here". And I exhale.

With a leveled chin and squared shoulders, I part the sea of glaring onlookers amidst murmurs, and even a gasp. My "boy", a man of roughly 50, puts his key in the car door, scrunches his face and looks inside, "Wrong car. You stay, I find the car." Cue the screeching sitar strings and booming timpani and throw in one of those deafening Middle Eastern tongue-wagging-death-shrieks just for good measure. Shell shocked I stand in a parking lot in Pakistan looking haughty and practically daring someone to bother me. I throw up in my mouth just a little bit and I'm pretty sure I turtled. I'm standing next to a truck that's parked in the middle of a row and is empty -- it's leaking gasoline. Flashes of recent car bombings dance in my head. Two men in matching long white shirt dresses walk past me staring, stop and return. Across the maiden I see my boy -- he honks and I -- I can breathe again.

We speed past rickshaws burgeoning with people and garishly festooned lorries barreling at top speed, their horns temporally blotting out the crackling Bollywood music on the radio. A family of four on a motorcycle whizzes across our headlights --the infant holding on to her mother's arm looks back.

Now as we enter the city things take a gentler turn. Down tree-lined boulevards we pass hulking Mughal architecture -- spiraling confections from the builders of the Taj. The famous Gymkhana Club comes into view and across the way faded remnants of the British Raj -- it's now easy to see why Rudyard Kipling was so enchanted by Lahore that he chose to live here for several years.

It's chaotic and charming, and edgy for certain -- it's exactly the recipe that I need at present. And it may be just about as spicy as I can handle. Or is it?

Christina
]]> Year Zero to 2005 — Phnom Penh, Cambodia http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/christinasworld/rtw-2005/1105777920/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/christinasworld/rtw-2005/1105777920/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/christinasworld/rtw-2005/1105777920/tpod.html Wed, 07 Jan 2009 10:41:42 -0500 Around the World in 111 Days
Phnom Penh, Cambodia

Entering downtown Phnom Penh is like being punched into a history book.

I wore a pained scowl for the better part of the afternoon. I stepped back less than three decades and saw the remnants of Cambodia's most devastating and darkest hours. I visited the S-21 Tuol Sleng Genocide Museum followed by a ride out to Choeung Ek, better known as the Killing Fields.

Just two weeks prior to the fall of Saigon in 1975 a militant band of radical agrarian communists, the Khmer Rouge rolled into Phnom Penh emptying the city completely. The entire population was ripped from the capital -- hospital beds, schools, cafes, government offices, homes and temples were laid bare. The entire monetary system ceased to exist, rendering all currencies and banks null and void. Their leader, Pol Pot declared it the Year Zero and during his almost four year reign he watched, as by what many accounts claim as one-third of the population was exterminated by way of mass executions and starvation. Anyone who was not already a member of the Khmer Rouge was suspect, and if captured regardless of innocence or guilt were photographed, brutally tortured, forced to sign false confessions and murdered. City dwellers were especially deemed untrustworthy, as were the educated, foreign born and even those who simply wore eyeglasses. Women and children were not spared --if you could form sentences you could very well be considered a traitor and a threat to the Khmer Rouge. The lucky children were sent to forced labor camps to grow rice under the harshest of conditions and often were separated from their families. Many died from disease, beatings, and ironically enough, lack of food as the rice was exported to China in exchange for arms. Other children were trained to be soldiers, some as young as 11 years old, many of whom so brainwashed they had their own families jailed and put to death.

And all of this was on the heels of a secret war led by the United States under Nixon and Kissinger that carpet-bombed the Ho Chi Minh trail as it wound through Cambodia. By the time the Vietnamese helped rid Cambodia of Khmer Rouge control in 1979 they entered a country that had been hopelessly tossed back to the Stone Age.

A former high school-cum-prison, the S-21 was one of the main temporary detention centers in all of, what was then known as, Democratic Kampuchea. It stands as a harrowing reminder of man's inhumanity to man, and interestingly enough it was all documented by the perpetrators.

When the liberating Vietnamese forces entered the complex, the Khmer Rouge were still hastily murdering the remaining prisoners, and desperately attempting to destroy the thousands of documentations of their crimes. The blood was still wet on the floors and a confession stopped mid-word in a typewriter. It is estimated that 17,000 prisoners entered the S-21. Seven survived.

Stepping into some of the tiny cells onto the still blood-stained floors, the air was still and stifling. A bed of exposed metal coils that once was used to chain prisoners for interrogations and beatings still sits by a barred window - its iron shackles weighed to the floor. At one point I walked into a small bricked-up area, and as I turned to leave, my foot hit a metal hook bolted to the floor. This is where iron rods slipped through chains attached to ankle cuffs. People slept like this unable to move. I was all alone in the room. I looked down and I just stood there and felt the dark sludge pour over me. Thousands of screams were heard here, thousands of bodies were lacerated by chains and whips, thousands were murdered in these suffocating dark rooms.

I dragged my feet toward the next room where hundreds of black and white photographs are on display of the victims. I'd seen quite a few of these of these mug shots before in my history books and online. I tried to look at each one, if only for a second, just to honor them but I was looking for one in particular that had moved me more than all the others -- then after maybe 50 or 60 faces I found her. She was a woman with shoulder length hair, her head is slightly cocked to the side, and her eyes stare blankly -- in her arms she holds her child. I'd seen it many times but seeing it here takes on another dimension. I press my hand against the photo. And pause.

I went and sat in the yard by the lynching posts. All of this happened during my lifetime. All the while my life was bright, my world was clean and this --- this was just a few lines read by a newscaster on television and broadcasted into our air-conditioned living room.

"That sounds depressing, why would you want to see that?" a coworker had asked before coming here. It is difficult to explain to some people why I travel the way the do, why I don't care for taking vacations, but rather prefer to explore and learn. I sat there in the dirt and tried to answer that. It is a question I've been asked often by non-travelers and each time it angers me. Perhaps it's because I've never been able to quite articulate why it frustrates me that others can turn a blind eye to someone else's pain, and yet all I came up with is another question to answer them:

How can someone's pain be so precious that they cannot bear, to at least witness, what someone else has borne?

The drive out to the most famous of the Killing Fields (there were many throughout the country) is a rough ride down a rust-colored dirt road. Everything along the way is covered in the red dust: the trees, the cars, the people --everything. Even with the windows rolled up tightly, the dirt was billowing in through the vents. The taxi rammed in and out of potholes so fast through the puffs of dry clay it was tossing me from side to side. We arrived at a dead end and my driver told me that he'd wait in the souvenir shack to the left.

Past the wooden shed-turned-museum entrance at Choeung Ek, stands a tall glass stupa filled with thousands of human skulls categorized by age and sex. Wasps stand guard hovering inside keeping the onlookers at bay. Surrounding the stupa are pits protected by low wooden fences and labeled as to how many bodies are buried in the small mass graves. There were some listed as being in the hundreds in a size a little larger than two king size beds.

As if in a daze I wandered around taking it all in, grave after grave. At one point I came across a white woman with both of her hands pressed hard against a tree. She was mumbling through her tears in French, "We are sorry, we are sorry". I worked my way around and read the metal sign nailed to the tree, "Chankiri Tree Against Which Executioners Beat Children."

I was numb during the twenty minute ride back into town to my hotel. So many of the images I'd seen swarmed in my head as I trudged up the stairs to my room. I stood on my balcony gazing at the city and trying to make sense of it all. I leaned on the balestrade and and looked down and just stared. I imagined the tanks rolling in down the street -- not that long ago -- on a day not unlike today right below where I am standing.

There is one thing in particular that I saw today that will stay with me all of my life. In a corner under the stairs in S-21 someone had written in English, "Our revenge will be the laughter of our children." When I got back in the cab a girl was walking with her mother holding her hand and she was smiling at me and waving. I waved back while swallowing hard the lump in my throat. I forced a smile.
]]> But First, The Dream — New York, New York, United States http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/christinasworld/rtw-2005/1102132740/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/christinasworld/rtw-2005/1102132740/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/christinasworld/rtw-2005/1102132740/tpod.html Sun, 04 Jan 2009 23:37:16 -0500 Around the World in 111 Days
New York, New York, United States

I don't fit in. I never did really.

Some people wedge themselves into a life, into the confines of western society and cocoon themselves in percale predictability and mind-numbing comfort; I have shunned that all my life. I never quite understood the American Dream, but I certainly don't have to masturbate with an eggbeater to know that engaging in either would be downright unpleasant.

When I was a child there was a family photo in on my grandparents' console television set. I can still see it now: father's beet-red face hovering over the grill, and then there's mother in her Laura Ashley knock-off in the background, beaming gumball-eyed as she glops another glass of sherbet punch for her adoring children. It was those asshole Jehovah Witnesses, the Chandlers who lived across the street -- bastards didn't even celebrate birthdays or Christmas. I don't know what was more depressing, a cake-less birthday or the madras headband but I was hell-bent on fleeing DoucheBagistan just as soon as I could.

I always dreamed of the life of an expatriate wearing terrific costumes, living in balmy colonial splendor scribbling the day's adventures in notebooks on a decaying verandah; the sounds of clinking ice in my late afternoon gin and tonic, and a parrot's caw in the distance. I used to daydream of crouching low in the savannah wearing a pith helmet adorned with a terrific Pucci scarf, cigarette held high above the tall grass; the next day scaling up stone steps to temples strangled by jungles with heat as thick as syrup. Then, later in the evening, lounging in a white linen cheongsam at a café straight from a Somerset Maugham novel I'd while away the sultry night with exotic tales to my footman, who later screws the living daylights out of me and steals my handbag. It wouldn't all happen quite like that, but hope springs eternal.

Last year while in Vietnam, I immediately fell into a snare of liberating rituals, daily planning my adventures over breakfast in guesthouse lobbies, then venturing out into the throws of another world. In the day I strolled though marketplaces meeting locals, took a boat trip through a fog-curtained Halong Bay, crawled through the back-scraping tunnels of Cu Chi, and even drank snake whiskey as the guest of honor at the funeral of my cyclo driver's mother. At night, however I sought the comfort and familiarity of round-eyes, and booze. In the Pham Gnu Laos section of Saigon I hung out everyday at a sort of cleaned-up Platoon bar called, Allez Boo. Sometimes in the afternoon I would stop by for cup of viscous coffee at one of the outdoor tables and read the paper, but not one of my 10 nights in Ho Chi Minh City passed without at least a nightcap there - or several.

One night at a table of 8 solo-travelers from all over the world, someone asked the respective lengths of everyone's journeys. There were a couple of gap-year kids from the UK, the Swede had been traveling for over a year and a half, a Canadian beer ad executive was in the first few months of his one year adventure, and the rest ranged from 3 to 6 months on average. I was the only one who answered, "two and a half weeks." Someone that night said to me, "You should see the world while you're still here." I wrote it down. It became my mantra.

When I got back home I printed out my favorite quote by fellow Sagittarian, Mark Twain and taped it to my computer:

"Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn't do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover."

I'd never saved more than a thousand dollars in my life but another quote inspired me further. Eleanor Roosevelt said, "You must do the things that you think you cannot do". I was determined to live my dream. Nothing would stop me now.

I began by aggressively cutting my paycheck in half and funneling my earnings into a savings account. It wasn't easy, for while I paraded about in expensive Japanese designers while managing one of the city's finest restaurants I earned less than most waiters and a fraction of the bartenders. I had to make some cuts to my daily budget. I no longer looked in the windows of the Issey Miyake boutique on Prince, and I wouldn't even walk on the same side of the street as Kee's Chocolates on Thompson. I stopped going to the theatre, which has always been one of my greatest loves, and even a cursory glance at the Arts & Leisure section of the New York Times was painful. While a tremendous fan of independent and foreign cinema I now refused the ten-dollar admission and ordered films from the library instead.

I quit smoking. After 14 years of two and a half packs a day I quit cold turkey; my desire to travel had now superseded my desire for the sophistication of shivering outside New York nightclubs in sub-zero temperatures swaging a smoke.

I stopped taking taxis, and even at four in the morning with my head bobbing in and out of Asian and Middle Eastern history books I took the subway instead. I once awoke to the rustle of a vinyl jacket. A man was standing in front of me, his crotch at eye-level; he was viciously chaffing his penis, which looked not unlike a gherkin pickle wrapped in black cheesecloth. As if that weren't bad enough, he was wearing a Members Only jacket -- a club of dwindling membership, no doubt. "OH, my word, how unsightly! This is not the sort of thing one does in polite society", I told him "These shenanigans are inappropriate! For the love of God, I'm trying to sleep here"!

I even cut food portions in half. While I ordered from the from the same Thai restaurant once a week, I requested extra rice and put half of the Masamaan chicken on my plate, then refrigerated the other half for my next meal. At the restaurant where I managed I would fill up on bread then eat half of my dinner and take the rest home for lunch the next day.
I gave myself a budget of fifty-dollars a day for my journey. I then counted out the weeks prior to leaving and calculated how much I'd be able to save before flying out on New Year's Eve. I was now committed to 111 days. The dye was cast.

Armed with every travel guide from Asia, the Middle East, and Eastern Europe I set about planning my journey. The most important criterion was that the countries have something interesting to see, do or buy, but of equal importance was the budget. With the exception of Prague, if the country did not have clean, en suite rooms with air-conditioning for under $20.00 USD they were swept off the list.

In October, I had a rough plan, and after months of searching online for around-the-world tickets and speaking to travel agents, an open-jaw ticket was clearly my best option. I booked a flight from JFK to Bangkok, Prague to JFK. The rest of the journey will be up to me as to how and when I get there - mostly overland when possible.

To ensure that I didn't slip up and start blowing my savings I was obsessive about remaining focused; I read only what pertained to my trip, watched only films set in, or filmed in the countries where I will travel, and often I imagined myself walking through the streets of Cairo, Bangkok, Mandalay, and Prague and what they might sound and smell like.

I gave two months notice at my job and consequently found myself wadding through a trough of guilt. The proprietor took it well however and I was lauded for my decision. In my three-year tenure at SoHo's Aquagrill I'd been lucky -- fortunate even, to have met and gotten to know on so many levels some amazing people there from the Mexican dishwashers who've called me their Corazon to the Sunday brunch regulars who've called me their friend. So many people were supportive, and several gave me envelopes to, as one said, "Have a couple of drinks on me". What one of my regulars thought would buy me a "couple drinks" was actually my entire daily budget. I would at least have a couple of days of splurging to be sure.

And so in four weeks I will venture onward to Bangkok and work my way around this globe in one hundred and eleven days. In that time I know that I will not only be traveling around the world but that my world itself will undoubtedly change. I may not fit in once I'm there either but one thing's for certain: I found a way out.


Join me!
Christina D'Angelo

]]> Bravery or Idiocy? — Lahore, Pakistan http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/christinasworld/3/1223562540/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/christinasworld/3/1223562540/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/christinasworld/3/1223562540/tpod.html Thu, 16 Oct 2008 10:42:46 -0400 How Far is Too Far? And Once You've Survive it --the Answer's the Same -- You Changed the Question.
Lahore, Pakistan

And what is the real difference between the foolhardy and the courageous? Guts or chance? Survive and they toast your bravery at the next cocktail party -- fail and you're a total moron who had it comin'.

Down a dark dirt road lined with carts alight with oil lamps selling everything from jewelry to fruits sits the famous Janal Shrine where Pakistani Sufis worship until the wee hours of the morning. A carnival atmosphere pervades the sticky night air that appears to be a rather salubrious event suited for the entire family -- at first that is.

Then all hell breaks loose. Suddenly you're wondering who's going to play you in the Lifetime movie --or at the very least what you'll wear on "Locked-Up Abroad" in ten years time once you've escaped prison. And you ask yourself, How in the name of Allah did I get here?

It's simple really. Every Thursday night in Lahore the mystical arm of Islam pummels drums, pumps the air and pinches joints in what seems not at all unlike a third-world rave. Lonely Planet even goes so far as to suggest that you should schedule your trip around it and so I did. My last night here would be spent watching the Pakistani Sufis, whom unlike their whirling Turkish cousins don't work themselves up in a spinning frenzy to transmeditate -- rather they smoke hash bongs fashioned from fruit and throw up a lot.

At 22:30 in a courtyard packed cheek-by-bearded-jowl with swaying Sufis I sat scrunched up with a few other travelers on the steps of a tomb undoubtedly reserved for honored guests. Two drummers pounded out thunderously chaotic beats as the seated mob whooped their approval and the occasional devotees shook their heads vigorously, while a few others men did a sort of mock belly dance. A heavy cloud of hashish fogs the crowd as blunts are passed around freely. One drummer steps forward and makes way through the front of the congregation, as it were, and a circle is formed. With the strap around his neck he begins to turn slowly counterclockwise as he beats on the top and bottom, then faster he spins as the beat matches his footsteps until he is spinning so fast, the banging faster, and faster -- the centrifugal force sways the drum horizontal in mid-air and he continues beating. At the climax he has literally worked his audience, who aren't too stoned to turn around, in a semi-hypnotic frenzy -- it stops abruptly --shoulders relax, lids lower and breathe.

Then a man steps forward and holds up a simple apple that is met with a curiously exhilarating response. He weaves himself into the crowd and kneels amongst the others who seem very excited. He carves out a coin-sized hole and then takes out out a pen and makes 20 holes all around. Now he inserts 20 hashish blend cigarettes and lights them. Everyone wants a hit of the apple bong, and as much as I thoroughly enjoy a bit of hash I cannot help but wonder if the casting director will choose Cher to play me or maybe they'd be really hateful and make it Shelly Duvall, which would clealry be uncalled for. Or perhaps a undarned sockpuppet with those red wax Halloween lips, which would actually hurt my feelings, if truth be told. Then the contact high washes over me further and I'm thinking that this would make a damn fine musical, along the lines of Bollywood Dreams only we'd call it Taliban Nightmare because I feel pretty damn sure at this point Mullah Omar's going to be busting up the place at any moment.

An hour and a half into this debauchery-cum-worship-service we're informed that in the lower and much larger courtyard after Midnight is "when the real show begins". Maybe it's because I've seen way too many episodes of "Locked-Up Abroad" on the National Geographic channel, which by the way I've subtitled, "When Stupid White People Go on Vacation" --or perhaps it's because I'm a wee bit baked. Either way, I can't leave by myself searching for a rickshaw on a dark street surrounded by hundreds of stoned Sufis in a country where Americans, on the whole, aren't exactly beloved --in case you haven't been paying attention. Now our guide is escorting our little group of 7 through the mass of people -- all along I'm groped more times than I can swat -- to the lower level and we're instructed to sit on the far side of the wall. In the melee that crushes me to this point I haven't the opportunity to ask to leave. Now I am heading to the tree near the wall with the others.

There is a carpet in the sectioned off area near the wall, which is all very well and good, only the half square foot of space where I've been shoved to sit is covered in vomit so I bend the rug back and squat. And wait. A band is now setting up in the pitch of night under a large tree: electric guitar, drum and electric keyboard. Flickers of light in the enormous tree ahead of us illuminates the stoners briefly as they torch up. We are technically in the women's section though there aren't any local women here and now the western men who are with us are being questioned and told to leave us alone. We cannot find out guide. One of thee performers sees what's happening while he's tuning up and comes over and explains something probably like, They're Infidels who gives a shit anyway, look at that thick-lipped one sitting in puke -- disgusting.

When you're in a bit of a hash haze around 1:00 in morning trapped against a wall surrounded by hundreds of men in Pakistan, several of whom just touched your ass, it's rather safe to say that you've been in better situations. Then the first song begins with almost the same strains of The Doors' "This is the End" -- a power generator turns on the floodlights and suddenly this is starting to feel a little less scary than John Wayne Gacy in clown makeup -- though not by much. The second song was better and more raucous then a man stood up with a trumpet and wailed on it so powerfully that the crowd could barely contain themselves and a few just let loose: head banging; the weird pseudo-belly dancing; an armless man in a rhinestoned skullcap teetered up front, and tottered back and forth with furry; and all the while a boy fanned away with all his might for tips. Then our guide returned and told us we had to leave in the middle of the performance. Allah be praised --no more devotees can molest me -- or so I thought. Past the last few steps to the street I felt a hand on my backside and without hesitation I spun around, hit him in the arm and yelled, "SHAME!" I continued forward and when I turned to look back several men were gallantly defending my so-called honor and berating him.

We cram 5 large westerners in a rickshaw that seats 2 and choke away. Turning onto the paved roads not more than a few blocks away we slow down to a crawl -- I look to my left --police barricade. This is it, I thought, even with the rose garland I was wearing around my neck I knew I reeked of hashish. I lowered my head and pulled the scarf over my face as the policeman shown his light on each of us. "Tour group --friends of Malik" our driver was saying to him and then several other things in heated Urdu until a plumper man came forward examining the business card our driver handed him. He turned back and showed it to the other policemen -- one shook his head and scowled then the fat one returned, threw the card in our driver's lap and jerked his head for us to leave. As we sped off in to quiet night of Lahore we exhaled in a collective nervous laugher.

I proposed guts or chance earlier -- perhaps it's both but what drives peole like me to seek the other, if you will, is little more than an insane amount of curiosity. The outcome is something we worry about once we're there.

Christina D'Angelo
]]> On Second Thought... — Lahore, Pakistan http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/christinasworld/3/1223471880/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/christinasworld/3/1223471880/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/christinasworld/3/1223471880/tpod.html Wed, 08 Oct 2008 09:24:05 -0400 How Far is Too Far? And Once You've Survive it --the Answer's the Same -- You Changed the Question.
Lahore, Pakistan

My driver/so-called guide arrived over an hour late this morning while I sat in the lobby making small talk with the receptionist. Normally, I eschew drivers and guides and relish tossing government minders off my trail, as well as getting lost and heading to the worst neighborhoods where I normally make friends and report later that I "discovered a terrific new place today!" I'm an independent traveler and when people try to tell me something is unsafe or to be extra careful I have rarely listened --tell me I can't go somewhere and I mentally map the course. I'm in Pakistan for the love of Allah -- what does that tell you? This however is a whole 'nother ball game and one to which I will play by the rules --mostly.

Earlier the manager offered as a gift, a salwaar kamzi -- a tunic and baggy pants combo with matching scarf that all the women wear here. He practically begged me to wear it so that I wouldn't stand out "for your safety madam". I assured him that at 5' 10" with paper white skin I was not about to blend in no matter how hard I tried. While very appreciative, I humbly declined because well, I don't care for wearing pajamas outside the house and no amount of frequency of seeing these costumes will change my mind. That said, I still knew better than to run about like a harlot with free-flowing mane in hot pants and Candies. Wearing a head scarf and a full-coverage caftan, and looking not unlike a poor man's Vermeer (with Palsy), I stepped past the doorman to my awaiting air-conditioned car and as I sat down noticed the porter was sporting a machine gun -- an accessory that seems all the rage in these parts.

My driver/so-called guide had very little idea about anything I was seeing and more or less crapped his pajamas every time I asked a question. He did however know how to drive a car --though little else.

"Sir, what is that building were coming up on?"
"Uh, det, uh, veddy, veddy old market place."
"Well, isn't that strange -- because it says 'Lahore Museum' right there, by God!"

Later while visiting a Jahangir's Tomb he pointed out, "Look at dis, all real hand-made painting, veddy old --original." Rolling my eyes as I passed him, "Honey, that's chalk -- Jesus Christ Almighty."

My patience was wearing thin and once we arrived at the celebrated Lahore Fort I accepted a guide for around 2 dollars. My driver/so-called guide was miffed and they had a bit of a cock-about right in front of me. My so-called was telling the real guide which way we should go and yelled at him and So-Called corrected him and told me "Don't trust dis mahn." "Oh, like I'm supposed to trust you -- that was not a carousel back there --it was a GODDAMN FERRIS WHEEL --Mary Mother of God!" The tour was fascinating and Real Guide really laid it on thick with his descriptions. "This wide staircase was built so guests could arrive on elephants --those balconies are where the musicians played and these balconies were where the dancing ladies showered the guest with flower petalsfrom above --fahntastic, yes?" Terrific! So-Called snapped at him, snatched my camera away from him just as he was taking my picture --"You dun know photographee -- no good." Hateful --I posed and smiled while they plotted to kill each other.

I'd just about had it and told So-Called it was time for lunch and that I'd be dining alone in my room on chicken jalfreeze and watching BBC in some icy air-conditioning. "We still have 20 minutes left of our 'tour' so why don't you pick me up later and we can go to the tailor -- I need to have a dress made --6:00 and please be on time."

After he'd skulked away I bellied up to the reception desk explaining how disappointed in So-Called I was and how I wanted a real guide. The receptionist understood my frustration but explained that So-Far's English was shaky and that he was a good and honest man who'd worked for the hotel exclusively for over 3 years. He went on to say that there had been incidents with fake guides at the Lahore Fort who'd robbed foreigners and that he was positive that So-Called was only looking out for me. Nonetheless, pietra dura is not "clay and old paint" --it's inlaid stone for crying out loud! I came here to learn something not teach someone the names of carnival rides for Christ's sake!

At 6:30 So-Called dragged himself into the lobby, motioned for me to follow him and off we went to Anarkali Bazaar. The first stop was a fabric shop where I promptly introduced myself and flicking my hand to So-Called told the proprietor, "I found this place --not my driver --no commission for him I want the best price --fair? OK. Let's look at some fabric and I'd like a chair, please." So-Called stared at the floor a bit and occasionally actually helped interpret -- or at least that's what I think he was doing --unless he was talking some smack about me, which wouldn't be surprising frankly. I chose some fabric and then showed the man my dress I wanted copied, "No later than tomorrow afternoon --is that possible?" It was not.

So-Called seeing how distressed I was when told it would take a week offered to take the dress and find a tailor who could make it happen. I told him under no terms should it cost one rupee over 300 (around $3.75). He took the dress and was gone for around 20 minutes. Curious women came by and shook my hand and spoke to me and a school boy sat beside me and practiced his English. They couldn't have been more charming and when the lady asked me what price I paid per meter she nodded approval, "fair price".

I was looking out to the street when I saw So-Called head hung low holding my dress heading in my direction. I saw a different man then. I saw a man down-trodden and exhausted -- a man trying to keep his dignity while holding my dress in his hand --and knowing it was sincere -- he wasn't getting a commission. It was overwhelming really --it washed over me all at once, Here is a man with all the cards stacked against him -- he's got a really tough life -- he's working an honest job and doing about as best as he's mentally capable. He smiled, clearly proud of himself, when he saw me, "I found somebody --for 300 rupee --ready tomoddo."

In the drive back to the hotel, I thought of tipping him and I certainly hadn't thought of that earlier. I thought, "It's just a dollar -- shouldn't I just do the right thing?" But that didn't work either -- I couldn't decide really if he'd earned it --if it really was the right thing. And so I changed the question: "On second thought, isn't the kind thing better than the right thing?" I believe it is -- I gave him 100 rupees.


Christina
]]> AFTERWORD: Costs, Random Thoughts and Outtakes — New York, New York, United States http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/christinasworld/rtw-2005/1115758560/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/christinasworld/rtw-2005/1115758560/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/christinasworld/rtw-2005/1115758560/tpod.html Mon, 24 Sep 2007 00:45:15 -0400 Around the World in 111 Days
New York, New York, United States

PART I (Costs)
At one point in one of my travelogues I referred to keeping a diary of what I'd spent when I thought I was being overcharged for a cup of coffee. A friend asked me, "You didn't really write everything down did you?" Actually I did write everything down and I mean everything. If I gave five cents to a beggar I wrote it down and I did not leave anything out nor did I ever forget. It had become such a habit that when I returned home it felt odd not to be jotting down my expenses.

My proposed daily budget including everything except airfare was set at $50 and with very little scrimping I was able to come under budget at $43.16. With the exception of airfare, hotels were my main expense and on Internet connections alone I spent $359.25 not including the shakes, Fantas and cocktails I guzzled while typing these entries. In some places like Lao souvenirs (statues and textiles) made up a large portion of my daily budget and in Cairo I went crazy for caftans but for nine of them I didn't even break twenty dollars.

My airfare budget was separate at $1,400 allotted for single one-way tickets purchased on the spur of the moment (2 days to one week in advance) and I came under that, as well at $1273.50 (flights are listed separately below). My open-jaw ticket from New York to Bangkok then Prague to New York was also separate and that ticket on British Airways was $905.

All hotels had air conditioning and private bath; a few had televisions and some included breakfast, which I've noted with an asterisk. I generally booked each hotel a few days prior via the Internet and a few times I phoned ahead to confirm. I winged it only a handful of times though I certainly prefer and highly recommended pre-booking accomodations.

Below is a random sampling of what I spent in each country. All prices listed are in US dollars.

Thailand
Visa = Free
Hotel in Bangkok = (Suk 11) 11.00*
Hotel in Chaing Mai = (Lai Thai) 16.50
Large Bottle of Water = .12
Gin and Tonic = 2.25
Lychee Fanta = .37
Lunch (pad thai, Fanta, tip) = 2.00
Dinner @ Gallery 11 in Bangkok (phad prik khing [with prawns], coconut rice, small water, 2 gin and tonics, plus tip) = 8.00
Dinner from Street Vendor in Chaing Mai (chicken with green curry sauce, eggplant and rice) = .62
BTS Skytrain = .75
One Hour Foot Massage with Tip = 8.50
Banana Pancake = .62
Dairy Queen Hot Fudge Sundae = .62
All Day Cooking Class at Baan Thai = 20.00 (Episode # 32)
Elephant Trekking, River Rafting, Orchid/Butterfly Farm, "hilltribe"
plus Lunch = 20.00 (Episode # 31)
Newsweek Magazine = 3.12
The Economist Magazine = 3.50
Maugham's "Gentleman in the Parlour" (paperback) = 7.00
Total Averaged Daily Budget Came to $38.38


Cambodia
Visa = 20.00
Hotel in Phnom Penh = (River Star Hotel) = 20.00
Hotel in Siem Reap = (Ivy Guesthouse) = 15.00
Large Bottle of Water = .50
Gin and Tonic = 1.50
Croissant, Jam and Coffee = 1.80
Shoeshine = .50
Lychee Fanta = .50
Pringles = 2.00
Dinner (amok fish [local specialty cooked in coconut], rice, two cocktails, tip) = 5.71
Three Day Pass to Angkor Wat = 40.00
All-Day Hired Tuk-Tuk = 10.00
Swain's "River of Time" (authentic paperpack --not bootleg) = 5.00
The Economist Magazine = 5.00
Total Averaged Daily Budget Came to $53.94

Lao
Visa = 40.00 (actual cost 30.00)
Hotel in Vientiane = 15.00
Hotel in Luang Prabang = (Mano Guesthouse) 10.00
Large Bottle of Water = .20
Gin and Tonic = 2.50
Watermelon Fanta = .60
Scandinavian Pastry = .80
Fresh Baguette with Jam and Large Coffee = .70
Bottle of Black Sticky Rice Wine = 1.50
Dinner (minced chicken with mint and hot peppers, rice, one cocktail,
tip)= 5.00
Tee-Shit with Lao Alphabet Printed on the Front = 1.80
Airport Departure Tax = 10.00
Total Averaged Daily Budget Came to $48.05

Burma (Myanmar)
Visa = 52.50 (one day rush service through travel agent)
Hotel in Mandalay = (Royal Guesthouse) 5.00*
Hotel in Bagan = (Eden II) 8.00*
Hotel in Inle Lake = (Four Sisters) 7.50*
Hotel in Rangoon = (Panorama) 13.50*
Large Bottle of Water = .17
Lemon Sparkling (delicious local carbonated beverage) = .17
Bananna Split @ Nylon Ice Cream in Mandalay = 1.16
Bottle of Mandalay Gin = .93
Chocolate Cupcake = .11
Bag of Boiled Peanuts = .11
Breakfast in Rangoon (cup of coffee, cup of tea, 4 curry puffs, 2 coconut puffs) = .48
All-Day Horse and Buggy Ride in Bagan = 2.90
Shwedegon Pagoda Entrance = 5.00
Total Averaged Daily Budget Came to $31.21

Bangladesh
Visa = 100.00
Hotel in Dhaka (Hotel al Farouk) = 9.16
Large Bottle of Water = .16
Breakfast (coffee, three pieces of naan bread with vegetable curries, plus tip) = .30
Lunch (Sprite and five pastries) = .92
Local English Language Newspaper = .16
One Hour Rickshaw Ride = .66
Long White Cotton Punjapi Shirt = 5.00
Total Averaged Daily Budget Came to $20.19

Jordan
Visa = 10.00
Hotel in Amman (Palace Hotel) = 14.28
Hotel in Wadi Musa [Petra] (Petra Gate) = 8.57*
Large Bottle of Water = .35
Breakfast (coffee, boiled egg, pita bread, cheese, jam) = 2.14
Lunch (falafel sandwich, tea, plus tip) = .42
Dinner (local specialty: mensaf [lamb stewed in spiced yogurt, with roasted peanuts served over pita and rice] plus coffee) = 5.00
Two Day Pass to Petra = 37.14
Bag Lunch Provided by Petra Gate Hotel (fruit, pita, cheese, egg, jam, candy bar) = 3.57
Wadi Rum Desert Trip (all-day jeep transportation, tea, dinner, breakfast plus one night's accommodation in Bedouin tent) = 28.57
Red and White Checkered Keyfieh (traditional Jordanian scarf)= 4.00
Express Ferry from Aqaba, Jordan to Dahab, Egypt = 36.00
Total Averaged Daily Budget Came to $54.74

Egypt
Visa = 10.
Hotel in Dahab (Deep Blue Hotel) = 6.92
Hotel in Cairo (Hotel Lotus) = 15.57*
Hotel in Luxor (Happy Land) = 7.78*
Large Bottle of Water = 34
Breakfast (double Turkish coffee, pita, cheese, jam, plus tip) = 1.38
Lunch (chicken shwarma sandwich, rice pudding, small water) = .95
Double Turkish Coffee = .15
Shoeshine = .34
Subway = .12
Can of Mountain Dew = .32
Two Pieces of Baklava = .25
Baksheesh to the Maid Solely So She'd Leave Me Alone = .51
Taxi from Cairo City Center to Pyramids = 1.73
Taxi from Cairo City Center to Pyramids = 1.73 (Don't make me say it again! WHAT?! NOW SHUT UP!! ARE YOU PEOPLE TRYING TO KILL ME?? I HATE YOUR GUTS!!!)
Entrance to Pyramids of Giza = 6.92
Sound and Light Show at the Pyramids = 10.38
Two Glasses of Red Wine at the Sound and Light Show = 8.65
Being Irritated Beyond Your Wildest Imaginings = 2 years off your life
Valium (generic, packet of 12) = .13
Gin and Tonic = 2.71
Razorblade = .05
Total Averaged Daily Budget Came to $37.28, Plus Five Temper Tantrums, Three Heart Palpitations and Two Crying Jags

Prague, Czech Republic
Visa = N/A
Hotel (Miss Sophie's) = 52.00
Small Bottle of Orange-Flavored Water = .59
Glass of Absinthe = 3.41
Breakfast (cappuccino and two slices of medovnic cake) = 4.05
Snack (sausage and roll) = 2.56
Lunch (sliced beef with gravy, potato dumplings, sauerkraut, two glasses of wine, plus tip) = 13.67
Metro = .51
Entrance to Prague Castle = 9.40
Camera Fee (Enjoy the photos -- YOU'RE WELCOME!) = 1.28
Concert (plus nap) = 12.82
Communist Museum = 7.69
Mucha Museum = 5.12
Kafka's "The Trial" (paperback) = 10.59
Total Averaged Daily Budget Came to $89.21

FLIGHTS
Bangkok > Phnom Penh (President Airlines) = 87.50
Luang Prabang > Chiang Mai (Thai Airways) = 88.00
Chaing Mai > Mandalay (Mandalay Air) = 88.00
Heho (Inle Lake) > Rangoon (Mandalay Air) = 95.00
Rangoon > Dhaka (Biman Air) = 136.00
Dhaka > Amman (Gulf Air) = 389.00
Cairo > Prague (Czech Air) = 390.00

PART II (Questions and Answers)

Did you travel with a backpack or a suitcase? I hate your guts. Do I look like I own a damn backpack? No. I do not nor have I ever owned a backpack and as a matter of fact I hate them. I traveled with a wheeled hard case carry-on suitcase and it made traveling a dream. It goes over cobblestones, I yank it over curbs and even in the dessert I turned in on the smooth side and dragged it smoothly across the sand. For my day bag I traded off between my Manhattan Portage messenger bag and my monk's bag I bought in Lao and both were perfect. I only used my money belt underneath my clothes while traveling on buses and trains.

Did you ever feel unsafe? Yes. The flight from Bangkok to Phnom Penh was a white-knuckler and I was terrified and almost puked. With the exception of crossing the street in Phnom Penh, Chiang Mai, Rangoon and Cairo I never felt endangered and even then Saigon is worse in some respects. Insofar as being a victim of a crime I never once felt threatened even roaming down dark streets around Midnight but then again I was normally too drunk to notice.

What was your favourite place? It's a toss up really between Cambodia, Lao and Burma. As trite as it sounds there's a piece of me that will always long for Indochine; I felt very comfortable and invigorated there.

What was the most amazing thing you saw? The Shwedegon Pagoda in Burma and the temples of Angkor in Cambodia. Nothing however will ever beat seeing the Taj Mahal for the first time in 1999.

What was the most disappointing? Bar none, without hesitation there is no contest for this one at all and I don't even have to think about it. The Pyramids of Giza are without a doubt the most disappointing historical site I have ever seen in any of my journeys. To add insult to injury my experience there was so hideous and so destroyed by the Egyptians that I feel dirty when I see them even on television. My only bad experiences this entire trip were in Giza, which was hideous beyond description.

Who were the nicest people? Bangladesh and again this is seriously no contest whatsoever. I've never been so bowled over by the generosity and kindness off a people in my life. Jordan surprisingly comes in at second place and they have without a doubt the friendliest policemen. Jordan is the only country I visited where people stopped me on the street and said, "Welcome!" Tied for second place are the wonderful people of Burma with whom I came to feel a kinship.

Who were the most irritating people? Oh come on! Haven't you been paying attention? Out of 26 countries Egypt wins by a landslide. It's astonishing just how horrid MOST of them really are. That said however I did meet some lovely Egyptians who should be beating the asses of the ones who are destroying the image of their country and many people's vacations.

You really hated Egypt, didn't you? Surprisingly, no. I hated the touts, I hated being bothered constantly but once I acquired the skills to keep them at bay I enjoyed Cairo. Once you've learned a skill or trade or a new language you cannot wait to employ it and each time you're successful it gives you the confidence to delve further -- dealing with the Cairenes is very much a learned skill. The touts got used to seeing me and I got used to swatting them away and not treating them like human beings -- it's the only thing that works. Ironically towards the end when I'd see the same touts playing their trade with unsuspecting victims on Talaat Harb I actually pitied them and would smile and wave and some seemed ashamed. I hated much of Egypt but I loved much of it, as well. I would return as a pit stop on my next journey to the Middle East if for no other reason than to visit Ruth at the Lotus Hotel and for an afternoon of vintage caftan shopping in Islamic Cairo, which was an area of town that I truly loved.

Why do you still call Myanmar "Burma" and Yangon "Rangoon"? First of all let's get one thing straight, if I wrote Yangon and Myanmar you would have no idea what continent or even hemisphere I was talking about. Secondly, while I do not care for the sound of "Myanmar" I loathe the sound of "Yangon". Most importantly however I have a legitimate reason for referring to the country and its capital my their previous names. My bottom line is this: Aung San Suu Kyi whose party won by over 80% of the vote and then was placed under house arrest by the military dictatorship even though she won the Nobel Peace Prize still refers to the capital and country as Rangoon, Burma respectively. There's another reason that I call it Rangoon and Burma and that is because you are most certainly not the boss of me.

Did you ever get sick? No. There were I believe three days in total when I felt a bit under the weather but I never got sick. While I was careful about what I ate I still enjoyed what I wanted from chicken to ice cream and even ice cubes in cocktails in nicer restaurants. My travel doctor will scream when I tell her this but the rule of thumb is this: If they're serving mostly round-eyes chances are you're safe but you should still use caution. Chipped ice in Asia should generally be avoided as this comes from unfiltered tap water and is generally not safe however round ice is generally thought to be safe because it was made for consumption. If the town where you're staying lost electricity for more than a few hours it's best to stay clear of fish and ice cream for a few days afterward and go vegetarian for a while just to be careful.

Which country had the best food? Worst? I love Thai food and I love Thai food even more in Thailand where the flavors are more bold and complex and when there's a spicy sign next to a dish they're not playing around. I found a dish in Cambodia I loved called "amok fish" that was sometimes served cooked in a banana leaf but I preferred it when cooked in a coconut - it was excellent and I ate it twice a day. In Lao I loved a dish similar to Northern Thai cooking that was a ground chicken dish called "larb" (which is a very amusing name when said monotone like a robot repeatedly -try it). Burmese food is hit or miss and mostly I found it unctuous and bland but once we stumbled upon the regional cuisine from the Shan State we discovered edible dishes. Bangladeshi food is similar to Indian food without the complexities and is more or less poor man's Indian food and I don't even know what the hell that means frankly. Jordanian food is delicious as is Egyptian food, which is basically Middle Eastern food with subtle differences except for the incredible Bedouin lamb specialty "mensef". Czech food is peasant food with lots of bread dumplings and while I enjoy that sort of things in small doses I found it uninspiring except for that "medovnik" cake that I gorged myself on shamelessly.

You were always eating something and you ate a lot of cake and ice cream and pastries. I'm just wondering if you could pass a spoon of sugar without scratching someone's eyes out for it? You are really hateful you know that? That was really unnecessary.

You sure love to drink a lot don't you? Wow, you are really judgmental. No wonder everybody hates you and laughs about you behind your back. You are really cruel. Next question.

Did you wear that same damn white shirt every day? My God you are full of hate. That is so unattractive. You know what? Hate makes people really, really ugly. I'll have you know I had 4 of those shirts. Wow, that was mean.

How were you treated as an American? Very well and oddly enough I was singled out and warmly welcomed because I am an American in Jordan. That said however 98% of the people I met (both locals and travelers) do not only dislike the current American administration but I'd say that roughly 70% of them despise our government vehemently. Mercifully for Americans, most people can make the distinction between the country and the countrymen.

Did anybody donate any money to your travel fund? By God not enough! You are very selfish - no wonder you don't have any real friends. You are really cheap you know that? God hates cheapskates. He really does - he hates your guts for not giving me any money.

You always have such a cheerful, upbeat, positive attitude - how do you do it? Do you crap sunshine and candy canes? To answer your first question, I don't know how I do it considering the bullshit I have to put up with on a daily basis from greedy jackasses like yourself. And yes as a matter of fact I do crap sunshine, candy canes and occasionally a baker's dozen of Krispy Kreme glazed doughnuts. I have also been known to crap fully lit menorahs and once I crapped those golden plates from the Book of Mormon.

Where are you going next and when? I don't know. I do know that I have an important birthday coming up in late November and I'm thinking about possibly Mexico City or maybe Argentina or Peru. Regardless I think I'll start learning Spanish, rebuild my now hilarious double-digit savings account and decide later.

What are you doing with all of these writings? I have been encouraged by fellow writers who are very successful and whose opinions I highly value to turn these episodes into a book. I am currently working on revising it and putting it into manuscript form and washing away the typos and inserting transitions, etc. and then I will find an agent. I am not however sanitizing it or altering the feel or voice in the least. There are many possibilities and it will become what it wants to become in time. Many of you, friends, family and strangers have written words of kindness and praise and I sincerely appreciate the encouragement.


And in the words of the jive-talkin', pimp limpin' street urchin from Mandalay Yo, I see ya on the flip-side, knowhatI'msayin'? Right ON!

Christina
]]> A Journey Back in Time — Phnom Penh, Cambodia http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/christinasworld/rtw-2005/1105620480/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/christinasworld/rtw-2005/1105620480/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/christinasworld/rtw-2005/1105620480/tpod.html Thu, 10 May 2007 14:26:14 -0400 Around the World in 111 Days
Phnom Penh, Cambodia

"You've got to be kidding me", I said as we were being shuttled across the tarmac. I turned to a tubby expat who'd lived in the area for decades and asked if he'd ever flown on a plane like the one we were heading toward. "Oh sure" he said, "But that was back in the Vietnam War - shit, it could be the same plane from the looks of it."

The mechanics we're smiling as we ascended a simple stepladder to the crop duster, where we handed off our luggage to the flight attendant. Not only weren't there any overhead bins there was very little over head. About twenty other westerners ducked inside; empathetic, half-smiling glances were exchanged, met by shrugged shoulders and raised brows as we squished into our seats. Resigned to our fate, nervous laughter peppered the cabin. I desperately wanted the emergency exit seat but the zaftig one got it first so I crammed in next to him. I looked at the exit -- no larger than a cafeteria tray. Trying to escape would be like shoving dumplings in a bottle of Pepsi.

The flight attendant grimaced as she yanked the cabin door closed and latched it shut. It was too late now to turn back, though the thought of taking another flight did cross my mind -several frantic times.

We bumped and bounced from side to side as we taxied down the runway, the engine roaring and sputtering a like lawn mower over gravel. The door to the cockpit flew open. Behind the pilot, large plastic bags pilled so high behind him only his cap was visible. One of bags plopped toward us, and just as we were airborne the flight attendant rushed forward and hefted it back in. The plane pitched to the left. Pressing her shoulder against the door the bags seemed to have a mind of their own as they pushed their way back out. A man in the front jumped up and helped her click it shut. She gave a nervous smile, scrunched forward and teetered back just as the door flew open again and the bags tumbled forth, one bursting open, its bundles of letters and small packages obstructing the first two rows.

I closed my eyes, took a slow, deep breath and then I heard the gasps. I looked up as clouds of white were filling the front of the plane. Surely this was it. I held my breath. An Aussie upfront raised her hand to touch the smoke and screamed back, "It's the air-conditioning! Thank God it's only the air-conditioning"!

Bracing herself with one hand on the ceiling, the flight attendant staggered through the cabin handing out little red and white checkered boxes. I was still so nervous I barely touched my cat food. No gin onboard, no alcohol whatsoever and my painkillers were in my suitcase. I asked if anyone had any booze for my watermelon Fanta and then deflate as I learn I'm surrounded by teetotalers. Om mani padme hum, I silently meditate over and over until I nod off between being punched downward in 10 foot deep air pockets.

If you're still breathing after the plane has reached terra firma then it's been a success. I was breathing quite heavily. It's incredible how quickly one can go from terrified and humble in the choppy skies, to arrogant and indignant on the ground. No sooner had we come to a stop when I started bitching, "That was hideous! I've felt safer in dog pounds with pork chops shoved up my ass"! The missionaries in front of me spun around and cast a haughty glower in my direction. "Oh, I suppose you've never had pork products in your ass before - you people kill me".

That black and white photo taken during the fall of Saigon of a little girl being ripped from her mother by machinegun-armed soldiers elicits more or less the same warm and cozy feelings one gets from Phnom Penh customs. Chaos abounds as we're told to hand over our passports with $20 US inside and then shuttled over to another line to wait as our paperwork is processed -- all the while everyone pushes and prods, shoulder to back, and elbow to gut. A woman from behind the counter holds up a British passport and when the man approaches she hands it off to an armed guard who motions for him to follow. My heart sank. No matter how many times I've been through customs, no matter how many visas I apply for I always exhale with a smile when I am handed back my passport. I beamed and worked my way through the crowd, and outside to the taxi stand.

With only one foot in the car he started in with the tricks that every driver employs in developing countries around the world, no doubt since the dawn of the rickshaw. I long-ago honed my skills in "scam survival" in India, the Motherland of all Scams. While I still consider India one of my top three favorite countries in the world, none are more irritating, yet none more fulfilling. Indian touts are by far the sneakiest and cleverest, and after you've dealt with them for a few days you can handle anything. Southeast Asian cabbies, while gentler to be certain, are certainly no less persistent.

The main ploy cabbies use that they want you to go to the hotel of their choosing so that they can get a commission and once you tell them that you've already booked a hotel they'll still inform you that it's A) "Full" B) "Dirty" or C)"My brother has a nicer place -cheaper." Before he even turned on the air-conditioning I got all three to which I replied "Excellent!" to each one and "Exactly the way I like it -- filthy! As a matter of fact I can't sleep nights without knowing that rats are gnawing on my underwear"! And "Cheap? Who wants cheap? By God, I burn money just to keep mosquitoes out of my room! Hell, I'm going to set my damn suitcase on fire right now, by God!"

We skirt around dirt road roundabouts with billboards advertising Alain Delon cigarettes, "The Taste of France" and pass beeping motorbikes. One driver toots his horn and smiles in my direction. As I smile back my cabbie rolls down the window and talks to him in Khmer. Before long he turns to me and says the biker has a hotel he'd like to show me. I shake my head, "I don't trust that sneaky son-of-a-bitch, keep driving, please".

He drops me on the main strip at the Hotel California, which from the looks of it is not such a lovely place, not such a lovely place. They hadn't received my email and tell me that they're booked so I consult my guidebook and try another place down a residential alleyway to a guesthouse with white laminate furniture and a faded pink chenille bedspread. I exit quickly and kindly, and wonder how much of my soul I just lost. Finally after some haggling I find a 20 dollar a night place on the river with a balcony, crank up the air conditioning and the BBC World News. After showering off Bangkok, I thrust myself full force into the sketchy pandemonium of Phnom Penh.

I stop at my corner and take it all in as a steady stream of motorbikes whiz past, and mangy mutts lie licking their wounds at the hooker bar across the street. Even at first glance Phnom Penh oozes a faded colonial charm with an undercurrent of eerie intoxicating danger.

It's easy to see why at one time she was considered the jewel of Indochine. The balconied buildings with their peeling paint swan their splendor toward a bustling promenade. Ornate grillwork trellised with wisteria guards the tourists at the outdoor cafes from the cyclo drivers and pickpockets. Part of the city's allure is its dark recent history, and it still bears the pockmarks of American paranoia and Khmer Rouge cruelty in the bullet-busted plaster and street lights.

The setting sun is burnishing the Tonle Sap River as the esplanade fills up with locals flying kites, monks in ginger robes, and backpackers in their travel grunge. Street hawkers jostle for attention outside the cafes offering everything from Xerox copied guidebooks and toy dragons made of reed. Shoe shine boys swagger down the sidewalk and women mount their motorbikes sidesaddle.

It's roughly a twenty minute walk through the exotic circus of the main street to the serene third floor veranda of the Foreign Correspondents Club; a bit of a cleaned-up version of the set from "The Killing Fields" -- only the Mission-style lounge chairs are now equipped with outlets for your laptop. This is where most of the news was reported from Cambodia during the Vietnam War until the day Pol Pot's troops rolled in and shut down the country. I head to the balustrade and plop down on a stool, order a gin and tonic for a buck fifty, and gaze down the hustle of Phnom Penh. Chin in hand I stare and smile in wonder --as a child this was impossibility personified; now the possibilities are endless.

From the brilliant ancient wonders of the Khmer Empire to Cambodia's more recent turbulent past, it's the history more than anything that has drawn me here. While most travelers have come to Cambodia to see the temples of Angkor up in Siem Reap, my main interest in this country is of a darker nature.

I walk back to my hotel in the pitch of night down Sisowath. In many ways I feel I've taken a step back in time -- the history is swirling all around me like the motorbikes down the dark main strip --- not a traffic light in sight. I had read about purse snatchings and armed robberies in my guidebooks, but I walk tall and strong and put on my best NYC subway scowl. The air of recklessness is infectious.

And though I'd be lying if I said walking down these streets alone isn't a bit nerve-wracking, I'd also be lying if I said I didn't love the exhilaration of anxiousness. I just hope I've left the most frightening parts of this journey on the prop plane behind me.
]]> Day One: Bangkok — Bangkok, Thailand http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/christinasworld/rtw-2005/1104587760/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/christinasworld/rtw-2005/1104587760/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/christinasworld/rtw-2005/1104587760/tpod.html Fri, 20 Apr 2007 15:05:34 -0400 Around the World in 111 Days
Bangkok, Thailand

It is nighttime in Bangkok.

The streets are ablaze with neon signs pulsing their reflections onto streets and windows like oil on a polychrome puddle. On the corner a black-toothed woman stirs a wok of noodles onto a Styrofoam plate for two laughing ladyboys. I pass unfinished concrete monstrosities bullying up to dainty golden temples, their roofs swooping upward like the bent-back palms of a Thai dancer. I can see straight ahead over the tops of glistening black hair illuminated by the tin drum fires of the food stalls and traffic lights.

Their voices like candy, "You buy? You like? Hey lady, you like? Silk-on-silk, you like Thai silk, lady?"

Their voices like darts through a straw, "You want tuk-tuk? Hey lady, you need ride? Where you go?"

The sidewalks spill over with tables selling everything from gold plastic Buddhas, Coke tee shirts in Thai script, and cigarette lighters slick with images of cleanly-shaved, very young women. Clogging the flow are bloated white men, their arms like sides of sweaty ham crushing the shoulders of their rented girlfriends. Having returned to the land of their R-n-R playground during the Vietnam War, they now descend en mass smothering the nubile offspring of their leftovers.

An old woman wobbles her weighted poll, crab-like through traffic. A Buddhist monk points the way to the skytrain to two bowing Japanese girls. White boys squatting curbside, twist their mildewed dreadlocks atop their heads, and showing off their newly acquired worldliness yawn loudly to themselves and those within ear shot of how much, "hotter this place was last year, man" and how they've got "to get the hell out of Bangkok, man." Next week it'll be Hanoi and they'll complain about that, too.

Down a narrow soi off Sukumvit near the Nana skytrain station is my guesthouse. A sort of collection of faux tiki-tiki huts carved out of an old office building just a few steps back from a 7-Eleven. At only 10 bucks a night, including breakfast it's a relative bargain.

Next to my hotel is an open-air restaurant, where for the price of a cola back home you can have a gin and tonic topped with an orchid, placed gently in front of you with a bow and prayer-like wai. The food is less coy than their counterparts beyond the Gulf of Siam; the flavors don't dance gingerly about - they pounce. The peanut sauce is thick and laced boldly with peppers, and fresh coriander, tiny stewed eggplants burst with pepper oils, while curried warm coconut milk soup steams a plume of the orient.

I sit and relish the changing scenery, and 3 different dishes of food while listing to the tinkling of traditional music under a fuchsia lantern, its shredded streams like tentacles moving gently in the thick night air. I have another gin and tonic and lean back. A woman is selling birds from a little cage across the street. Tourists are posing.

Across the guesthouse is a colonnade of tailor shops and travel agents that lead to the swankier international sameness of the Ambassador Hotel. I push back the glass door and feel a rush of icy air at the Internet café.

"Computer in the back for you, OK? You want drink?" the woman smiled, as she petted a poodle in pink hot pants on the desk. I accept, while she reaches with one hand for the cooler, she squashes the pup the other as she braces herself. It yelps under her weight. I ask about the dog. "This Cookie, she have baby today -five baby today - she very tired, Cookie." I ask about her puppies. She beams. "Five baby at home, I cut - you know the thing, because Cookie tired so I cut for Cookie the string, you know? Cookie, she have Kotex on now - you see? Ha, ha, Cookie she wear the Kotexes. You look, it's funny OK? Dog wear Kotexes!"

There's a German man next to me writing an email to his wife and wishing her a Happy New Year. Eye-magnets. He could be starring at a blank screen and I would sit totally transfixed. He sees me looking in his direction. He tilts his screen toward the wall and keeps shifting funny. His expression is more concentrated. Once I finish my emails telling everyone how I'd struck up a conversation with Dan Rather at Immigration, and been invited for drinks with him and the crew at the Four Seasons tomorrow I sign off.

Pulling out my chair I untwist my bag strap from around the desk leg and squint up at the German's screen. Flashing images of naked Thai girls gyrating on a black background. "Thai Pussy for You!" it says. This is horrible, inappropriate, and riveting. I throw up in my mouth, just a little bit. He's scribbling something down on a matchbook -- an address. He clicks off, and goes to pay the poodle lady, slumping forward to hide his excitement. I'm disgusted and at the same time wish to God he'd left his screen on. On my way out I mention to the lady about the married man and where he's heading. She's smiling at me yet says nothing. Chin in hand she grins up at me and I wonder if she has a hint of the Downs Syndrome. And then I wonder how I'd be able to tell if she did.

My throat had grown scratchy from the 20-plus hours of flight time so I asked her where I could find a pharmacy. She pointed out the window down the street. "You see man with elephant? Pharmacy behind elephant, OK? Bye-bye, welcome to Thailand, OK?"

I walk for hours more in my new neighborhood, invigorated, astonished, and slack-jawed by everything. The jet lag, and oppressive heat make walking feel like wading through marshland, but I trudge onward through the night. I know I'll awake soon and things will be clearer but now this sensory overload is better than what I've dreamed about for over a year. I drag myself past hooker bars under soaring palm trees, motorbikes zip past in streams of light under a giant billboard of the king clad in gold. A tuk-tuk revs up next to me, "Where you go?" I smile and point to my guesthouse. Leaning against the lamppost, drunk with pride and disorientation, and tipsy with gin, I mumble to myself, You did it.

Bangkok is the best and worst of Eastern and Western sensibilities; ancient customs, and modernity, and all the grace, and garishness of a world-class city oozing across the changing skyline like chili paste on asphalt.

It swarms and pulsates, and it limps and sprints to anywhere but home. The sun is rising in Bangkok. I'm here.


]]> Metamorphosis — Prague, Czech Republic http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/christinasworld/rtw-2005/1114023480/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/christinasworld/rtw-2005/1114023480/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/christinasworld/rtw-2005/1114023480/tpod.html Fri, 29 Apr 2005 14:48:35 -0400 Around the World in 111 Days
Prague, Czech Republic

I fell in love with the charming hamlet of Salzburg the second I stepped off the train and when checking into the pensione on the banks of Arno in Florence I asked to extend my stay before I even put my bags down. The exotic allures of Istanbul swept me away immediately and as I opened my terrace doors and looked out over Hanoi's Old Quarter I swooned. Other cities took longer - there was no coupe de foudre in Paris where it took me over two weeks to be seduced, Moscow didn't thaw for five days and Cairo had me vacillating in an abusive relationship that lasted for weeks. Prague balanced itself out and metamorphosed in five.

To deny this city a gush on its visually arresting aesthetics would be a blind man's folly. It's gorgeous and lush and is haughtily aware of its illustrious charms. However, "distant", "unfriendly", "cold" and even "rude" were adjectives I conjured trying to describe exactly what sort of feeling it exuded. I came up with myriad excuses for why I felt this way. Perhaps I hadn't devoted enough time to learning enough Czech or maybe they sensed my hesitancy in responding and thought I was being rude when I was only trying to remember the proper response. Maybe it's their history: first it was the Nazis then the communists and now the irritating tourists. I asked two other travelers with a pejorative inflection in my voice what they thought of the Czechs. They confirmed what I suspected but hadn't wanted to voice, "They're rude" one said. Another chimed in, "The city's beautiful but I think they're not very nice and anyway we've got a prettier cathedral in Boston than that Saint Vitus." I nodded and while I agreed I still didn't want to give up on Prague though I had to admit that I'd seen better cathedrals. I then proceeded to go on a rant about how with the exception of the Alphonse Mucha window the rest of the strained glass designs were garish and flat. When their eyes rolled back in their skulls and their jaws unhinged like Pez dispensers it was clear that they weren't getting my references or my effete disgust so I took my leave.

I was looking for a fight the next morning as I headed to the neighborhood pastry shop for breakfast. I was mentally scribbling a vitriolic rough draft for my travelogue as I leaned into the cold wind on my way up the hill. These people are assholes. No, that's too harsh. Try again. The first people I ever met from Prague I met in my hometown of Aiken, South Carolina. I was waiting tables in the chicest restaurant in town when I was in high school where I met Maria the pastry chef and her husband, Joseph the manager. I adored them. In the three years I worked there they gave me my first taste of Chateau Lafitte Rothschild and my first alabaster spoon of caviar as well as my first sofa and coffee table. My Aunt Margaret was convinced that they were spies and not to be trusted but then again she swore that people were siphoning the gas out of her tank nightly by using a cut-off garden hose as a straw. All I know now however is that they were the last pleasant Czechs I've ever met. No. That sounds clunky but I'm on the right track.

I opened the door and against my better judgment greeted the lady behind the counter and paused waiting for her to ignore me so I could pounce. What the hell do you mean? Where do you get off anyway? You slags are bitter and hateful! I'll hurt your feelings! So help me God I will wring your damn neck if you so much as look at me wrong! TRY ME! "Good morning" she smiled and then asked "are you going to have one or two pieces of medovnik today?" What the hell was that about, I pondered? I responded in Czech hesitatingly unsure of her intentions and then smiling said, "Yes, perfect -two slices, please". She's mocking me isn't she? I'm sure of it -- she's making fun of my overly friendly and cheerful attitude. She thinks I'm a cake-eating lard-assed American! She must really take me for a complete mongoloid and I'm not about to stand for this I can tell you that right now! Nope, not today little sister! NOT TODAY! I have had my fill of it! Who the hell does she think she is? This little skank just hooked up with the wrong one today, by God! I ate my two pieces of cake and sipped my cappuccino and stared out the window rehearsing all the spiteful things I was going to say to her. KEEP IT UP DAMNIT! So help me God I'll come back there and I will put my foot on the back of your neck and pull your hair out! I hate your guts! Then I'd begin to sob as I was shoving cake down her throat and pinching her nostrils shut. Look what you've done! You've ruined the last few days of my trip! You're the reason I've become the monster I am today! That's it! You made me this way! Eat that cake! You eat that cake!Eat that CAKE! I shook the daydream off and gathered my purse. I slowly rose to leave and cutting my eyes in her direction waited for her not to acknowledge me so I could lash out. I took a step toward the door. One more step and that'll be it and then I thought, I'm going to beat your ass! I saw movement in my peripheral vision. I jerked and with a downward squint I snarled in her direction. She was waving and saying "Goodbye! See tomorrow! Okay!" Great, I thought now I have to think of a new opening line for the next entry.

I still wasn't convinced and left my claws out just in case as I barreled down into the subway. Unlike yesterday when I'd had a virtual mental meltdown trying to understand how to buy and time-stamp my ticket I breezed through in less than one one-hundredth of the time. I love Prague's subway. The communist left little behind of any value except fantastic well-planned mass transit systems, Moscow's is brilliantly designed and Prague's is chic and achingly hip. I half-expected to see Shirley Bassey performing the title song from "Gold Finger" in front of the metallic tiled walls. I'd already studied my destination on the map at the hotel and remembered where to transfer and which exit to use. As we pulled into Muzeum station I also remembered to press the button for the doors to open. During the ride I thought about how nice the pastry shop girl had been and my faith in humanity was gradually being reinstalled. As I ascended the steps up into the plummeting temperatures I was slowly warming to Prague. I looked around at all the sumptuous architecture and breathing in a waft of grilling sausages I looked up at a beautiful grey and blue mackerel sky and thought I'll give them another chance.

I spent the better part of the day at the fascinating Communist Museum, enthralled by the in-depth research and artifacts that lined the well-curated exhibits. I was moved by the documentaries and marveled at the layout and period rooms and large Lenin and Stalin statues. I was reminded just how much the Czechs and Slovaks had suffered under the yolks of Hitler and Stalin. I was also greatly impressed by the tenacity and intense desire for democratic independence and the how hard they'd fought their oppressors. I definitely admired them and now was even beginning to like them. Afterward I went for a typical Czech lunch of roasted pork in gravy, sauerkraut and fluffy bread-like dumplings and enjoyed two glasses of Riesling. The pleasant waiter couldn't have been nicer and when asking for my second glass I requested "only a half glass" he nonetheless brought a full one and only charged me for half. Things were certainly on the upswing.

Tipsy I strolled about Wenceslas Square down to the old town square for hours looking in shop windows and visiting a terrific exhibit on propaganda posters. I passed several people hawking classical concerts and passing out flyers and toyed with the idea. "Don't go to those things" Ruth from Cairo had warned, "they're terrrrrible and don't go near 'A Night with Mozart' it's pornography! Oh, it is!" I noticed the open doors at Saint Nicholas church and recalling that Mozart had played the organ there while in Prague I walked in. The interior was a baroque bon-bon of sculpted marshmallow cream and lady fingers lit by crystal chandeliers and framed with gentle frescoes. At the entrance a lady sat with a stack of programs for the evening's recital and comparatively the admission seemed reasonable so I bought a ticket and took a seat.

The gas heaters were barely warming the chilly little church as I watched it fill up with tourists. I studied the detailed beauty of the mid-1700's plasterwork and then glanced at my program. I grew alarmed when I noticed there'd be works performed by six composers all in one hour and Ruth's admonitions rung like church bells in my head. It'd be a sampling to be certain or maybe more like a curious amuse bouche for those looking to just pop it back and "get it over with". The organ trembled a bit of boisterous Bach as one chandelier dimmed and another near the altar softly glowed and I found myself beaming as I took in the atmosphere. The intricacies and flourishes of a large pipe organ reverberating in a hollow church can cover up a multitude of sins. With a race up and down the scales, even an erroneously struck key can be easily masked by the plucking of a bouquet of pulls. Frankly I couldn't have told the difference if the person was talented or not but the visuals combined with the acoustic rumblings were initially sensational. Then the next snippet came and then the next and yet another jarring classical morsel and then a soprano surged an 18th century Latin trill. It began pleasantly enough and then she attempted a coloratura in the next little hoary nugget. The chop of her voice was ill-prepared for what should have been smooth upward scaling. She punched her notes with such brutal force she was practically screaming. The effect was so that it seemed she was playing a game of musical chairs wherein every other seat was filled with cocktail forks and toenail clipping. I empathetically winced as she yelped in pain.

I looked back to gauge the audience's reaction. Easily half the victims were in deep slumber and some had even curled up while others still were hopelessly fighting slumber their heads bobbing like fuzzy dashboard hounds. A quarter of the crowd glanced gleefully at their watches then lowered their wrists back to their laps as their faces drooped in disappointment. Conversely the others gazed rapturously ceilingward like starved mutts begging for table scraps. I stifled such uncontrollable laughter that I almost threw up a side of sauerkraut.

It was nightfall as I was walking back to my hotel. I took the long way strolling along the banks of the Vltava and past the Charles Bridge. I sat on a park bench and watched as the tourist boats plied the blue-black river and I heard the tolling of distant church bells. A tram sped by, the clacking flash of the cables illuminating the roof as the passengers below stared glumly through the pilsner-colored lighting. I forged on through the streets and found a cozy restaurant near my hotel and went inside.

I lifted a finger to a passing waitress to indicate I was alone. Frazzled she shook her head violently as though I'd asked for scalp of her first-born, "NO, NO!" Oh God, here we go again! The hits just keep on coming ladies and gentlemen! A bearded Australian expat got up from his table and approached me, " I see that you're wearing a monks bag." I told him he was correct and then he offered me to join him and his friends. Considering that the waitress wasn't about to help me find a seat I happily consented. The expatriate's two friends were Czech, one a horticulturist and the other a policeman and another traveler, a Polish man had joined them. Finally after flagging down the waitress by performing jumping jacks and violent windmills I got my glass of wine. We were discussing cultural differences and making sweeping generalizations of various groups of people. I noted that Mark Twain had said that "travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry and narrow-mindedness" and then we wondered if it actually just helped to narrow certain prejudices. My point of reference was that, not all Egyptians are conniving, abrasive irritants but all of them, without exception who approach you on the street are. I was asked what I thought about the people of Prague.

I weighed my words carefully while defending the very people whom I was saying were "a bit cold or distant maybe." I went on to say that, "but I think they must get really sick of the tourists who are seriously irritating for sure." I was motioning for another drink and the policeman to my right piped up, "Oh no they're even ruder to us - they're actually nice to the tourists because they have more money." I expressed relief as I continued to try to flag the waitress down. "What?!" she barked breathlessly. I lifted my empty glass and said, "Another glass of..." She clipped me short, "No, not now busy! Later!" We looked at each other around the table and burst into laughter as the other Czech at the table said, "If it had been me maybe she would have hit me instead."

I considered myself lucky.

Cheers!
Christina
]]> Extending the Excursion — Luang Prabang, Lao Peoples Dem Rep http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/christinasworld/rtw-2005/1107161940/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/christinasworld/rtw-2005/1107161940/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/christinasworld/rtw-2005/1107161940/tpod.html Fri, 29 Apr 2005 09:25:24 -0400 Around the World in 111 Days
Luang Prabang, Lao Peoples Dem Rep

Your true traveller finds boredom rather more agreeable than painful. It is the symbol of liberty - excessive freedom. He accepts boredom, when it comes, not merely philosophically, but almost with pleasure. Aldous Huxley


Traveling within Asia is a beast unto itself and seldom do things go the way you've planned or hoped. When I went to the travel agency yesterday to book passage to Chiang Mai I was confronted with several dismal choices. I am a person who knows what I want and I make my decision and that's that -- rarely have I had regrets. Sometimes the choice however is not to choose but I haven't that ambiguous luxury. I have surely irritated half of all the travelers of Luang Prabang within earshot, as well as the travel agents about my conundrum.

My first option was to boat up the Mekong and spend the night in a border town before proceeding onward to the Thai border the following morning on another boat. Upon reaching Thailand I would have to take a bus. If I departed at 8:30 am on Monday I would arrive if I was lucky on Tuesday evening. Then I heard the major kicker from a fellow traveler, "That is if you make it to the border before dark otherwise you're stuck another night in Lao" she told me. Forget it. Another option was the speedboat that seats 6 and you have to wear a crash helmet and while the journey only takes 6 hours it is by far the most dangerous of all the options. Forget it. I decided to splurge and book the Thai Airways flight out on Monday morning. Too late it was booked up. Next option: Lao Airways, the tuk-tuks with wings and I could fly out the next day. Or I could wait several more days and take the Thai flight. Then I remembered the Presidents Airways flight to Phnom Penh while I was walking to the travel agent. I decided to stay a spell and fly out on Thai.

There are worse places to be stuck than Luang Prabang for a total of nine days. To sit by the Mekong enjoying a leisurely lunch reading a book for hours. Stopping into shops afterward looking at the textiles and Buddha statues and the clunky intricate jewelry from the ethnic hill tribes. Afterward having a dessert at one of the many French or Scandinavian pastry shops then wandering around down alleyways and suddenly seeing across the way is another wat to explore. When the women start setting up the night market in the early evening it's time for a shower and a change of clothes and cocktail hour on the Mekong. Then dinner at the same place I had lunch and more reading followed by a stroll at the now lit up night market. Not shabby this little routine.

I took a day trip the other morning to the Pak Ou caves of the "thousands Buddhas" but I think it's somewhere more around 300 of them. In this rare incidence the journey was by far superior to the actual destination and the destination was still interesting. The early morning mist rising on the Mekong was breathtaking and the two hour boat ride to the caves was beautiful and relaxing. En route we stopped at a little sand barge where the locals were brewing a type of rice wine/moonshine. They were stirring a large vat of boiling black rice wine in large oil drums that trickled down through a pipe and dripped into a gauze-covered pot. I tried a little shot around 9:45 in the morning and liked it so much I bought a little bottle to indulge at a more decent hour. The taste is a bit like sake with a subtle hint of pineapple and very smooth.

The caves themselves were interesting but nothing truly spectacular but for a five and a half journey for $3.50 who's complaining? The boat ride back with the sun directly overhead while cruising against the current lulled me into a nap. By the time I was on dry land my body still felt like it was on the boat. Back at my favourite riverside restaurant the black and white gingham checked tablecloth was undulating beneath my lunch. The trip back and forth was only about four hours worth of travel time. I thought of two days on one of those skinny boats heading to Chiang Mai and I knew I couldn't do it.

I've met some wonderful people here as well. The other night I had a very swanky dinner at a French/Lao restaurant called L'Elephant with two American ex-pats who live in Taiwan. They own a large import/export business and were thinking about working out some plans to export some of the amazing textiles here. We all agreed that while Thai silk is considered the finest it truly pales in comparison with its Lao equivalent. The embroidery and stitching is exceptional and the detail work is impressive. I had a great dinner with Faye and Howard and they even treated me! Faye said, "No, no it's our treat you're the traveler and you've got a budget." I was very appreciative and it was really nice to swank it up for a night. The following day we went to my favourite place on the river for lunch but wouldn't you know it? It was Sunday and I'd been eating at the only Christian restaurant in all of Luang Prabang -- it was closed.

I've also met a great couple, Jeff and Margaret who are staying at my guesthouse and we've had a couple of breakfasts together. They're from Queens for crying out loud and hopefully I'll be running into them in Burma next month. That is if Jeff is healed up by then. Seems he was riding a bicycle around town here and flew over the handlebars and bustled his back up something terrible. They're flying to Chiang Mai on the same flight as I am on Thursday to see a proper doctor in a proper hospital. In the meantime I've plied him with Vicodin since I had my Russian doctor back home load me up on all kinds of pain killers just in case. Mercifully, I have not needed them but I have helped out a couple of fellow travelers. "Can't sleep you say? I've got some serious sleeping pills! Back hurt? I've got Vicodin! Headache? How about some Tylenol with Codeine? Toothache? I've got some Ibuprofen 500MG and some Ambesol! Feeling weak? I've got vitamins! Hyperactive thyroid? I've got pills for that, too! Worried about Malaria? Have some Lariam!" By God, I am the Valley of the Dolls.

Tonight while walking over to my favourite restaurant for dinner I noticed candles everywhere. The shops, the guesthouses, the riverside bars and restaurants were all lit solely by candlelight. Blackouts are a rather common occurrence here in Luang Prabang my waiter told me. Still it didn't stop the musicians from playing their xylophone, drums and chimes amidst a constellation of white taper candles. I got my regular table and just stared up at the stars and the black Mekong slowly churning below. It was a magical moment to sit there with the chilly breeze floating up the river with the steam rising from my over-sized bowl of ginger and tomato soup as it warmed my face. After a few pages of my book I placed it back in purse and savored all that was happening so slowly around me.

If I'd gotten on the flight I had first intended I'd be in Chiang Mai by now. Instead I've got two more nights here in Luang Prabang for lazing about and being happily bored.

Christina
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