TravelStream™ news feed for member kareem on TravelPod's free travel blogs service http://www.travelpod.com/syndication/rss/kareem en-us Copyright ©2010 TravelPod.com Mon, 16 Oct 2006 14:05:04 -0400 http://www.travelpod.com http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/kareem/rtw-2005/1143286140/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/kareem/rtw-2005/1143286140/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/kareem/rtw-2005/1143286140/tpod.html Mon, 16 Oct 2006 14:05:04 -0400 The Long Road Home

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Takaka, New Zealand

Listening to: Closing Time, Tom Waits
Reading: Skinny Legs & All, Tom Robbins


Travels with Petra

One of my favorite John Stienbeck books is his last, Travels with Charley. It was the twilight of his life as he set out to explore a vanishing America. Eisenhower's interstate system would forever alter the motoring experience into the efficient but bland highway monotony we have today.

Stienbeck traveled alone, spare a large French poodle named Charley. With this diplomat at his side, Stienbeck bumped along soon-to-be bypassed roads and towns in a custom-converted pick-up truck, named after Don Quixote's horse, Rocinante.

I arrived in New Zealand with great expectations for six weeks of climbing and hiking on the beautiful South Island. I've dreamed about visiting New Zealand for some time. While the country is progressive and modern, the place is quiet, peaceful and friendly, as I imagine the 1950s were in the America. Perhaps its true: the farther you travel, the deeper into the past you go.

Rather than a poodle, I had Petra, a blonde Carinthian mountain girl with all the befriending qualities of Stienbeck's Charley but without the dog breath. I'd met Petra in Thailand and we agreed to meet up again in New Zeland. In the weeks before I arrived, a generous Kiwi provided us with our version of Rocinante- a tripped-out old camper van, affectionately known as "Doris."

Ah, Doris: the highway stegosaurus. Four gears on the steering column and the smell of an old sneaker. She drank oil by the liter and handled like a cow on ice.

But, she was free on loan and satisfied my affinity for off-beat style: prominently featuring stickers from Greenpeace and a Melbourne bordello side-by-side. Good old Doris had been around the block a couple of times.

Today, most New Zealand travel is different. Institutionalized I guess you could say- camper rentals, holiday parks and cruising cops out to catch free campers on the deserted back roads and beaches. The ability to see the country outside of that environment was an unforgettable gift.

With a budget better suited to Southeast Asia, my travels with Petra necessitated many a spooky night free camping in deep woods, parking lots, dark harbors and side roads. On the first night we parked next to a train track. Just before sunrise, a freight train screamed by, horn blaring, while its lights eerily illuminated the cabin as if preparing us for alien abduction.

We cooked most nights on an old camp stove. Our rations were meager and stretched further by the fact that Petra was eating for two (the Nepali tapeworm was buried on the rugged West Coast about half-way through the trip). We bathed in cold streams with only the occasional hot shower. In short, we were what the Kiwi's term 'feral.'

I wouldn't have it any other way. Petra was excellent company, a good climbing/ hiking partner and wonderful friend. New Zealand's South Island is beautiful and wild country which takes your breath away. Quiet roads, little towns and friendly people. Easily my favorite country visited on this trip.

I'll have to return to explore her in more detail. If and when I do, I will wish to do it in the same fashion, a different Petra and Doris no doubt, but with the same rough outlines of independent adventure in homage to Steinbeck.

My only regret is that I cannot share more photos. I lost photographs from new Zealand, Fiji and Hawaii in a computer mishap when I returned to the States- thank you IBM.


The End

Thank you for following my journey through these postings.

Clearly, this trip has been something I will never forget. Being able to share my experiences with you has made them richer. Thank you for sticking with me and encouraging me along the way. I really enjoyed writing my missives.

And now, I am at the end of my wanderings. I've decided to settle in Austin, Texas and start my own business. While Texas might strike some of you as an odd place for me to settle, I assure you that Austin is one of the best towns to live in the United States. If you don't believe me, come visit.

Lastly, a special thank you to each and everyone who let me couch surf, fed me along the way and, most importantly, encouraged me during the low moments. I can't begin to name you all.

I set out alone but had each of you with me.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/kareem/rtw-2005/1141990080/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/kareem/rtw-2005/1141990080/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/kareem/rtw-2005/1141990080/tpod.html Tue, 29 Aug 2006 13:38:23 -0400 The Long Road Home

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Hobart, Australia

Listening to: Willie Nelson, Red Headed Stranger
Reading: Fast Food Nation, Eric Scholosser

Where in the world is Kareem?

I must confess, I did not read Fast Food Nation in Australia. Rather, I spent my time with family and friends, went on a news binge and ate my bodyweight in steak. Welcome to the developed world...

In fact, this blog was written in Thailand a month ago. I'm now back in the States at the end of my trip. How did I get around the world and back in just one blog?

I spent a month in Australia then another in New Zealand. I hit Fiji and Hawaii like a cyclone before making landfall in the People's Republic of Berkley (California). I spent six weeks in the continental US mainly in the Bay Area, Houston, New York and New England. Then it was back to England on the last segment of my round-the-world ticket.

Once there, I dropped my plans to spend most the summer in the UK and Europe, mainly for cost reasons (the currency exchange was killing me). I took advantage of London's great deals on air tickets and headed to Thailand for significantly less money than it would have cost me to train around Europe. More climbing on Ton Sai; I won't bore you. On the return leg, I stopped off in the UK, Holland, Germany and Athens to spend more time with friends and family.

Additionally, I found it difficult to write about the developed world. Most of you live in it and would probably be bored. As I said, I spent most of my time with friends and family rather than having adventures in odd corners of the Earth. Transport is better as well, which cuts about half of my creative stock for stories. :)

Besides this blog, please look out for the final one on New Zealand which will be out shortly.

So, now I am back in the States and my trip is over. At this point, I'm very eager to settle down and stop living out of a suitcase. My target cities are New York, San Francisco and Austin. I head up to New York City next week to begin my job search. My main focus at this point is a job in the banking-cards-software world. And ideas you may have are welcome.



Tasmanian Road Kill

It was late and we were late. After a frustrating attempt to take a kitch photo in front of Baghdad, Tasmania's only pub, my cousin Taher, his fabulous partner Lucy and I headed towards the wilderness. They had flown down from Adelaide to join me on the Overland Track through the heart of the island's pristine wilderness.

We set off again into the night. After a day of driving, I was amazed at the amount of road kill littering the shoulder. At night it was worse. Tasmania's wildlife was not adapting well to the introduction of man's machines. But the road kill was a great introduction to the island's fauna: Qualls, Wallabies, Wombats, Possums and other flattened fuzzies.

Tasmania is without a doubt the most foreign natural environment I've ever been. I felt like I was on the movie set for a dinosaur epic. Huge prehistoric trees, weird grasses, bogs and moors. You almost expect to be carried off by a giant dragonfly.

In this other world, I was constantly on the back-foot when it came to the island's plants and animals, especially the dangerous ones. Australia is renowned for having the highest concentration of poisonous creatures on the planet. As I stepped into the bush, "What will kill me?" passed through my head as if on a loop.

My first real encounter with (living) wildlife occurred on the first day of the Track. It was a Wombat. To me, it looked like a brown bear and something best not to tangle with. I hid behind Lucy until she said they were totally harmless and slow to boot.

My real fear was snakes. I've always been afraid of snakes. In Tasmania, as I was informed, there were two deadly varieties. Both use grooves in their teeth rather than fangs to deliver their venom. Sounds weird to me. I was further freaked out to hear repeated stories about the snakes' ability to strike unsuspecting prey from overhanging bushes and trees. I was told on the last day that no one had died since the early 1970s and that was more from shame and ignorance. Apparently, the aborigine cure was to lay under a tree and sleep.

On the last night of the trip, I walked out on a pier on Lake St. Clair to relax after dinner. Because of its far southern latitude, Tasmanian weather is erratic and wet. The scattered clouds were blowing fast, giving quick glimpses at the moon and stars. At some point, I got cold and decided to head back to the hut.

But wait! My eyes met those of a Possum, shining an evil red. He was on a tree, about even with my head, and blocked the path. After overcoming the initial fear of it lunging at me like a Jaguar, I thought about everything I knew: they've got a dirty reputation as pests but aren't dangerous. However, if they spook, Possums may think you are a tree and try to run up you, a single claw on each foot digging into your flesh.

At that, I retreated back to the end of the pier and listened to the end of a fine Willie Nelson album. Sure, the Possum was harmless, but in a way, I liked the idea of being in a slightly alien world for one last night.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/kareem/rtw-2005/1141096380/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/kareem/rtw-2005/1141096380/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/kareem/rtw-2005/1141096380/tpod.html Mon, 01 May 2006 20:53:40 -0400 The Long Road Home

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Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia

Reading: Narrative of the Life of, Frederick Douglass
Listening to: You are Free, Cat Power

After Thailand, I zipped down to Malaysia for a few days with old friends and co-workers. I was also lucky enough to witness the end of a long struggle and birth of a new life:

Meeting Muratbek

When I first moved to Kuala Lumpur in 2001, I had one non-work contact in my pocket- a Kyrgyz one of course. Nurbek had moved to KL a few years before to study IT at a local university. The epitome of the "good son," he worked hard, built himself up and
slowly brought his siblings down to the tropics for education and employment. In that time, he worked all types of jobs- including moonlighting for some shady Chinese to dub films into Russian & Turkish- and established himself as a stable bread-winner. The
same old story but nonetheless commendable.

And, he fell in love. Asma was from Burma and had studied with Nur. Born into the Burmese middle-class, her traditional Muslim family sent her down to Malaysia for a university education. Like everything else, Nurbek persevered and won her heart. Can there be a better testament to the universal power of love than a man from the steppe and woman from the lowland tropics connecting in such a way?

That was the easy part. The next stage in the struggle was to find kinks in the armor that protected Asma from suitors- her brothers, cousins and uncles who watched over Asma in Malaysia. One by one, his good nature and honesty won them over. It short, it was bliss in Malaysia.

All of the action in the south occurred under Rangoon's radar. When word got back, it was decided that a union with a nomad from some unknown northern land, even though he was Muslim, would not be acceptable. Who was this man and where would he drag
their daughter off to? Asma was recalled to Burma like an out-of-favor ambassador and then betrothed to another.

A marriage to a local Burmese quickly followed.

Needless to say, both Nur and Asma were shattered and heart-broken. Not to mention the fact that they were in different countries with little means of communications (the military dictatorship in Burma makes access to even email difficult). But, neither gave up. Nur worked the "brother-cousin-uncle" network back in KL. They genuinely liked him and lobbied Rangoon on his behalf during the ordeal and, impressively, after Asma's marriage. I know Nurbek's story much better because I spend time with him during this period. As for Asma, I don't know what she did or how she did it but it must have been an awesome feat.

Her husband must have also been a decent bloke. Or, he just saw the writing on the wall. After six months, he bent to her wishes and agreed to divorce.

After a set of elaborate negotiations, the fundamentals were agreed. Nurbek traveled to Rangoon to meet the family and obtain their approval. Asma would divorce the Burmese and, after a period of time, marry Nurbek. They would move back to Malaysia, a previous point of contention, and begin a family.

Murat was born on February 2nd of this year, a symbol of their love.

Azamat Nur and Asma!


The Great Shave

As a traveler I have the luxury of avoiding things I don't like. And, for a period of six months, I did not shave. Rather, I was shorn by a host of barbers along the way, some masters and others butchers.

My first experienced being shaved occurred on trip to India in 1999. The Goan boy gave me my worst shave ever- which is saying something- using no cream, little cold water and a set of Tiger Balm-like aftershaves which did nothing but inflame. I couldn't enter the salt-water ocean for 3 days.

Undeterred, the idea of a great shave at the hands of a master lived on. When I began this trip, I also began a quest. Here are my results so far:

Best Shave: Antalya Bus Station. The Turks are skilled and professional in dealing with hair. As they should be! Almost every shave I've ever had in Turkey has been excellent. I especially like the burning Q-tip (cotton ear bud) trick they use to get the little hairs and freak out the uninitiated.

Most memorable: Hanoi, Vietnam. The full Kojak (or Yul Brynner) from an old North Vietnamese Army veteran with a simple mirror hung on a sidewalk wall.

Surprise: HoiAn, Vietnam. Right on the main tourist drag, I stuck my head into a shop and the guy asked for double the normal price ($1). I was desperate and went for it. Very professional with a good, quick massage.

Have I signed my Will?: Bangkok, Thailand. I'm not sure who was more afraid: me or the young girl who beheld my seven-days of Semitic stubble. I survived but it was a slow, painful process with a lot of advice coming from me.

Straight-up, no chaser: Phnom Pehn. When I saw the sign, I knew I was in for something. I'll have to post the picture later but, any man willing to show greater Cambodia that he's got green hair, wears tight 1980s clothes and sports a patent leather barber's belt deserves my custom. He also proved that a water-only need not be hell. I went twice and donated my shaving cream.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/kareem/rtw-2005/1140059460/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/kareem/rtw-2005/1140059460/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/kareem/rtw-2005/1140059460/tpod.html Tue, 21 Mar 2006 00:54:36 -0500 The Long Road Home

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Rai Leh, Thailand

Listening to: Charles Mingus, Oh Yeah (especially the Mardi Gras song "Eat that Chicken")
Reading: Run with the Hunted, Charles Bukowski


For nearly two months, I did nothing but climb. I left my little beach strictly for the bare necessities: re-provisioning, minimal email and, of course, a shave. While it was a prison of choice, sometimes it felt like being in a recreational gulag. I loved it.

A Day in the Life of Kareem Mehdiovich

I lived on Ton Sai beach, the lesser beach on Rai Leh peninsula, famous to climbers from around the world for its magnificent and multi-dimensional limestone cliffs. When I first began coming to this part of Thailand to climb in 2001, Ton Sai had next to nothing on it. Over the years, the climbers were pushed off the nicer beaches and onto TonSai, creating a ghetto of dedicated climbers with a minimal sprinkling of 'regular' tourists. An elitist place, no doubt.

My days would invariably start early, a seven alarm was the norm. I'd check my body and do a State of the Union: my hands, feet were ripe for sucession. Luckily, nothing ever totally failed. My genetic disposition is, let us say, against physical exertion and active sports. I should have been a bowler. Sore in every conceivable muscle, I'd grab my gear and head down to breakfast to meet my partner.

I had all types of people as partners: from PhDs in chemistry to house-framers. Climbers are generally good people: responsible, hard-working, dependable, egalitarian and dedicated. Most were well-read and educated. And, of course, international. Over thirty-five different passports could be found on Ton Sai (not counting the independently-minded Quebecers, Basques and Welsh) living in over 50 countries around the world. I was continually on my toes linguistically with the Russians and Chinese.

About midway through my tenure, I wisely associated myself with a group of Norwegians: One mellow dude, Piotr, surrounded by a constellation of five goddesses. They were later joined by Sivert, a good ole boy dairy farmer student from the far, far north of the country. Great people: each a round character with a kind nature. And, each one could climb pitches which would have me begging for mercy before stepping off the ground.

My climbing improved under their brutal tutelage from minnow to sardine.

We'd climb a few hours, eat lunch, climb some more then hobble home. Each day, I'd try one climb at or above my level and go for it. With a positively delightful Scandi on belay coaching me on, I'd usually make it, taking my Rajun' Cajun t-shirt to new heights. Fear was ever-present and my body was freaking out. Luckily, my four years of ballet (an ingenious tactic during high school to avoid running around the convent during P.E.) kicked in and got me up a number of climbs.

Sadly, as any of you will know if you've seen me cut a rug, I sport a hopeless Le Funk with a bad case of 'White Man's Overbite." Its scary stuff and children were spirited away. I make no claims about my climbing being any good. I ended up getting up a lot and meeting my trip goals but many indecent acts were preformed on unsuspecting limestone.

In short, there was a lot of dignity left on the rock in Rai Leh.

The centerpiece of Ton Sai is a spectacular climbing roof right on the beach where gravity-defying climbing gods make even monkeys double-take. In the late afternoons, I'd sometimes sit and watch the greats work off routes on the roof, backlit by spectacular sunsets laid across rock islands dotting the Andaman Sea. Amazing.

My bungalow was a strictly thatch affair. Bed, mosquito net and a roofless bathroom extension. I'd had to search the jungle for my toilet seat when I first arrived. I later learned it was the work of a monkey who also grew fond of my shampoo and- lest we think they lack vanity- my mirror. Besides the simian, the bungalow was stocked with a healthy supply of geckos (a man's best friend in the tropics because they eat mosquitoes). Unfortunately, they feared the scorpions and I was stung once causing a heart-thumping fright until I learned it would only hurt like hell for 8 hours.

After a shower I'd lay on my hammock until dinner, putting iodine on my cuts and thinking about the day's climbs. Friends would sometimes show up for a chat.

Because I'd been coming to Raileh for a number of years, I knew a number of the regulars and climbing bums. Even Joe, the irreverent Englishman who first told me of the perils in store for a Francophone monkey in Sunderland, showed up in Thailand to compare it to Greece. There were other acquaintances and new friends were easy to make. And climbing girls are tough to beat. They wear the number of the Beast while climbing rock but clean up into delightfully pleasant ladies at night. From the gregarious to the graceful, good company abounded.

Dinner was Thai, a cuisine I've grown to love. Lots of fresh seafood and excellent fruit: the mangos were divine. Ton Sai was a quiet place at night. Unlike many of the more touristed parts of Thailand, there were few boozers, no prostitutes, no touts, no cruisers (cars or mopeds) and not even consistent electricity. There were periodic parties on the beach but most of the community (90% climbers) was dead to the world by 11pm.

The locals were Muslims and perhaps the most laid back people in the world. My bungalow manager, for instance, was pious, spoke Arabic (shame on me) but was totally at ease hanging out with the lady-boy he employed to clean the bungalows (As a point of interest, he/she/it reveled himself on the volleyball court. Attired in white hot pants with pink fringe and matching, fitted top, he'd spike the ball with awesome power, sending scores of manly boatmen diving in the sand for safety as if under artillery barrage in the Somme. No question, he was a dude.). My Muslim name made me stand out from the crowd and I was able to form nice relationships with a number of the locals. Excellent people, the southern Thai, I wish them the best in a complicated political environment.

After dinner, some of us would head to the beach to lay on straw mats sparsely lit by candles. Liters of water all around would tip the waiter off to the fact that we would not be there long. We'd chat about subjects ranging from Kafka to toe-nail cutting and invariably end up deciding what to climb the next day.

Exhausted, I'd head up to my bungalow. I'd lay on my hammock before bed and try to prepare myself for the next day or terrorization at the hands of the Nordic gods.

Ah, Valhalla.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/kareem/rtw-2005/1136776020/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/kareem/rtw-2005/1136776020/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/kareem/rtw-2005/1136776020/tpod.html Wed, 08 Mar 2006 01:54:48 -0500 The Long Road Home

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Luang Prabang, Lao Peoples Dem Rep

Listening to: Otis Redding, Best of
Reading: Movie Night in Kathmandu, Pico Iyer

First off, sorry for being incommunicado for the last few months, the next instalment, available in a few weeks, about my time in Thailand should explain it.

But, before describing my experiences proving the undeniable truths discovered by Newton, let me spare a few lines for beautiful Laos:

I knew Lao would be good. I'd wanted to travel here for years. My itinerary was based on recommendations I had been picking up and cross-referencing from travellers for months.

With about two-thirds of Vietnam's land area but only one-sixteenth of its population, Lao was heaven. Perhaps the most pleasant people in Southeast Asia (which is saying something), the Lao are genuinely friendly, easy going in an old fashioned way which harkens back to images of the 1950s.

Innocents but not sycophants or fools.

On the morning December 31st, I had just gotten off a painful overnight bus and had no idea where to head for the big night. I'd met another traveller in the dawn light and we decided to head for Vang Vien. We transferred bus stations and walked right onto a 7am bus.

It was packed. Being new Year's Eve, the Laos were headed home the festivities (always opportunists for a party, they celebrate multiple New Year's celebrations with their excellent Beer Lao and lethal moonshine called lao lao). Every people-mover was pressed into service that day and it looked like our bus had last been employed to shuttle Moses around the Sinai.

And we had to stand. The floor was filthy. You could watch the pavement roll by through holes in the floor. There were various foul wiggling in people's arms- so much for keeping away from live chickens. There was a goat protesting in embarrassment about being put into a makeshift pamper.

While life moves slowly in Lao, I knew this bus was going to test even the local people's patience. After 3 stops in the first 30 minutes (including a flat), we nudged along at a 'power walk' pace, It became clear we would be standing for extended innings.
But, it was Lao and, like Nepal, they have the gift of taking you to the precipice overlooking hell before snapping their fingers and introducing you to the local god of compassion. Things always seem to work out in Lao if you keep calm.

A young man who had said a ginger 'hello' when we got on whispered to his neighbour meaning to make room on their seat. The seat was lucky to hold two Asians and I said, "thank you, no.' No matter, he slid the seat cushion over (nothing in the bus was bolted down) just enough for me to sit on one cheek. But, a thousand times better than standing for what became a 5 hour journey on the tortoise.

It was an infinitely pleasant journey. He was a university student and spoke English well. Like the others, he was headed home from the capital to spend the holiday with his family and his high school sweetheart. He wanted to get a job in IT and dressed like an IBM employee in the 1960s- minus the little black tie. After some time, he finally let on that his family ran a guesthouse in Vang Vien but only after he had recommended a number competitors to me.

Typically Lao and the antithesis of Vietnam.

He liked classical music, early rock and old Motown. I broke out my MP3 player and gave him an earphone of Otis. He was already a fan and made requests for Ray Charles and the Jackson 5. We listened to music and chatted about his life and ambitions.

Somewhere between the animal jailbreaks in the back and the saffron-robed monks in the front, I fell in love with Laos like a black and white gem of a film. If you, get there soon.


Aiko the Intrepid

David Mammet said no one over notices Japanese tourists. In Asia this is doubly true as they blend in and work especially hard at not being too intrusive (perhaps from war guilt).

There is a special place in my heart of the independent Nippon traveller. They are a hard lot (but never mean or rude) that don't seem to recognize fear and have a friendly working relationship with futility. In the annals of travelling, these guys must have the best untold stories.

What makes my heart throb with envy is their willingness to embark on adventures in wild lands with absolutely no means of communication beyond some written English and well-developed hand signals. If aliens ever land on Earth, I vote to send Nippon backpackers as the first envoys to open dialogue.

Maybe not. If the aliens are not benign, we'd be in trouble: I remember meeting a young Japanese on the shores of Lake Issyk-kul (Kyrgyzstan) years ago. He mimed tales of woe about his journey though Uzbekistan and Kazakhstan. It looked like he feathered the nest of every a road-side cop in his path. They took his money, passport, clothes and other gear. But he made it through and planned to continue on to China.

I met Aiko ('love child' in Japanese) in Southern. She was gently wiping her mobile phone with a cloth when we began talking. She worked in Singapore and spoke some English and Mandarin. Still, it took her a while to explain why she was wiping off her phone. With a typical Japanese giggle and masking of her cherry mouth, she said "A cat piss in my purse." "Oh, on the purse?" "No, inside."

Not as bad as when she was attacked by a pack of dogs in Tunisia though, so she was happy.

We sat up and traded stories of adventure and woe on the trail into the night. The next day we took an elephant ride and I watched in fear as her seat/ saddle, not properly strapped on, threatened to crush the driver and spook the beast. She just laughed, covering her mouth as she did so, and asked me to take photos.

A few hours later, negotiating for a taxi, that timid little thing pushed me aside and bargained with a tenacity which would bring a tear to a Turkish carpet-seller's eye. Apparently they were negotiating in English but I didn't understand a word.

She got what she wanted: never underestimate the Nippon traveller.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/kareem/rtw-2005/1135506120/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/kareem/rtw-2005/1135506120/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/kareem/rtw-2005/1135506120/tpod.html Sun, 15 Jan 2006 05:23:26 -0500 The Long Road Home

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Phnom Penh, Cambodia

Listening to: Turondot, G. Puccini
Reading: Sons and Lovers, D. H. Lawrence


Hello all, greetings from southern Thailand. I'll be in residence in Krabi until the end of February, spending as much time as possible rock climbing and striving to become as buff as my genes will allow. Don't expect much.

Thanks to Sarah, Matt and Franco for helping to ship my climbing gear.


Kafka on the Mekong

From Vietnam, I took an unplanned detour into Cambodia to meet up with Zarina, a Kyrgyz friend who was traveling to Cambodia and Thailand on a university field trip. Zarina is a much better networker than I and pre-arranged lunches and dinners with a cast of expats.

Thus, on my second night in Phnom Penh, I found myself in the home of two Minnesotans. George- an example of the great Greek Diaspora- had been in Cambodia for about six months with an aid organization, Veterans International. We talked philosophy, played chess and generally had one of those evenings you grow to miss when you are a traveler. George, like me, loves finding what he termed as 'cracks in the universe'- paradoxical situations which are absurd, shadowy and largely unknown to the masses.

Lots of people like to reference Orwell when talking about the last few years since September 11th. With secret prison camps in Eastern Europe, the 'rendition' of suspects for torture in places like Syria and the extra-judicial black hole in Guantanamo, I think its time to break out the Kafka. But, these types of situations are not new or confined to 'War on Terror'- a subject I've been happy to keep clear of while traveling.

In 2002 and independent of the 'War on Terror', Uncle Sam took the opportunity to test out a new policy. Cambodia, completely dependent on international aid, had its arm twisted to sign a treaty with the US concerning Cambodian citizens who committed crimes in the US. In essence, once the convict completed his (excuse me for being sexist, most convicts are men) time, he is deported back to Cambodia.

Pretty logical on the surface. If you are convicted of committing a crime and violate your visa/ green card rules, you should be deported. Rules are rules, right?

In practice, it smells. Large numbers of people- like my friend 'Bia Hoi Loi'- fled the region when the bottom fell out in the late 1970s. Lots of them were kids at the time and have few, if any memories of 'home.' They would be much more at home at a Dairy Queen than a noodle stall.

On the whole, the émigré community from Indochina has been doing remarkably well. Nothing makes me smile more than hearing about a star linebacker from some high school football team down in Corpus Christi (Texas) with a Vietnamese name.

But, its not all roses. Many of the guys who became deportees grew up wholly in the States, went to public schools and were poor. The most isolated are the ethnic minorities hill tribes- many of whom provided the backbone of the CIA's secret armies during the war years. Gangs are big, offering protection and sense of community to the maladjusted émigrés who've landed squarely in the underclass.

For the deportees, their biggest mistake, besides committing a crime, was not getting US citizenship when they had the chance. Not knowing any better, many émigré families were content with Green Cards (permanent residency permits for the US). Regardless of the legal formalities, I feel these guys are part of our society, in most cases nasty by-products to be sure.


If you're originally from poor little Cambodia, you've got a special plane waiting for you when you get out of jail- forget notional concepts of 'rehabilitation.'

Once they've served their time, they arrive in an INS (Immigration and Naturalization Service) holding prison where he awaits deportation. Unfortunately, the INS process is opaque. I remember one good friend once calling the INS 'a transplant of Soviet bureaucracy in the US government.' Age and type of crime are not considered by the INS: a teenage shoplifter gets the same treatment as an adult murderer. Really. Nor are family ties- like wives and children left destitute. No case by case review.

At some point, the directive comes down to deport the guy.

They are then flown to Cambodia, chained at the wrists and ankles, and left at the airport with nothing. They might as well have landed in Kinshasa, Congo. With no knowledge of the local language, customs or family networks, these tattooed, gangsta-speaking inner-city boys are way out of their element. Oh, don't forget that they are recognized convicts with no work skills in a desperately poor land which shuns them. George told some horror stories about the first few arrivals. Luckily for the newest ones, Vetrans International (associated with Vietnam Veterans of America Foundation- serving their country with honor and dignity) has stepped in to fill the gap.

So, the Veterans International paradox: They are funded by the US government and private donations to help adjust the deportees with lessons on local language and culture as well as job placement. The better George does his job, the more young and confused boys will arrive in Cambodia shackled at the ankles. There are about 1,000 more potential deportees.

A humanitarian band-aid to a Kafka-esk process.




How I Spent my Christmas

When I was younger, Christmas morning was the most important event of the year. We never celebrated religiously, of course, except for attending few Midnight Masses for the experience. It was the gifts that were the true calling of Christmas. Sure there were birthdays but X-mass was the big daddy of gifting.

We were allowed to open just one gift on X-mass eve, making X-mass morning open season for the other gifts. What consideration went into choosing that single X-mass Eve present!

This year, I awoke in Kraite at about six in the morning with a different sort of expectation. My X-mass eve gift was a fried spider during a stop on a long bus ride from Phnom Penh. I was eager to get to Laos, a country I'd never visited, and twisted Zarina's arm to leave Phnom Penh and join me. I also wanted to make the journey up the Mekong by boat. Kraite was the staging point for the leap into Lao.

We began our trip in a local shared-taxi to the end-of-the-world town of Strung Treng. We were 8 people in all; smashed into an old Nissan compact. Four men in the back with another 4 in the front: Zarina, a middle-aged woman on her lap, Mr. Eyes (controlling the wheel) and Mr. Feet (working the pedals). Cambodians are small people and I felt super-sized. The front of the car was artic from the A/C while the back was the kind of hellish tropical hot I missed out on in Vietnam. A touch of the tiger cage!

We peeled out of the car about 4 hours later. Zarina's frostbite would heal and I re-hydrated with water and other beverages.

The boat leg was next. Up the Mekong in a little speedboat- what a thrill! This concept frightened Zarina, who's studying in Hawaii, loves the ocean but is not yet fully confident on all things maritime. When we saw the boat, I was relieved to see two life preservers (just for the foreigners). The boat was about 10 meters (30 feet) long with a car motor slapped on the end of a long pole. The longtail. I'd been on them many times. Besides being very noisy, I felt the boat was safe-ish.

Then two things happened:

First, a propane cylinder was jammed- more roughly than I'd consider safe- between the wood hull and soon-to-be hot engine. Hmm. When in Rome...

Second, a mattress (double) was strapped to the front with a thin nylon rope. As soon as we hit speed, it would act as a foil, bending upwards and side to side from the force of the wind and waves.

Zarina, life jacket on, was not pleased but put a brave face on it. The boat was just wide enough for two people and we sat near the front, one row back from the mattress. It was pink with Teddy Bears on it. "Hope it was Happy" was printed in English on it.

During the two hour ride, I considered the possible trajectory of a flying mattress as we wizzed past rocks and sounded like Armageddon coming.

I calculated that the two guys in front would get a face-full of "Hope it was Happy" before it slapped the boatman into the water, leaving us pilotless at extreme speed. The nightmare scenario was that it would lodge itself to the engine and catch fire and triggering combustion in the plastic fuel bladder or, worse, the propane. But, I was never good at physics so who knows.

At the Cambodian border check, Zarina's Kyrgyz passport was a hit. She went through the habitual motions of explaining where her little landlocked nation was situated, trying to avoid the use of "Russia" and India as geographical reference points. It took about 20 minutes- all smiles. They had not seen such a passport in all the time they been working- 4 years. Once through, we were met by a young man who organized a 10 minute scooter ride to the Lao checkpost as part of our Kraite ticket. The Laos border was pleasant, quick and very quiet. No travelers on Christmas.

Once in Lao, we waited for other non-existent travelers before boarding an empty Sagawath, a semi-truck with a people-mover trailer on the end. It was empty so we got to ride with the driver in the cab. I held myself back from acting on the childish impulse to have the horn honked. You quickly get the sense that Laos is a quiet, laid-back place where that sort of thing is unnecessary. My kind of land.

We arrive at the end of the road 30 minutes later and got on another longtail boat to a small island in the middle of the Mekong, Don Det. Our $19 transport package from Kraite was cashed out by that point and we had to walk. We were lucky to find a cheap bungalow with excellent views of the sunset and a hammock- where I finally killed off that Lawrence book in a brutal war of attrition- 20 slow, frustrating pages at a time.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/kareem/rtw-2005/1134723480/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/kareem/rtw-2005/1134723480/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/kareem/rtw-2005/1134723480/tpod.html Fri, 30 Dec 2005 07:39:51 -0500 The Long Road Home

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Hanoi, Vietnam

Reading: Vernon God Little, DBC Pierre
Listening to: Nude And Rude, Iggy Pop

Happy New Year to everyone. I figured you receive enough mass mailing attacks from me so please consider this my best wishes to you all.

Sorry there have been no blogs since Sri Lanka. Since then I've been in Vietnam, Cambodia and Loas. Now that I am closer to better internet access, look out for new entries.


Bia Hoi with Loi

While I would have given Vietnam a pass on the whole, each place has something interesting if you get off the main trail. The trouble with Vietnam is that the 'main trail'- a series of tourist sites and special (very cheap) busses- is hard to break away from. Vietnam is one long country and its tourist industry can make you feel like cattle on the Chisholm Trail.

Luckily, there was bia hoi. These are street stalls selling 'fresh' beer. Locals spend lazy afternoons drinking unknown numbers of these cheap draught beers. Many of the bia hoi joints brew their own swill, although others buy directly from the large breweries and water down.

On one of my last nights in the country I met up with a Chilean couple I'd seen on and off since Hoi An. They wanted to eat snails and clams at a street stall- I'm not a fan but did it for the experience. While not strictly a bia hoi establishment, it was the sort of place to slowly end an evening. After fiddling with the newly arrived snails for a minute, a neighbor spoke up in English and told us the local way to eat them.

He was talkative- as bia hoi will make you- and impressed us from the start with his knowledge of modern Chile political history. He sported a Fu Man Chu and spoke broken English with prolific obscenities.

Loi took his opportunity to quit Vietnam in 1980. "The Communists only understood the AK-47 not how to run the economy." There were a number of waves of refugees following the collapse of the fall of Saigon in 1976, most left by boat. Not so with Loi. This guy took the long road.

Taking advantage of the chaos surrounding the (merciful) Vietnamese invasion of Cambodia, which ended the Khamer Rouge terror, Loi donned a borrowed military uniform and headed for the Thai-Cambodian border. He bummed rides with the Vietnamese army under false pretenses and, eventually walked the last leg. The trip took a month with a final week of walking through the jungle with an ad hoc group of refugees. He said it was similar to the escape scenes in the film the Killing Fields. Cambodia in 1980 must have been one really messed up place.

When he finally made it into Thailand, he found himself among a refugee population made up almost exclusively of hostile Cambodians. "They wanted to kill us in the night." The blame game in Indochina is rich with finger-pointing and the 100 or so Vietnamese were removed by the UN and put in a separate camp for their safety.

Loi described his life during this period as the most difficult. I'd love to quote him but my mom reads this thing. Rations were minimal, including water, and the refugees were not welcome outside of the camp. It was hot, there was disease and an unease about being stuck in refugee limbo. It would have been easier to get into the US but Loi thinks it a racist country.

Luckily for him, Loi had a brother in Canada and, after a year in the Thai camp, was able to emigrate. Initially, he worked as a laborer, studying English in the evenings. Eventually, he began working as a welder, his previous profession in Vietnam. After about 10 years, he saved enough to bring his wife and children to Canada. He had not seen them since he left Saigon.

"But Canada is a very f***g cold place." Although, some of their beer tastes suspiciously like Bia Hoi. After a few years, the wife had had enough of the cold and foreign country and took the kids back to Saigon. Things in Vietnam were opening up by the mid-1990s and the money Loi earns goes a long way in the old country.

Around that time, Loi took his first trip back. "The party is no longer communist and they switch AK-47 for US dollah." As long as he does not get involved in politics, Loi is essentially free to spend his money in freely. He spends the summer season making money in Alberta as an industrial welder. When the weather gets cold, he heads down to winter with his family in Saigon. He'd hope for a better arrangement but, given the circumstances, is happy to be alive with his family.


The World According to Giap

The Indochinese wars are over. While there are reminders of the last 50 years of strife, the Vietnamese have focused their determination on getting rich. In many ways, this self-confidant nation reminds me of mainland China in the 1990s. The Vietnamese are natural capitalists and the Party has unleashed the beast.

Still, marshal tendencies from the past persist: I remember being told by a tour guide in Haolong bay that we had 22 minutes to swim. Shortly thereafter, we were given 7 minutes to buy drinks and souvenirs.

Was I going to see the real Vietnam?

Friends and other travelers recommended taking a motorbike tour through the central highlands. Its off the beaten track and can give you an idea of average, rural Vietnamese life. After 22 minutes to swim, it sounded like just the ticket.

My only problem with the idea was not wanting to be stuck holding on to a man named 'Hung' for 4 days. I just would not be able to stop myself from saying: "Well, Hung...." all the time. And I've heard there is nothing like hitting the open road on your own hog with your hair blowing in the wind. So, with some free time in Hue, I rented a motorbike and driver and asked him to show me how to work the gears.

Vietnamese traffic is a bit insane. No, really insane. Whatever system there is seems to run on faith- the best way to walk across a busy street is to close your eyes and keep a slow pace. The Hue tutorial was no exception. The moto-man's English was limited to yelling 'OK' and '1,2,3,4.' His best teaching tool was to direct me behind a young Vietnamese woman and yell 'OK, 1,2,3,4.' I'd been in 4th gear for about 5 minutes by that point. After an hour he showed me where the brake was- the handbrake I had been using was apparently not connected. I'm still not sure who was more scared: him or I.


I few days later, I sat contemplating a set of particularly nasty transport options which would eventually put me in Dalat- the largest town in the highlands and home of the Easy Riders- a group of veterans who take tourists around on bikes. Luckily, fate had different ideas for me.

On my way back from dinner, I saw a couple motorcycles with some frayed tourists roll into town. On a positive recommendation from an English traveler, I agreed to take a 4 day trip from Hoi An to Dalat with Giap (not his real name). Once I let on that I had never worked a motorbike clutch, Giap said I'd be on the back and to put on my MP3 player on full blast. It was great just watching the scenery go by.

As you would expect from a leather-jacket-wearing biker, Giap was not an establishment man. By taking independent tourists around the highlands on his bike, he lived a life on the fringes of what is acceptable by the government. The government only allows tourists to sleep in a few, select towns.

Giap was ethnically Vietnamese but he felt terrible about the way the rural poor and ethnic minorities were treated by the government. And there were constant comments about the rampant corruption in Vietnamese society. Giap gave an interesting, and not often, positive view contemporary Vietnam. It was certainly biased and I had to tell him to chill out often- especially after a glass of their rocket-fuel coffee.

The central highlands of Vietnam are probably most famous to you from the Ho Chi Minh Trail. Fire bases, airstrips and hilltop outposts are peppered throughout the region. There is some evidence of all that today. There was an old airstrip (now used to dry dung for fertilizer) and memorials for each town that was taken with the names of all those who died. Perhaps the most striking reminder evident on the landscape were the bald hilltops- bombed to mulch in fighting 30 years ago. Then there was the impact of Agent Orange (the defoliant sprayed by the US during the war) on the local population and vegetation.

After the war, the Trail was made into a highway and the government moved people from the north into the virgin lands. Before that time, the highlands were only populated by a few minority hill tribes. Many of them sided with the US during the war and were considered a threat by the ethnically-Vietnamese government in Hanoi. The new colonists included ethnic Vietnamese farmers and minority hill tribes from the far north. As Giap repeatedly pointed out, the Vietnamese got the good land and the northern hill tribes were left to scrape an existence from hollow promises and second rate land.

The government and tour guides like to rattle off statistics about the agro-power of modern Vietnam. Its true that Vietnam is now a major exporter of rice, coffee, fish and shrimp (cultivated in B52 bomb craters). Not bad for a country which experienced its most recent famine in the early 1980s. But, in the world according to Giap, Vietnam's economic success has its costs.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/kareem/rtw-2005/1132734780/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/kareem/rtw-2005/1132734780/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/kareem/rtw-2005/1132734780/tpod.html Fri, 02 Dec 2005 12:50:59 -0500 The Long Road Home

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Mirissa, Sri Lanka

Reading: Travels with a Tangerine, Tim Mackintosh-Smith
Listensing to: Drill a Hole in That Substrate and Tell Me What You See, Jim White

Its Friday, its winter, take a few minutes out of your day for something different. And, when you're done, send me an email telling me what's going on in your life.

A Tear in the Ocean

I'm laying on the beach in Marissa, a small beach community on Sri Lanka's south coast. Nearly 12 months ago, the tsunami struck with no warning- reminding us that we are not in control of the Fate's strings.

Up to that day, Marissa hosted a dozen places on the beach, mostly family run. The beach is too small and physically quirky to attract the tourist throng to the west. A preserve for dedicated surfers and travelers who are even more dedicated to staying clear of the 2-week holiday crowd. Most places are re-opened but the detritus of low-cost bungalows and bars remains, mostly behind cheap fencing. Two larger resorts sit along the beach like isolated Cuban sanatoriums left over from a 1950s film.

Marissa and the surrounding area took a massive hit. On the way down, I took a window seat on the 'train of death' south from Colombo to Galle. You may remember the TV images of mangled carriages with most of the passengers dead. My train was packed, in a way only South Asian trains can be: people sitting, standing, hanging, dangling and, of course, hawking. I could only imagine what it was like the day after Christmas last year.

The destruction was not uniform but pealing away 11 months of reconstruction and judging where the waves did their worst was possible: on a slow four hour ride, I made an unscientific estimate of 70% of structures in my sight did not survive. I counted washed-over hut foundations- laying shiny like hundreds of new mausoleums- and then the real thing: the graves of their Buddhist, Hindu, Moslem and Christian inhabitants in makeshift rows.


A man walks by me on the beach. He's the second person to come out to my quiet end of the beach. My pre-Tsunami guidebook is as useful as one from Ibn Batutta's time. It does say the small rock and sand island (access by footbridge) is perched just far enough out on the bay to catch an amazing sunset. A perforated trail of shattered rocks, the remains of the footbridge, looks like Portuguese ruins now.

I'd judge these two men as fishermen or laborers. Dressed in worn button up shirts and waist wraps, they are certainly poorer than the bungalow owners who must have lost every stitch. That said, I remember interviews from the time with fishermen who returned to find their homes and extended families wiped out. Casualty rates were higher among women, children and the old.

A new but basic fiberglass fishing boat heads through the break and out into the bay. Life moves on even after such a staggering blow. In a way, the industry- or just the associated chatter- creates a buzz which fills in the gap left by the lost in town. Transport links are repaired as are utilities and other services. Most of the tents have been replaced with all kinds of wacky structures (anthropologists and architects take note) and most places are clean and functioning normally.

This is the result of the tenacity of the survivors and generous assistance- particularly individuals to small non-governmental organizations. The aid effort is huge and running an effective program must be extremely difficult. Prices have shot up 30-50% and qualified local staff must be worth their weight in gold. I must admit, Sri Lanka is farther along in the rebuilding process than I figured a lot of people are doing a good job. The Irish group GOAL seems to be particularly active in Mirissa- if one can judge by their prolific branding on new boats, houses, etc. The monsoon is having its last dance this week and people hope it will be a good tourist season to kick-start a more sustainable economy and sense of normalcy.

People here only admit to a handful of fatalities but the watermarks and destruction tell a different story. There is a stoic attitude to what happened. These two solitary and somber figures, for instance, would be hard to spot in the bustle of the town. The tsunami is referenced far less than I imagined and, if at all, in a gesture of thanks to visiting foreigners.

But out here at the end of the beach, these men allow themselves to slip into reflection and reverence for a spell. They walk slowly past, opposite the old lover's rock. They wait a few seconds and gaze past the destroyed walkway to the lump of earth perched out in the ocean, now impossible to reach, like their beloved.


Holy Rollers

Upon leaving South Asia, I find it hard to describe this frenetic sub-continent populated by over a billion people. Many say that the pulse of the sub-continent can be felt on its trains. The network is vast. However, I found busses to be a more accurate measure: at least it got my heartbeat going!

Riding on these crazy roads is a religious experience. Every bus is adorned with prayers and alms to some god or another. Allah, Jesus, Buddha and the multiple incarnations of the Hindu gods ride with you every kilometer of the way. The Islamic Bismallah stickers above the front windscreen were especially amusing to me: if only they were mirror-inverted to allow soon-to-be-flattened moped drivers a chance to utter words to enter heaven by. Better yet an on-coming crucifix mounted on the front grill which might leave an appropriate mark to curry Peter's favor.

Whereas the outsides are painted and plastered with colors and religious motifs ('In God We Trust' was another popular favorite for another sort omnipotent), the interiors are pure kitsch-shrine. Adorned with hundreds of plastic flowers, there is always a central shrine near the driver. With more incense and offerings (Buddhists and Hindus leave fruit and other foodstuffs) than any temple to be visited, you certainly get the feel that God is on your side. And you need 'Him' (or 'Her' for those damn Alanis Morissette & Kevin Smith lovers among you).

Out on the road, size matters in a way only a Texan can understand. Its anarchy out there and the big fish is the passenger bus. True, 10-ton trucks prowl the waters but they are nowhere near as prolific as these holy rollers. My greatest fear was that a religious epiphany would strike me: manifested in the form of another bus with rival religious leanings. Oh, to be slain by the only Jainist on the road!

I wonder what the Vishnu-on-Vishnu collision statistics are. But, back to the temporal...

In Nepal, horns are sounded at all turns and, oddly, before crossing any bridge. With typical Nepali ingenuity, they are also rigged to sound out a unique tune or song. "The Good Shepherd calleth unto them." In India they beeped at everything and in Sri Lanka I prayed they would beep more. Miraculously, the ever-imminent head-on collisions never realized themselves.

Holy rollers are usually staffed by two men. One is the driver and, at the end of a particularly harrowing experience, you'll want to name your first-born after him. Sadly, they don't usually communicate to customers. One of my drivers was even mute!- I was assured he could hear though. The second man is what I term the 'bus pimp.' It's a hard life for him as he is burdened with ensuring the enterprise runs smoothly, which means as profitably as possible.

"Express" is a concept which was finally defined for me by my guidebook. It means the bus makes faster, if not fewer, stops along its route. Like all things religious, holy rollers are a going concern if nothing else and the bus pimp packs them in. With an air of a minor maharajah, the pimp signals ad hoc stops to cram more passengers on. He is forever hanging out the door in search of that one additional 2-cent fare and seems to run alongside for half the ride. Inter-city busses morph into locals as you approach any town, making progress painfully slow. The short-termers (one guy rode for approximately 30 seconds) stand, often with a few hanging out the door and playing at bus pimp. Long-termers get irate. Maybe the busses have religion to protect the staff from these seething customers.

And who are the customers? The full kaleidoscope of South Asia's humanity. They are everyone and everywhere. During part of my first ride, a 9-hour, 2-bus epic from Kathmandu to the Annapurna trailhead, I rode on the roof. It was great until it began to rain lightly and what I thought would be a 2-hour cultural experience extended to 5 hours of hanging on for dear life. In most cases, I would be directed to the clergy section by the pimp. I loved sitting next to saffron-ed elders just behind the driver: primo theater seating for the unfolding drama of road travel: "Oh, yeah. We'll definitely waste that guy." Or, "Dear {insert appropriate deity} swerve left!").

Sadly, I can't share pictures with you. I couldn't bring myself to snap pictures in the crowded spaces. Plus, I did not want to ruin the karma by pointing to the absurdity of the shrines. Maybe that's just an agnostic's attempt to accept that unknown forces control our destiny.

In any case, I hope simple words will suffice.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/kareem/rtw-2005/1131003000/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/kareem/rtw-2005/1131003000/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/kareem/rtw-2005/1131003000/tpod.html Wed, 23 Nov 2005 05:24:08 -0500 The Long Road Home

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Kochi, India

Reading: Lolita, Vladimir Nabikov
Listening to: Cesaria Evora, Best of


Cheating Winter

By now, the good old Lama is hunkered down in his cave, the Greek driver is watching 'emerging cable', Victor Son-of-a-Bitch wraps a second sail around him in some nonsensical but singular quest and snows fall in Sary-Chalek, Kabul, London and the US.

So, my chilly friends, please forgive me as I head south to cheat another winter.

I've made warm Christmas/ New Year's a bit of a habit for the past few years (sorry mom). I just prefer to be on a beach, away from the bread and circus of the holiday season. Even in the tropics, a Santa hat is not far away these days.

I met up with David, an old partner in crime from high school, in Goa. Dave and
I lost touch after we went to different schools and he tracked me down a few years ago. I gasped when he told me he spent time with the C.I.A. I was happy to learn that he meant the Culinary Institute of America in upstate New York. After selling a successful business, he hit the road as a traveler-cum-chef. Its actually a great way to get around- think about a summer on a sailboat in the Dalmatian coast cooking for the obscenely rich.

I pondered that and surveyed Dave's next migratory stop. On the far south end
of Goa, Palolem was the last (or the latest) beach in the former Portuguese state
of India. While the great hippie beaches of Goa, Bali, Essouira and others are, for the most part, built up and played out, there are still a few corners accommodating the long-term traveler on a budget. Palolem sported a handful of frightful 2-story concrete things but, by in large, as I was to soon learn, the resorts are built at the beginning of the season (early Nov).

Needless to say, the 'Green Park Resort' (6 thatch huts and a kitchen) was nowhere near completion. The place sported a sported a funny cast of characters which will keep Dave entertained for at least 6 months:

Shanty (translates as 'Peace')- No older than 25 but with an infant daughter. A native of the old beach community, he has right to a block on the beach and a bit of capital. A grown-up boy with a lost-doe look who takes things slow and easy. Worried that the venture is not running yet and he's bitten off more than he can chew.

Sonny- A smooth-talking Goan from an inland village. Shanty's friend since forever and a day. He's not married but was dating a massage therapist (no small feat in India). Trying to general manage the beach operation and relax Shanty- who was likely given a reality check between seasons with the arrival of his daughter.

Sanju (A.K.A. 'Mr. Hands')- A cook who claims to make everything from fried rice to unpronounceable Julia Child recipes- all on a gas burner. He has a good sense of the tourist trade and spends the other 6 months of the year in the northern hill country.
His hello is no less than a hug and oft a struggle to get out of. Needless to say, he looks up to Dave, the master chef, and communicates this through elaborate hugs which Dave must wiggle out of.

The Nepali Three- Working the same circuit as Sanju but as waiters; they are in
Goa to make money during the Himalayan off-season. They are great guys but, in matters of business or cards, they are stern and even smug. The Nepalese run a tight ship that's usually courteous, clean and profitable and Green Park is looking like a bit of a disaster to them. Watching the Nepali Three, having complained already that the menu was late, pick out mistakes and debate the mistic virtues of a Pinocolada price a great insight to how these resorts work. Very professional and quick witted.

Jugdeesh- The young cousin of Shanty. He's probably worked a season and knows
he'll get every crap job the Nepali Three refuse and is below the dignity of his
two uncles-managers. Faced with a summer of tortuous labor and hardship, he
dances. A veritable dancing fool to techno-Bollywood sounds from a boom box (the resort
still had no electricity wired). Not terribly efficient but free slave labor.

Dave- Exists outside of the caste system, he met Shanty and Sunny at the end of last season and agreed to bartend and offer business advice for room and board. Very calm and collected, he watches the place come together with a skeptical eye. He has no worries as this is a long stay in his 2 year work-vacation and he can move on if Green Park sinks (good chefs can get jobs almost anywhere, anytime).


I spent about a week with Dave in that environment. We'd wake up, eat breakfast
at a nearby resort- Green Park did not work yet and the Nepali Three vouched for their
previous employer- probably wondering why they did not stay do the season there. We'd return to Green Park, survey the limited accomplishments from the previous day and guess what today's industry would deliver. Jugdeesh would be yelled at and given more work.

We'd accompany Shanty and Sonny to town in a circa 1950s beast of a car to perform tasks and obtain necessary building materials in an eternally frustrating and linear manner. In the evenings, we would sit around after dinner, talk about the last 10 years of our lives and get the occasional glimpse of Jugdeesh doing the Bombay boogie as he cleaned dishes in the kitchen. 'We'll open the day after tomorrow' is now a phrase that holds less water than 'Peace in our time.'

A high point was watching Sonny buy a new flash motorbike with a loan from cash-strapped, and not so shanty, Shanty. It was only made worse when, in celebration of Desi with a local Halloween twist, the countryside sprouted papier-mâché warriors and goblins 2 meters (6 feet) tall. On our way back to the beach from town, we were waylaid multiple times by kids demanding money, drinks and sweets and young men in super-hero Hindi costumes. Shanty had to pay each time.

From the last report (Nov 23), the kitchen is open, as are 3 of 6 huts. Jugdeesh continues to suffer.



Monsoon Sunset

The last one was long; so, I'll make this short.

After Goa, I headed to Kerela. The province has a great deal of history, a highly educated population and a thriving Communist Party. More proof of my theory that Communist movements can exist (if not thrive) only in tropical climes where food grows on trees.

Kochi (Cochin) is referenced by the great sea story writers and was a key port of call for Omani, Portuguese, Dutch and English traders. Think of a mix of Singapore, Hong Kong, New Orleans and Rotterdam in their heyday. Communities of Orthodox Christians and Jews (originally from Spain, but most have left) mix with Moslem, Hindu and every possible sect of Christianity. Kerela has got God in a bad way an missionaries from all stripes prowl.

Leaving Cochin, I headed to Kottayam the first town in Kerela to reach 100% literacy and the home of Arundhati Roy (God of Small Things). The town is also an entry point to the backwaters- a large area of wetlands supporting interesting twists on terrestrial living.

As you'll see, the place is incredible. From a small and very local ferry, I watched a sunset which, because of the Monsoon clouds, lasted for over 3 hours. Our destination was due west so all I had to do was sit back and enjoy.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/kareem/rtw-2005/1130137740/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/kareem/rtw-2005/1130137740/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/kareem/rtw-2005/1130137740/tpod.html Fri, 04 Nov 2005 00:20:17 -0500 The Long Road Home

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Kathmandu, Nepal

Reading: Lord Jim, Joseph Conrad
Listening to: Pixies, Surfer Rosa


Hi y'all. I got some complaints about the lack of pictures on the last blog. I'm in Goa and the internet connection is slow. So, here's some popcorn stories and more photos.

The Million Dollar Lama

Before making the main pass on the Annapurna trek, its recommended that you spend an acclimatization day in the old salt trading post of Menang at about 4,000 meters. The people of Menang benefit from a royal waiver allowing them trade without paying tax. They are known for being shrewd business people with a keen eye on market needs.

After a few days on the trail Menang began to sound like a magic city where anything could be obtained. Yak steak, movies, replacements for gear, massage, (expensive) e-mail, etc. I found it to be a bit too much frankly. Maybe it was the piece of apple crumble pie the size of my head with a half-liter of custard.

The mountain mecca of Menang also provided the opportunity to visit the hermit-Lama on your rest day. Dispensing his good wishes and prayers on trekkers nervous about making the pass without getting altitude sickness, the lama's pad was a stone hut on a cliffside about an hour's climb from Menang.

The lama ran a good gig in his little hut. As excited as a bunny rabbit as soon as trekkers showed up, the old man would yell out and invite you in. The mood quickly changed to reverent as each person kneeled in front of his alter. There was a prayer, some juniper water to be drunk and wiped in your hair and, as a special memento of the experience, your very own string necklace. Then it was paytime.

I was astounded at how anxious the Lama was about getting his money. Running out on an old Lama on the side of the mountain without paying is bad form- or so I was taught. And for 100 Rupees ($1.25) to boot.

Then I got to thinking about the big picture. This Lama was probably clearing about $10,000 dollars a year. 'Not much' say some of you with big jobs in big cities but its a going concern of some order in Nepal. Can you imagine his costs? None. Maybe the occasional bender in the sin city of Menang. After a few years, I expect the Lama to break out and live the high life in Kathmandu or the Costa del Sol. Maybe I'll meet him one day, in a casino with two lovely ladies dispensing with his newfound wisdom- always bet on safron.

Why the French Really Hate the English
-or How to Make a Monkey a Frog

The depth of English history manifests itself in many ways. Local sayings and slang is one of them. Learning what expressions such as 'Bob's Your Uncle' and 'Fanny Pack' mean have added spice to my life. Nothing has been more amusing to me than 'Who Hung the Monkey,' an insult with a bite right out of North England.

During the Napoleonic wars (1793-1815), the British feared an invasion from the Continent. Things looked grim. French ships prowled the costal areas. Off one such town, Hartlepool, (although there is heated debate about what town), a French ship ran aground and began to sink.

In the washed up wreckage, lay a lone, wet and confused survivor. The ship's monkey- dressed in a little French military uniform. Sadly, no Fez.

Clearly this was the vanguard of an invasion force and the people of Hartlepool must do their part for king and country.

Not knowing what a Frenchman looked like, the town put the monkey on trial for treason as a human. Unfortunately, the good people of Hartlepool did not speak French- no that the monkey did either. The trial was swift. They hung the monkey as a French spy and a legend was born.

To this day, the fans of opposition football teams can be heard singing the 'Who Hung the Monkey?' song. It also makes for a good expression.

(As told by Joe on Kalymnos)
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