Family, friends, elderly people, youngins, chickens, ducks...I'm home.
Rephrase: I'M HOME.
First off, my apologies for the lack of output. There are no excuses from my part, these inconsistencies lay squarely upon my shoulders. I finished my gap-year with a three month stint of volunteering that started in India and ended in Nepal, and am now back in the shadows of the Blue Ridge Mountains. I've had a gander, wandered a bit of God's earth, and have felt a connection with many a location, but none quite like this. No, I won't live here for the rest of my life, quite the contrary, but the stirring emotion that seems to hover with the bobbing leaves of my deciduous brethren will never depart. I FEEL home.
My term of vagabondation (humor me on that one) may have come to a close, but the kaleidoscope still whirs about at a rate that yields the type of vibrant productions that I have come to love. Even though my re-introduction to society, which deserves its own chapter, has altered this rotation, I believe that I can still reach back to those times where travel was the sole motor of my existence, where the colors given off by worldy gyrations would have your eyes salivating with tonal lust. So let's take it back, memory lane style.
I believe we were about to head to India....
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Deep Within
Strapped by the shackles of inertia and still feeling the afterburn of 'Nam adventures, I guess you could say that I oozed my way into Cambodia, like a heatwave easing it's way off the asphalt with mild, rippling pomp. They say that there ain't no rest for the wicked. Oh man, I wish they were wrong at this point.
Until my bus ride to the capital, Phnom Penh, from Saigon, I had never even heard of the Khmer Rouge. Rude introductions were in order, as the term decided it didn't want to shake hands. The meeting occurred as I was skimming through the history section of my guide book, and came upon a particular passage, whereupon my stomach did a handstand, and shook, as if a bully were attempting to empty its pockets of any loose change. My first thought was, 'How did this never make it into any of my history lessons?' My second thought consisted of the memory of history class - or complete lack thereof, I should say, which might explain this particular omission. Jokes aside, I was appalled. Straight up disgusted. I questioned humanity for the rest of that bus ride, and for a long time afterward. Let me BRIEFLY explain...
+ Hands down, the cutest kids in the entire world. No contest there. Unfortunately, most you meet are either mini-merchants or beggars employed by elders, which is truly unfair at base. What's more is the worst poverty in SE Asia, and it's not just the hearstring pluckers out for a dime, but the sincerely crushing look in a paupers eyes of pure helplessness in need.
-sunrise to sunset.
-knackered.
Celine and I get cheeky.
-favorites = ta prom. bayon. bantey srei.
I owned a pressing urge to explore Cambodia, as every traveler that I had conferred with up to that point had relayed that the heart of SE Asia was truly fascinating. This hunger became torturous as I was rationed only one week to nibble about, due to the over extensions of a previous engagement. Quite literally, I may add, as my honeymoon with the Baron hung so sweetly, yet so stubbornly in the sky, refusing the aspiring climb of the sun a single rung to grasp onto. The domino effect of this was that I had to take in Cambodia at a Gareth-like pace. For those unaware of my brother's dining habits, this means that I had to literally inhale, instead of taking time to chew, savor, and extract the full culture from each bite. Prior to travel, my only image of Cambodia consisted of a visual provided by the Dave Chappelle in a skit, where he alludes to the 'finest Cambodian breast milk.' High expectations grew strong bones; for all the twisted minds out there, I vow any samplings were of a purely bottle-fed nature. Little did I know that it possessed much more than the healthy dose of calcium that my puckered lips were prepared for. Cambodia instead kissed me with all of its tortured beauty, departing an aftertaste that I have yet to interpret and perceive in full. All I know is that when I think of SE Asia, that taste lingers.
Until my bus ride to the capital, Phnom Penh, from Saigon, I had never even heard of the Khmer Rouge. Rude introductions were in order, as the term decided it didn't want to shake hands. The meeting occurred as I was skimming through the history section of my guide book, and came upon a particular passage, whereupon my stomach did a handstand, and shook, as if a bully were attempting to empty its pockets of any loose change. My first thought was, 'How did this never make it into any of my history lessons?' My second thought consisted of the memory of history class - or complete lack thereof, I should say, which might explain this particular omission. Jokes aside, I was appalled. Straight up disgusted. I questioned humanity for the rest of that bus ride, and for a long time afterward. Let me BRIEFLY explain...
The Khmer Rouge, headed by the infamous Pol Pot, ruled via reign of terror in the 1970's that was responsible 
for the elimination of roughly two million Cambodians. The extremist's intentions were fundamentally malign: to turn Cambodia into an agrarian peasant society by rooting out all intellectuals, and forcing the rest of the populous to slave away in the isolated fields, thus ensuring their choke hold on power. Those that weren't executed perished at the hands of starvation or disease. The sick thing is that seemingly nobody knew of the heinous deeds, as the countries borders were shut down, and even when the Vietnamese finally erected a stop-sign by force, I still feel that very few people acknowledged the atrocities. Even now, how many are aware of what has been dubbed by many as the "Cambodian Holocaust?" Maybe I'm just ignorant...
for the elimination of roughly two million Cambodians. The extremist's intentions were fundamentally malign: to turn Cambodia into an agrarian peasant society by rooting out all intellectuals, and forcing the rest of the populous to slave away in the isolated fields, thus ensuring their choke hold on power. Those that weren't executed perished at the hands of starvation or disease. The sick thing is that seemingly nobody knew of the heinous deeds, as the countries borders were shut down, and even when the Vietnamese finally erected a stop-sign by force, I still feel that very few people acknowledged the atrocities. Even now, how many are aware of what has been dubbed by many as the "Cambodian Holocaust?" Maybe I'm just ignorant...* I've already crossed history teacher off of the career list, and highly advise all to head straight to more viable sources for details (I'm leaving bald spots, and there's a full head of hair to be seen here) and
a dose of true knowledge. * http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Khmer_rouge
a dose of true knowledge. * http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Khmer_rouge
I first visited the S-21 detention center, where some 20,000 prisoners were murdered. All were tortured in ways that force you to spew, and all but 7 souls proved mortal in fatality. Stumbling through room after room occupied by intense photographs of victims faces left me reeling; it was all too surreal - I was sleep walking with ghosts. And that was just the warm up. Next came the actual Killing Fields.
Hatchets. Knives. Hoe's. A tree. The latter used to bash children against until death (women and children were eradicated as well, in order to ensure that there would be no further uprisings - a loudspeaker played music to drown out wailing victims). A tower rose from the center of the grounds, where intact bones were housed on brutally honest display. Walking past mass grave after mass grave was an experience that no anti-depressant pill could ever stand in the ring against. Each sign was a knockout - "350 bodies" here, "250 bodies - women and children" there. It's difficult to relate the scene and ensuing emotions accurately through any form of expression.
Even though this nation 
has been raped by it's own, the unconditional compassion and reception is astounding. The people's spirited resilience is inspiring, but what's more is that kindness is galore. Dr. Seuss would have felt right at home, as the collective response to foreigners is that of some long lost relative showing up to a family reunion. Granted were all bringing hefty, persuasive bundles of cash to make sure that our status as kinsman is confirmed, but in my few experiences, people were more friendly than one would anticipate given such recent hard knocks. Juxtapo
sing Vietnamese back-packer trail hospitality (or what I know through word of mouth) and that of
Cambodia is interesting, as Cambodians welcome any outsider, relishing all attention from the outside world.
has been raped by it's own, the unconditional compassion and reception is astounding. The people's spirited resilience is inspiring, but what's more is that kindness is galore. Dr. Seuss would have felt right at home, as the collective response to foreigners is that of some long lost relative showing up to a family reunion. Granted were all bringing hefty, persuasive bundles of cash to make sure that our status as kinsman is confirmed, but in my few experiences, people were more friendly than one would anticipate given such recent hard knocks. Juxtapo
sing Vietnamese back-packer trail hospitality (or what I know through word of mouth) and that ofCambodia is interesting, as Cambodians welcome any outsider, relishing all attention from the outside world.
+ Hands down, the cutest kids in the entire world. No contest there. Unfortunately, most you meet are either mini-merchants or beggars employed by elders, which is truly unfair at base. What's more is the worst poverty in SE Asia, and it's not just the hearstring pluckers out for a dime, but the sincerely crushing look in a paupers eyes of pure helplessness in need.
Bounce time to Siem Riep, the common launching pad for Angkor Wat and the surrounding temples. For the second time in Cambodia, words seem like inflated currency when attempting to purchase any type of crisp description. Photographs may provide a visual, but fail in efforts to impart tones intangible, the aura and emotions that seem to rumble from within the senior structures. My only journal entry for day one goes as follows: "I have no clue what to say. I just don't." And I still don't, but here's some BS anyway...
The Ancients have always engrossed me, ever since I was a bug-eyed youngster, slurping up my first tale of Greek myth
ology at Waldorf, an assailant to the remnant watermelon juice on some paper plate after a family picnic. As intrigue evolved, I grew bold, and eschewed the sloppy seconds of others for the fruit itself, eating up the masterful prose of The Iliad and Odyssey. My suspicions regarding societal regressions only expanded in daring after basking in the presence of such soulful monoliths. I bought a three day pass to the temples, and averted the bee-hive swarm of tuk-tuk touts for a more traditional, and I felt authentic, cycling experience. I burst forth from the honeycomb unstung, cruising in style atop my 1950's bike, the banana yellow frame radiating, but not as much as my pride, the radius of which only extended due to my clanging bell and classy picnic basket. I missed out on lots of tour guide info, but got to go at my own pace, and received a fine coating of candy color paint from the sun. A galaxy of irrevocable beads was strung across my forehead, ever shifting with the constant progressions of time and motion. 'Twas a shame when the handle of the big dipper burned too bright and dropped off. The dynamic duo of Camera and Vagabond is no more, do to managerial failures (on my part) in Saigon. I did acquire a mean little point and shoot in Phnom Penh thoug
h, so not all photo ops were left derelict, and I actually think that my experience benefitted by the absence of my original partner in documentarian crime. I found myself wondering how many people (myself included) have actually felt the temples as opposed to seeing them through a lens. It was strange to wander through thick crowds of Japanese and Korean tour buses and notice how many people were attempting to soak in the essence of the structures, not just pose for the uber-tourist pic that they would show all their friends when the got home. Details that the latest lens or highest megapixel count miscarry during transmission are things that you will truly remember. I reckon that bright memories remain vivid in recollection, these moments shine brilliant to no end for those who stare directly into the blinding light offered by the crumbling stone.
ology at Waldorf, an assailant to the remnant watermelon juice on some paper plate after a family picnic. As intrigue evolved, I grew bold, and eschewed the sloppy seconds of others for the fruit itself, eating up the masterful prose of The Iliad and Odyssey. My suspicions regarding societal regressions only expanded in daring after basking in the presence of such soulful monoliths. I bought a three day pass to the temples, and averted the bee-hive swarm of tuk-tuk touts for a more traditional, and I felt authentic, cycling experience. I burst forth from the honeycomb unstung, cruising in style atop my 1950's bike, the banana yellow frame radiating, but not as much as my pride, the radius of which only extended due to my clanging bell and classy picnic basket. I missed out on lots of tour guide info, but got to go at my own pace, and received a fine coating of candy color paint from the sun. A galaxy of irrevocable beads was strung across my forehead, ever shifting with the constant progressions of time and motion. 'Twas a shame when the handle of the big dipper burned too bright and dropped off. The dynamic duo of Camera and Vagabond is no more, do to managerial failures (on my part) in Saigon. I did acquire a mean little point and shoot in Phnom Penh thoug
h, so not all photo ops were left derelict, and I actually think that my experience benefitted by the absence of my original partner in documentarian crime. I found myself wondering how many people (myself included) have actually felt the temples as opposed to seeing them through a lens. It was strange to wander through thick crowds of Japanese and Korean tour buses and notice how many people were attempting to soak in the essence of the structures, not just pose for the uber-tourist pic that they would show all their friends when the got home. Details that the latest lens or highest megapixel count miscarry during transmission are things that you will truly remember. I reckon that bright memories remain vivid in recollection, these moments shine brilliant to no end for those who stare directly into the blinding light offered by the crumbling stone.-sunrise to sunset.
-knackered.
Celine and I get cheeky.
-favorites = ta prom. bayon. bantey srei.
-highlight was final moment spent mano-y-mano with Angkor, the mother of all temples, as the fading light found itself being swallowed whole by mother natures unseen side, devoured by the faceless creature that is night.
-closing moments of solitude on adjacent lake, mulling over my time spent in SE Asia as gilded reflections drizzled toward me, an agent for reminiscence over golden times past. "Road Trippin'" by the Chili Peppers (who else, let's be real) came to mind, as I melted to the Anthony Kiedis' meditative sounds: "These smiling eyes are just a mirror for..."
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Minsk Diaries: Ramble On Sessions
My theme song is "Vagabond" by Wolfmother, but never before have the lyrics rung so true as they do now.
"I'll tell you everything 'bout living free."
Chris and I parted ways (he was keen on beaches and booze, I on a brotherhood with the back roads), which left me liberated to roam and make my own decisions. So, I hit the open road, a vagabond with a nickelbag of words and the badges earned as a certified space cadet. I spent all day in my head, a sedentary cockpit of constant repose polar to the nomadic nature of my actions, and as a result, I feel the two weeks traveling north to south (Hanoi to Saigon) in Vietnam has been one of the more profound chapters of existence I have led.
"I'll tell you everything 'bout living free."
Chris and I parted ways (he was keen on beaches and booze, I on a brotherhood with the back roads), which left me liberated to roam and make my own decisions. So, I hit the open road, a vagabond with a nickelbag of words and the badges earned as a certified space cadet. I spent all day in my head, a sedentary cockpit of constant repose polar to the nomadic nature of my actions, and as a result, I feel the two weeks traveling north to south (Hanoi to Saigon) in Vietnam has been one of the more profound chapters of existence I have led.
O
ne of the first things that I noticed was the vast range of reactions to the novel presence of my skin color and peculiar bodily structure to those surrounding me: steep, in both number and assortment of countenances. The deft jump of that fellow's eyebrow, the somewhat suggestive wink from a female, a child's ogle of pure joy, the old woman digging so deep into her nose I had to wonder what she could possibly be looking for, the standard (yet somehow always varied) "HELLO!" from a little one, and the look of pure disdain and hatred from someone who is tired of foreigners strutting through their lands. I liken it to an Avatar-like alliance (sorry it's the only
movie I've seen in a hot minute), pieces are exchanged, fibers of communication swapped through gaze. There's that moment of realization, the momentary focus, then the gradual (I'm talking milliseconds here) blur of vision as the two parties pass, entangled expressions meet in an intangible embrace, then are torn apart from one another by the inevitability of time. Some attachments end in a Romeo and Juliet like parting of longing, others might need a bouncer to step in between and pull us apart. Passing so many souls makes for a taxing experience, as there is constant interaction, however fleeting, forcing my emotional being to traverse terrains more mountainous than my physical, peaks and troughs, a constant peak or trough (I do have to note that most experiences were positive). It's all just part of this unprotected, unlubricated intercourse of travel. I leave that visual to your discretion.
It seemed as though the universe won't let me have a bad day. Each time I felt down, a maintenance man in an ever changing uniform would appear to tinker with my wires, change that flat, or supply a fresh spark plug in order to lift my spirits to an elevation of glee. The enlightened monk, a bizarrely nefarious English teacher, or a believed to be reincarnation of Ho Chi Minh himself - all unforgettable, and all truly sporadic, analogous to the personality of my speedometer, which hip-hopped its way horizontally on its axis to its own beat. Symbolism need not be noted.
I almost forgot about my chariot! My baby, the Red Baron. Our relationship made splendid progress, subsidized by roads that dare not go unmentioned.
i clutched her midrift with my knees, felt the thrum, a vibration needed at times for warmth, and at other times just out of pure lust. my hands cocky, coercing the beast to my slightest willing. the road married to the reptilian river running parrallel, a just beauty without the intent to please, yet doing so with its
humble squandering of potential flow in favor of peace. im leaning again, a jumble of vectors, momentum, and a wildwild horse spirit, pushing her to the finite rink of relaxation and taxation, but never crossing that fabled line. oh the glorious, a Princess Mononoke road I've wandered over, lazy Sundays all over again as my mind fishtails, unable to catch hold of a foothold. valleys and peaks, placid reflections eternal proposed by rice paddies, lands capped with meek mist, not real clouds as far as vietnamese standards go. now the grade has something personal against the baron, has her chain smoking cigarettes from the rear to cope with this trial. did i just see a pterodactyl? change of scenery today, chameleon style for sure. from jurassics, where brocolli toped tooth picks speckled the green blanket of mountains scaled, where my existence was haloed by tufts of clouds, giving way
to clint eastwood badlands, and scary heat, the sun exercising a scorched earth police on every atom it could find. parched ground teased mercilessly by thick, bodacious clouds. That is Unfair. my thoughts can take that muddy sideroad inhabited only by the halfnake child running after its own imagination, it can scramble through the ever green vistats of flaura and fauna slow boat its way down the lazy rivers relflecting the pressing sky.
none of this would be if it weren't for her.
My phrasebook lies twitching from its recent torture, but this situation is the only one where I condone anything short of water boarding. Anything to pry loose the necessary information to communicate. Vietnamese is difficult to a minuscule point that is so far past frustrating its difficult to find. It shares the Roman alphabet with English, but the tongues used to lay down the brick and mortar for exchange are from separate universes, a seemingly metaphysical distance at times. Attempts to speak the foreign language always came out botched or mutilated, as English is monotone compared to the song-like, tonal structure of Vietnamese (similar to its northern brother China). This makes interaction very difficult, and although I became skilled at prancing from page to page in my communication bible, it felt like everyone spoke a different dialect. So lost. Not to mention most relationships began with an inquiry of direction...
Adventures... from the $1 haircut (for those versed in Larson's FarSide, I looked like a p
roduct of the Schultz Bros. "Buck n Cut" - I swear that was the first time the guy lifted those scissors), to spirited karaoke with locals...at 11 in the morning, to attempting to deliver a police report via phrasebook (long, long story). Big Fun. But by the end of each day, I was sufficiently nackered. There was almost no way to completely wring out my bursting experience
sponge on the daily, there was too much seen, too many revelations savored (especially the deep ones, i.e. ShamWows are made in Germany! - who knew?), the entire ordeal turned out to be quite that, an ordeal. Both physically and mentally racking. But it fits the mold, as Vietnam is an extreme place. Desired bleach white skin vs. scary black of the coffee, mountainous (ice) north vs flat (fire) south, and as already mentioned, the people, most men needing two packs a day, just to get by. And I think that's exactly why I loved Vietnam. Life's not all rainbows and butterflies (which is what Laos felt like at times), but those two were so much more beautiful after my fair share of engine oil and filthy looks. On the road of life, at some point or other, your going to find yourself broken down on the side of the road, in the middle of nowhere, and you'll have to pop your own hood to see what's really going on...
ne of the first things that I noticed was the vast range of reactions to the novel presence of my skin color and peculiar bodily structure to those surrounding me: steep, in both number and assortment of countenances. The deft jump of that fellow's eyebrow, the somewhat suggestive wink from a female, a child's ogle of pure joy, the old woman digging so deep into her nose I had to wonder what she could possibly be looking for, the standard (yet somehow always varied) "HELLO!" from a little one, and the look of pure disdain and hatred from someone who is tired of foreigners strutting through their lands. I liken it to an Avatar-like alliance (sorry it's the only
movie I've seen in a hot minute), pieces are exchanged, fibers of communication swapped through gaze. There's that moment of realization, the momentary focus, then the gradual (I'm talking milliseconds here) blur of vision as the two parties pass, entangled expressions meet in an intangible embrace, then are torn apart from one another by the inevitability of time. Some attachments end in a Romeo and Juliet like parting of longing, others might need a bouncer to step in between and pull us apart. Passing so many souls makes for a taxing experience, as there is constant interaction, however fleeting, forcing my emotional being to traverse terrains more mountainous than my physical, peaks and troughs, a constant peak or trough (I do have to note that most experiences were positive). It's all just part of this unprotected, unlubricated intercourse of travel. I leave that visual to your discretion.
To me, it's beautiful that such random kindness is shared on the basis of two being cut from the same cloth, no matter the pattern. The inebriation from that feeling is one that never faded throughout.
It seemed as though the universe won't let me have a bad day. Each time I felt down, a maintenance man in an ever changing uniform would appear to tinker with my wires, change that flat, or supply a fresh spark plug in order to lift my spirits to an elevation of glee. The enlightened monk, a bizarrely nefarious English teacher, or a believed to be reincarnation of Ho Chi Minh himself - all unforgettable, and all truly sporadic, analogous to the personality of my speedometer, which hip-hopped its way horizontally on its axis to its own beat. Symbolism need not be noted.
I almost forgot about my chariot! My baby, the Red Baron. Our relationship made splendid progress, subsidized by roads that dare not go unmentioned.
i clutched her midrift with my knees, felt the thrum, a vibration needed at times for warmth, and at other times just out of pure lust. my hands cocky, coercing the beast to my slightest willing. the road married to the reptilian river running parrallel, a just beauty without the intent to please, yet doing so with its
humble squandering of potential flow in favor of peace. im leaning again, a jumble of vectors, momentum, and a wildwild horse spirit, pushing her to the finite rink of relaxation and taxation, but never crossing that fabled line. oh the glorious, a Princess Mononoke road I've wandered over, lazy Sundays all over again as my mind fishtails, unable to catch hold of a foothold. valleys and peaks, placid reflections eternal proposed by rice paddies, lands capped with meek mist, not real clouds as far as vietnamese standards go. now the grade has something personal against the baron, has her chain smoking cigarettes from the rear to cope with this trial. did i just see a pterodactyl? change of scenery today, chameleon style for sure. from jurassics, where brocolli toped tooth picks speckled the green blanket of mountains scaled, where my existence was haloed by tufts of clouds, giving way
to clint eastwood badlands, and scary heat, the sun exercising a scorched earth police on every atom it could find. parched ground teased mercilessly by thick, bodacious clouds. That is Unfair. my thoughts can take that muddy sideroad inhabited only by the halfnake child running after its own imagination, it can scramble through the ever green vistats of flaura and fauna slow boat its way down the lazy rivers relflecting the pressing sky.
none of this would be if it weren't for her.
My phrasebook lies twitching from its recent torture, but this situation is the only one where I condone anything short of water boarding. Anything to pry loose the necessary information to communicate. Vietnamese is difficult to a minuscule point that is so far past frustrating its difficult to find. It shares the Roman alphabet with English, but the tongues used to lay down the brick and mortar for exchange are from separate universes, a seemingly metaphysical distance at times. Attempts to speak the foreign language always came out botched or mutilated, as English is monotone compared to the song-like, tonal structure of Vietnamese (similar to its northern brother China). This makes interaction very difficult, and although I became skilled at prancing from page to page in my communication bible, it felt like everyone spoke a different dialect. So lost. Not to mention most relationships began with an inquiry of direction...
Adventures... from the $1 haircut (for those versed in Larson's FarSide, I looked like a p
roduct of the Schultz Bros. "Buck n Cut" - I swear that was the first time the guy lifted those scissors), to spirited karaoke with locals...at 11 in the morning, to attempting to deliver a police report via phrasebook (long, long story). Big Fun. But by the end of each day, I was sufficiently nackered. There was almost no way to completely wring out my bursting experience
sponge on the daily, there was too much seen, too many revelations savored (especially the deep ones, i.e. ShamWows are made in Germany! - who knew?), the entire ordeal turned out to be quite that, an ordeal. Both physically and mentally racking. But it fits the mold, as Vietnam is an extreme place. Desired bleach white skin vs. scary black of the coffee, mountainous (ice) north vs flat (fire) south, and as already mentioned, the people, most men needing two packs a day, just to get by. And I think that's exactly why I loved Vietnam. Life's not all rainbows and butterflies (which is what Laos felt like at times), but those two were so much more beautiful after my fair share of engine oil and filthy looks. On the road of life, at some point or other, your going to find yourself broken down on the side of the road, in the middle of nowhere, and you'll have to pop your own hood to see what's really going on...
Monday, February 1, 2010
Minsk Diaries: Initiation Sessions
Before I begin, I propose a photograph, from Thailand, in the hopes of acquiring some type of insurance...
when it goes (and it does, I assure you), it goes a little something like this...close to hell, but definitely not your little angel / applying for residency in bumf***ville, vietnam / Y.E.S. / "we are always running for the thrill of it, thrill of it" / chain...sawed...a bit too literally / zephyr wayfarers /beelined it, keened it, missioned it / Powlesland you mingy dog, what in the HELL have you gotten us into now? /cheese with that whine? / snail of a drip, but a winged buzz / PHO X3 / you want ten dollars? / NOT so easy rider / were going to need bikkies with that, sorry / BOOM / free.
Granted, that's in no particular order, and doesn't make sense unless you have serious mental issues, but for all you visual learners...
An English bloke (a fellow gap-yearer) and I decided to raise the bar of adolescent idiocy, so the game of limbo goes a bit smoother for those who follow. On a bit of a whim, we bought Minsks: Russian made beasts, strong to no end, yet sturdy to the other end (breakdowns are norm), loud enough bring shame to muffles round the world, and ultimately, beautiful, beautiful things.
I'v
e already described Hanoi traffic, which, when wading through, can seem a lot like a very real, fatal version of the game Frogger. It's one thing to walk across the street, but to drive amongst rage that is the road is a completely different animal altogether. I really loud, big, and scary animal. Especially if you've never driven a bike before. Genius? Check. So, a few hours after the forced growth of some rickety motor skills, we roared right into the fray, and somehow managed to escape the clutches of untamed Hanoi streets, heading north, into the wild, the mountaintop town of Sappa our destination. My chariot, the Red Baron (already a tender moniker, alluding to the intimate), is a thirsty one (gas costs about the same as in the states), but nothing compared to my parched being, yearning for a splash of experience from the road. Boy did we get drenched. Starting with the first day, the bikes were quick to bite the hand that feeds, resulting in a situation that found us broken down, stranded in the middle of nowhere, and forced to sleep at a very peculiar little man's house - the archetypal theme throughout was dealing with the failures of our steeds.
Since our bikes were being fed so well, we decided it would only be fair to implement the same culinary unselfishness upon ourselves. Ambrosial bowls of Pho (rice
noodle soup) offered steam, twirling upwards, thawing frozen faces and satiating grateful lingual cavities. And then there's the coffee. I've figured out the advantage the Vietnamese hold in their evolutionary progressions: their lack of hair is designed to survive the insanely strong blends, which marshal all locks to strict attention. To me, it's perfect. It's drip coffee, and is served basically as a syrupy shot, with condensed milk to spare, there's no room in here for softies who like to water their brew down: go hard or go home. The anticipation is killer, similar to watching a pot boil, each drop teases you before the final indulgence.
I knew that riding was in my DNA, as I have a Hermann reputation to uphold, considering the
diversion of my father and brother, but I had no idea of the way cruisin' would sweep me off my feet in such a romantic affair. I find it akin to skiing in many ways, but as if galloping about itself weren't enough, the scenes flitting past ensure constant stimulation: old women waddling about, hands behind their backs in traditional tribal garb, the water buffalo in repose (...in the middle of the road), the child, lost in mentation in the corner of the doorframe, old men ripping away at their tobacco bongs...you want to stop and interact with each and every one of them. The land itself is stunning: we floated along a countryside evocative of the land before time, next to rivers, through rice paddies etched into hillsides, 
we inchwormed our way up the sides of brooding fatherly figures, clad with milky sashes and scarves of mist, throwing a rager of a first and second gear party, with a soundtrack barring admittance to anything other than a scream or whine. Ahh to be free.
Crap weather most of the time, you couldn't see ten meters in front of you in Sappa, but that was hardly the point...
Our return to Hanoi made our foolishness concrete: a 10 hour day (6-8 is real long) at full throttle, winding up right where it all started, smack dab in the midst of all the fury, wholly delirious and exhausted, yet antsy with the forecast of further adventures.
I'll ride out to a JIJ (Jankowski Inside Joke)...Overall, I'm in love with my bike, on the topic of comfort though, I'd consider 8th Amendment infringements if anyone decides to throw the Hillary Clinton Nutcracker into the recycled gifts pile again - there's really no need as its all been done before.
vhrumvhrum
when it goes (and it does, I assure you), it goes a little something like this...close to hell, but definitely not your little angel / applying for residency in bumf***ville, vietnam / Y.E.S. / "we are always running for the thrill of it, thrill of it" / chain...sawed...a bit too literally / zephyr wayfarers /beelined it, keened it, missioned it / Powlesland you mingy dog, what in the HELL have you gotten us into now? /cheese with that whine? / snail of a drip, but a winged buzz / PHO X3 / you want ten dollars? / NOT so easy rider / were going to need bikkies with that, sorry / BOOM / free.
Granted, that's in no particular order, and doesn't make sense unless you have serious mental issues, but for all you visual learners...
An English bloke (a fellow gap-yearer) and I decided to raise the bar of adolescent idiocy, so the game of limbo goes a bit smoother for those who follow. On a bit of a whim, we bought Minsks: Russian made beasts, strong to no end, yet sturdy to the other end (breakdowns are norm), loud enough bring shame to muffles round the world, and ultimately, beautiful, beautiful things.
I'v
e already described Hanoi traffic, which, when wading through, can seem a lot like a very real, fatal version of the game Frogger. It's one thing to walk across the street, but to drive amongst rage that is the road is a completely different animal altogether. I really loud, big, and scary animal. Especially if you've never driven a bike before. Genius? Check. So, a few hours after the forced growth of some rickety motor skills, we roared right into the fray, and somehow managed to escape the clutches of untamed Hanoi streets, heading north, into the wild, the mountaintop town of Sappa our destination. My chariot, the Red Baron (already a tender moniker, alluding to the intimate), is a thirsty one (gas costs about the same as in the states), but nothing compared to my parched being, yearning for a splash of experience from the road. Boy did we get drenched. Starting with the first day, the bikes were quick to bite the hand that feeds, resulting in a situation that found us broken down, stranded in the middle of nowhere, and forced to sleep at a very peculiar little man's house - the archetypal theme throughout was dealing with the failures of our steeds.Since our bikes were being fed so well, we decided it would only be fair to implement the same culinary unselfishness upon ourselves. Ambrosial bowls of Pho (rice
noodle soup) offered steam, twirling upwards, thawing frozen faces and satiating grateful lingual cavities. And then there's the coffee. I've figured out the advantage the Vietnamese hold in their evolutionary progressions: their lack of hair is designed to survive the insanely strong blends, which marshal all locks to strict attention. To me, it's perfect. It's drip coffee, and is served basically as a syrupy shot, with condensed milk to spare, there's no room in here for softies who like to water their brew down: go hard or go home. The anticipation is killer, similar to watching a pot boil, each drop teases you before the final indulgence.I knew that riding was in my DNA, as I have a Hermann reputation to uphold, considering the
diversion of my father and brother, but I had no idea of the way cruisin' would sweep me off my feet in such a romantic affair. I find it akin to skiing in many ways, but as if galloping about itself weren't enough, the scenes flitting past ensure constant stimulation: old women waddling about, hands behind their backs in traditional tribal garb, the water buffalo in repose (...in the middle of the road), the child, lost in mentation in the corner of the doorframe, old men ripping away at their tobacco bongs...you want to stop and interact with each and every one of them. The land itself is stunning: we floated along a countryside evocative of the land before time, next to rivers, through rice paddies etched into hillsides, 
we inchwormed our way up the sides of brooding fatherly figures, clad with milky sashes and scarves of mist, throwing a rager of a first and second gear party, with a soundtrack barring admittance to anything other than a scream or whine. Ahh to be free.Crap weather most of the time, you couldn't see ten meters in front of you in Sappa, but that was hardly the point...
Our return to Hanoi made our foolishness concrete: a 10 hour day (6-8 is real long) at full throttle, winding up right where it all started, smack dab in the midst of all the fury, wholly delirious and exhausted, yet antsy with the forecast of further adventures.
I'll ride out to a JIJ (Jankowski Inside Joke)...Overall, I'm in love with my bike, on the topic of comfort though, I'd consider 8th Amendment infringements if anyone decides to throw the Hillary Clinton Nutcracker into the recycled gifts pile again - there's really no need as its all been done before.
vhrumvhrum
Monday, January 18, 2010
Symphony of Chaos
Borders are strange things, and never before has an imaginary line made its intangible divisiveness more clear than between the two worlds of Laos and Vietnam. I was in the middle of the ultimate daydream, a dream within itself, when I was rudely woken by a blaring screech, something so much more irritating and aggressive than the combined efforts the letters "h-o-n-k" can elicit. Not only was it accompanied by a brother honk, but a sister too, and a cousin, a third cousin (his dog and cat as well), the enteire 
family tree bearing down upon me swiftly and abrasively, with the intent of tearing out the mellowed roots of my mood, and leaving me for dead, exposed from the comfort of my soil. The culprit behind my wakeup call apparently wanted me dead too, as the moped zipped past, fractionally missing my person. Zoom out: this particular succession of beeps from my gardener was just one in the sea of a million, as mopeds crisscrossed in front of me in the most spectacular display of chaos, grace, noise, and some odd beauty that I've ever witnessed. The only way to cross the street is to literally shut your eyes and deliberately strut into the middle of the madness. Either someone wayyy up top is on your side, or these people are very, very good. I nominate a crazy combination of the two. Good Morning Vietnam! Love you to, Hanoi. Now let me go back to sleep.
No, as weird as it sounds, I really dig this place. Bangkok was crazy, sure, but there's something so deeply intense about Vietnam that I just cant quite dig up. There's grit here, it's raw, not in a dirty way, but it's in the eyes of the people, in the omnipresent crew cut of mist that the city's streets touts, and yes, definetaly in the traffic. I'm getting that buzz again, the city thing, creeping up on me and jumping me by surprise, wrapping me in its neverending cocoon of energy.
As a Christmas present to myself, I splurged on a
cruise of Halong Bay, which entailed three days of stunning beauty, a well-needed dose of interaction
with people of my generation, and a beautifully timed coal in my stocking in the form of diarrhea. No worries though, as much of my time was spent feeling like an extra on the Asian version of Pirates of the Carribbean, as our ship tip-toed through eery fog, past stark karst formations jutting from the water.
Saw Avatar in 3-D. The crowd reactions were as good as the movie, as chorused 'oooohhs' and 'aaahhhss' rose behind my front row seat at every mind-blowing visual.
Back to the school of haggling I trudge, where I've had to re-learn previous lessons from Thailand. From the front row. From a very anal substitute. I didn't have to barter in Laos because not a soul was out to to rip you off, but in congruent form with previous observations, Nam is yet again the antithesis of Laos. Previously, people just wanted my time and attention, now, they just want my money. And man, they WANT it. Sometimes starting at ten times the accepted value, you have to barter down everything - every transaction is a battle, and even though the thin front line of my money belt has taken serious casualties due to the unintelligent tactics of a rusty commander, my troops are determined to win the war, as a few recent prisoners of conflict can attest. I guess it's not too smart to use war analogies here...which is another thing: I've been working real hard on my Canadian accent, as I've experienced the overpriced barbs of animosity pointed sharply at my nationality (aside from a few spiteful experiences, I've had only positive experiences with the locals, although I do have to note that the general frame of countenance is that of a sour, puckered demeanor that only a mouthful of War Heads could produce). I even learned some of the Canadian national anthem, and everything was fine and dandy, until I had an ugly interaction with history, discovering that the French occupied Vietnam for a bit, leading to a decent amount of french speaking Vietnamese...and also leading to awkward conversations with the only Canadian they've ever met who doesn't relate in that tongue.
I've thoroughly enjoyed romps through the Old Quarter, which houses a dynamic blend of old school French architecture and new school industrial smoke from the pulsating furnace owned by the on-the-rise Vietnamese economy. Every moment holds something new, something bizarre, and quite frankly, I love it. The bleating horns are reminiscent of some spoiled group of trust-fund goats, which bodes ill for the slightest hangover - and herein lies the shrillest irony of all...15 cents. For what? A pint of the most refreshing Bia Hoi Hanoi you could dream of. It's here, on these little plastic seats, that were definetaly manufactured with the smurfs in mind, where I have fallen asleep yet again, except this time, my head lols to the amped up throb of the heart of the city.
family tree bearing down upon me swiftly and abrasively, with the intent of tearing out the mellowed roots of my mood, and leaving me for dead, exposed from the comfort of my soil. The culprit behind my wakeup call apparently wanted me dead too, as the moped zipped past, fractionally missing my person. Zoom out: this particular succession of beeps from my gardener was just one in the sea of a million, as mopeds crisscrossed in front of me in the most spectacular display of chaos, grace, noise, and some odd beauty that I've ever witnessed. The only way to cross the street is to literally shut your eyes and deliberately strut into the middle of the madness. Either someone wayyy up top is on your side, or these people are very, very good. I nominate a crazy combination of the two. Good Morning Vietnam! Love you to, Hanoi. Now let me go back to sleep.No, as weird as it sounds, I really dig this place. Bangkok was crazy, sure, but there's something so deeply intense about Vietnam that I just cant quite dig up. There's grit here, it's raw, not in a dirty way, but it's in the eyes of the people, in the omnipresent crew cut of mist that the city's streets touts, and yes, definetaly in the traffic. I'm getting that buzz again, the city thing, creeping up on me and jumping me by surprise, wrapping me in its neverending cocoon of energy.
As a Christmas present to myself, I splurged on a
cruise of Halong Bay, which entailed three days of stunning beauty, a well-needed dose of interaction
with people of my generation, and a beautifully timed coal in my stocking in the form of diarrhea. No worries though, as much of my time was spent feeling like an extra on the Asian version of Pirates of the Carribbean, as our ship tip-toed through eery fog, past stark karst formations jutting from the water.
Saw Avatar in 3-D. The crowd reactions were as good as the movie, as chorused 'oooohhs' and 'aaahhhss' rose behind my front row seat at every mind-blowing visual.
Back to the school of haggling I trudge, where I've had to re-learn previous lessons from Thailand. From the front row. From a very anal substitute. I didn't have to barter in Laos because not a soul was out to to rip you off, but in congruent form with previous observations, Nam is yet again the antithesis of Laos. Previously, people just wanted my time and attention, now, they just want my money. And man, they WANT it. Sometimes starting at ten times the accepted value, you have to barter down everything - every transaction is a battle, and even though the thin front line of my money belt has taken serious casualties due to the unintelligent tactics of a rusty commander, my troops are determined to win the war, as a few recent prisoners of conflict can attest. I guess it's not too smart to use war analogies here...which is another thing: I've been working real hard on my Canadian accent, as I've experienced the overpriced barbs of animosity pointed sharply at my nationality (aside from a few spiteful experiences, I've had only positive experiences with the locals, although I do have to note that the general frame of countenance is that of a sour, puckered demeanor that only a mouthful of War Heads could produce). I even learned some of the Canadian national anthem, and everything was fine and dandy, until I had an ugly interaction with history, discovering that the French occupied Vietnam for a bit, leading to a decent amount of french speaking Vietnamese...and also leading to awkward conversations with the only Canadian they've ever met who doesn't relate in that tongue.
I've thoroughly enjoyed romps through the Old Quarter, which houses a dynamic blend of old school French architecture and new school industrial smoke from the pulsating furnace owned by the on-the-rise Vietnamese economy. Every moment holds something new, something bizarre, and quite frankly, I love it. The bleating horns are reminiscent of some spoiled group of trust-fund goats, which bodes ill for the slightest hangover - and herein lies the shrillest irony of all...15 cents. For what? A pint of the most refreshing Bia Hoi Hanoi you could dream of. It's here, on these little plastic seats, that were definetaly manufactured with the smurfs in mind, where I have fallen asleep yet again, except this time, my head lols to the amped up throb of the heart of the city.
Monday, January 4, 2010
The Peeps
One man I met put things into perspective in a way that only broken Enlgish can: "Thailand... Smileland." If that's the case (and it is), then Laos Cheezes harder than Chucky himself, and all of
Thailand to boot. Differentiating between the happiest people in the world is a daunting task which is currently staring me dead in the eye, western shoot-out style. I guess I'll just 'when in rome' it, crack a big one, and get down to business then eh.
No matter what type of spectacular landscapes produce, I've found that the people are what make a place special. In NZ, with backdrops that demand a serious pinch to validate reality, my best moments were those that found the beautiful people a prominent yarn at my memory loom, woven tightly into the surrounding environment. South East Asia has only solidified previously liquid convictions, as each crazy turn of events has found some amazing human being ushering me onward, my traffic guides, directing me toward the never-land of fun and rewarding experiences.
First with Thailand... Sure, there are those that take advantage at every opportunity to dupe you out of all your money (which I find truly ironic considering that 95% of the people are Buddhist, and I don't feel like ripping off another human being is going to go over so sweet in the Karmic realm), but the vast majority of people I've encountered are just beautiful. Thai people are very open, accepting, and definetely in your face. You'll see guys walking down the street, arms around one anothers shoulders, girls walking hand in hand, and you'll definetaly get a tuk-tuk driver or two who will give you suave yank of the arm, the subtle indentations of 'you my best friend, I make special deal for you' lingering on your skin even after the attempt to sell
his services to you. And when it comes to sexuality, the hinges from the doors of modesty get
blown straight off. From getting the stare down from many a tranny (which are a dime a
dozen), to creepy old dudes escorting young Thai girls about (talk about not having any game),
to the infamous ping-pong shows (urban dictionary it if you're not in the know). I find them
very playful, as every vendor you walk by is yakking smack talk to somebody across the street,
laughter rings in the air, filling in the few blank notes not already taken by honking horns.
Now subtract the rush, the noise, the intensity of Thailand, then roll it all up in an Opium pipe and get zooted beyond a sensible level of 'chill' - and you have Laos. Still very much a tribal country, the dialysis of tourist stimulation has yet to completely revert the simple, laid back lifestyle (I prematurely bestowed the crown of 'most laid back' on Thai people). While life is slower here (you'll hear people refer to 'Lao time' in regards to a generally impervious attitude towards the hands of a clock), it is definetaly hard, as many villages lack electricity and other modern conviences. The people age at a rate dictated more by Western, not 'Lao,' time, resulting in a reliance upon the boundless energy of youth, and thus the swarming population of children milling about. Kids are everywhere, bleating out friendly 'sab-ai-dee's (hello), and grinning shyly at the 'falang' (foreigner), as you pass. Marry young, have a LOT of kids young, and watch your body get old while you are still young, seems to be the timetable for life here. Despite the simple, basic life, these are THE happiest people that I've ever encountered, as the harsh life lead cannot dim the twinkle found in each eye.
Here are a few of my favorites, each picture spinning its own thread into the fabric of my
travels...
Thailand to boot. Differentiating between the happiest people in the world is a daunting task which is currently staring me dead in the eye, western shoot-out style. I guess I'll just 'when in rome' it, crack a big one, and get down to business then eh.
No matter what type of spectacular landscapes produce, I've found that the people are what make a place special. In NZ, with backdrops that demand a serious pinch to validate reality, my best moments were those that found the beautiful people a prominent yarn at my memory loom, woven tightly into the surrounding environment. South East Asia has only solidified previously liquid convictions, as each crazy turn of events has found some amazing human being ushering me onward, my traffic guides, directing me toward the never-land of fun and rewarding experiences.
First with Thailand... Sure, there are those that take advantage at every opportunity to dupe you out of all your money (which I find truly ironic considering that 95% of the people are Buddhist, and I don't feel like ripping off another human being is going to go over so sweet in the Karmic realm), but the vast majority of people I've encountered are just beautiful. Thai people are very open, accepting, and definetely in your face. You'll see guys walking down the street, arms around one anothers shoulders, girls walking hand in hand, and you'll definetaly get a tuk-tuk driver or two who will give you suave yank of the arm, the subtle indentations of 'you my best friend, I make special deal for you' lingering on your skin even after the attempt to sell
his services to you. And when it comes to sexuality, the hinges from the doors of modesty get
blown straight off. From getting the stare down from many a tranny (which are a dime a
dozen), to creepy old dudes escorting young Thai girls about (talk about not having any game),
to the infamous ping-pong shows (urban dictionary it if you're not in the know). I find them
very playful, as every vendor you walk by is yakking smack talk to somebody across the street,
laughter rings in the air, filling in the few blank notes not already taken by honking horns.
Now subtract the rush, the noise, the intensity of Thailand, then roll it all up in an Opium pipe and get zooted beyond a sensible level of 'chill' - and you have Laos. Still very much a tribal country, the dialysis of tourist stimulation has yet to completely revert the simple, laid back lifestyle (I prematurely bestowed the crown of 'most laid back' on Thai people). While life is slower here (you'll hear people refer to 'Lao time' in regards to a generally impervious attitude towards the hands of a clock), it is definetaly hard, as many villages lack electricity and other modern conviences. The people age at a rate dictated more by Western, not 'Lao,' time, resulting in a reliance upon the boundless energy of youth, and thus the swarming population of children milling about. Kids are everywhere, bleating out friendly 'sab-ai-dee's (hello), and grinning shyly at the 'falang' (foreigner), as you pass. Marry young, have a LOT of kids young, and watch your body get old while you are still young, seems to be the timetable for life here. Despite the simple, basic life, these are THE happiest people that I've ever encountered, as the harsh life lead cannot dim the twinkle found in each eye.
Here are a few of my favorites, each picture spinning its own thread into the fabric of my
travels...
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