That's Beijing

The streets are huge, the people are innumerable, old men spend all day playing mah jhong in the park, and a plate of dumplings only will set you back a twenty-five cents - that's Beijing.

I'm here and I've fallen back in love.

Hanoi, Vietnam

There's not much to say about Hanoi. I can honestly say that I have enjoyed and wish to return to every city I have visited during these three months in SE Asia....except Hanoi. I don't like to be negative, especially about foreign cities that I only stayed in for a few days, but I hate it. I really, really hate it.

1. It's dirty and gross, people pee in the streets, and your shoes smell absolutely horrendous after a few hours of walking down the non-existent sidewalks.
2. Everyone, EVERYONE, wants to cheat you. Even the women who sells you a pack of gum, expects you to pay at least twice the price that a local would normally pay. Even nice cute women at the tour agencies charge a six dollar commission on an eight dollar train ticket...are you kidding!
3. It's impossible to get a taxi/moto anywhere for a fair price...you might as well suck it up and put your feet to the pavement; it's not worth the hassle to bargain for the price.
4. People stare at you, yell at you, scream "hello" as loud as they can and burst out laughing like it's the biggest punchline they've ever heard.
5. It's loud, and I mean LOUD. The sounds of horns and hawkers combine to make one of the most detestable sounds I've ever heard. And, there's no escape from it - even in the nice big lakes and parks, you can still hear it.
6. The weather is miserable with dreary rain almost every day that sprinkles on and off so that you're constantly digging out your suffocating plastic poncho that you bought at double the price from a street hawker.
7. Americans...enough said. They're still not over it, and it shows. I'm getting a Canadian passport if I ever have to fly back through that city again.

And I should stop before I really offend someone. The only reason to ever come through that city is to catch a train to the amazing mountainous region of Sapa or to book a relaxing cruise in Halong Bay, one of the most naturally beautiful places in the world. Apart from this, steer clear my friends.

An edited summary from an old American I met in Sapa: "In the toilet bowl of Vietnam, the [fecal matter] floats to the top - and here it is, all in Hanoi."

Look both ways...

Ho Chi Minh City - 10 million people, 4 million motos, and no crosswalks. During rush hour motos and cyclos largely outnumber cars, and apparently the rules of the road don't apply to them. While buses and cars usually stop at red lights, motos pass on through, weaving in and out of oncoming traffic.

Morning and afternoon rush hours are amazing sites to see...until you need to actually get somewhere. With taxis charging outrageous prices for tourists, one day I opted for the slower method of hiring a cyclo. Imagine a bicycle with a small carriage attached to the front and that's pretty much a cyclo (you can kind of see one in the picture here). As the cyclo driver came to an intersection, he edged forward into oncoming traffic to find a way through the horrible tangled mess. This is fine and dandy for him, but unfortunately put me and my defenseless carriage out into the path of countless motos racing in from every side. We came out of the traffic unscathed, but afterwards I resolved to cough up the cash and take taxis from them on.

The ultimate money-saver is of course your own two feet, so for most of the shorter treks through the city Phil and I braved the streets with only a small copied map and my directional intuition. Miraculously, this worked quite well with our only problems occuring at those pesky traffic intersections. We figured it out, but it took a while....

How to cross a street in Vietnam
1. Look both ways to assess the traffic situation.
2. Seeing a continuous stream of cars/buses/motos in both directions, realize that you have no hope of waiting for a break in the traffic.
3. Take a leap of faith and step off the curb.
4. Walk slowly and steadily across the street while looking toward oncoming traffic to make eye contact with the oncoming drivers...they'll be more likely to feel obliged to swerve around you.
5. Continue across without hesitation, even when bright headlights make you pee in your pants.
6. Step out of the path of death and take a deep breath.

It sounds extremely unsafe, and it definitely is. Every day in Saigon (HCMC), 4 people die in moto related accidents. We've seen countless wrecks where dismayed onlookers do just that...look. Fortunately these numbers don't include me or Philip so we can all take a big breath; we took these suicide walks as infrequently as possible, but it's often unavoidable.

However, soon after we left the city we found out how easily foreigners can be included in such statistics. In Nha Trang we were in an internet cafe when a vietnamese motorbiker hit a backpacker pedestrian right outside. Not wanting to be part of a rubber-necking crowd we delayed our response in coming to see what had happened. When we finally came out we found people literally just standing around; not a single vietnamese person lifted a finger to help the unconscious driver who lay helpless in the street. After repeated calls for an ambulance someone finally reminded us that there's simply not one...no one to call, no one to help. With camp counselor first aid training, Philip and I were the most qualified people on scene to deal with the backpacker whose ear was sliced completely through and whose face and scalp were bleeding steadily - not a situation I actually felt ready to manage. Thank goodness for the taxi cab who offered to take her to the hospital despite the risk of getting blood in his car (this was actually a concern for others). Let's just say that I'm quite thankful for 911 and will be glad to soon be in a country where I can actually trust the hospitals.

More than a museum

The War Remnants Museum in Ho Chi Minh City is more than a museum, it's a bold statement of communist propaganda outlining the horrific war crimes committed during the American War. Horrific pictures and commentary line the walls of this impressive gallery and tell stories of the atrocities carried out by American soldiers, including blatant massacres of women and children and widespread use of chemical weapons such as napalm and agent orange. In fact, the original name of the museum was The Museum of American and Chinese War Crimes, but was changed to avoid offending tourists from these countries. There's always two sides to every story, but the Vietnamese Government has done a really good job of making sure that their side rings loud and clear at museums, monuments, on posters, and in video documentaries all over Vietnam.

Bokor Hill Station

In the 1920's, the French created the Bokor Hill Station on top of a mountain that overlooks the town of Kampot in Cambodia. The glory days of this town included a local village, tax office, schools, a church, two casinos, and the Bokor Palace, a huge mansion used as a hotel for visiting diplomats from France. However, when war broke out the French abandoned their lofty playground to avoid the constant conflicts in the area.

Fast-forward to 2006...

Literally, nothing has been changed or updated since the French left. It took our private taxi almost three hours to climb 32 kilometers along the only "road" to Bokor. I say road, but I actually mean a washed out river bed of broken pavement, dirt, boulders, and ridiculously deep holes and drop-offs. The road was so bumpy that Philip and I both had to slouch in our seats so that our heads wouldn't hit the ceiling. You couldn't have paid me two hundred dollars to take my SUV up this road, but luckily we found a local guy who grudgingly agreed to take us for 22 USD.

Low lying clouds slide over the hills at Bokor and shroud the old abandoned building in a haze of mist. Orange lichen and dark green moss thickly cover all remaining structures, giving each a bright yet sullen glow. As we walked through the old hotel rooms of the Bokor Palace and descended into the ballroom complete with an enormous blackened fireplace, I was immediately reminded of scenes from The Shining, a feeling that must've been shared by other previous tourists as we saw Redrum carved into the wall. Behind the palace a stone wall marks the edge of an extremely steep cliff, a site where unlucky gamblers are rumored to have ended it all after losing their fortune. I'm not a sucker for tales of ghosts and hauntings, but when Phil and I were separated I felt a few waves of panic as I climbed the darkened spiral staircases alone.

The difficult road and remote location of Bokor discourage many of Cambodia's "highlight" tourists who stick to the more well worn trails. Acutally, this is precisely why Bokor was one of my favorites.

Time-delayed blogging

In the absence of good internet, I've been quite delayed in my postings. Almost a month has passed since our Bamboo Island snafu, and we're already made it through the Mekong Delta and up the coast of Vietnam. I can't believe this is our last week of SE Asia...what a trip it has been.

Anyways, the point is that I'm back and have decided to keep blogging even after I get to China. I'll be trying to set up a real life in Beijing, but I have a feeling that life in Beijing will be an adventure of its own.

Trapped in Paradise

Crystal clear water, fine yellow sand, snorkeling right off shore, bungalow huts, hammocks in the trees, and not a person in sight. Paradise.

While on the coast in Cambodia, Philip and I took a boat trip out to Bamboo Island, a beautiful slice of paradise about an hour's journey from land. Though tourists flock to the island each afternoon for bbq picnic lunches, when the boats cast off around two, the only remaining souls are those of local fisherman and smart travellers (such as ourselves) who plan ahead and make arrangements to stay the night. As our friends from the boat climbed back aboard that afternoon, they looked back on us with envy. We took up beach chairs on a deserted stretch of sandy heaven and didn't move an inch until the last whisps of the pink sunset faded from the sky.

The next morning we awoke to a stunning sunrise and enjoyed a peaceful morning. Looking back, it's interesting to note how often we celebrated our good fortune and love for Bamboo Island....

It's amazing how quickly utter misery can replace genuine bliss. Around 11 AM the clouds started rolling in and a cold, steady rain began. Few boats came into the island that day, and though we kept a close watch, we never saw the boat we had hired to pick us up. Getting worried about our transporation home, we asked around and discovered that our boat driver's friend was going to take us home. He was leading a tour that day anyways, and said we would leave when the rain slacked off.

The rain didn't stop, the clouds didn't part, and our boat driver simply couldn't resist his bottle of local rum. Philip and I hid from the brutal winds of the storm in our cold, dark, sandy bungalow, constantly moving to try and find an area where the rain wasn't leaking through the roof. Our poor moods turned to rage when our drunken boat driver announced that "we can't make it back today." We and his other passengers were outraged, but were utterly helpless.

The next morning, the weather had not cleared up and had actually worsened from the day before. However, disgusted with our inability to get dry and warm, we all insisted that we leave that day. I just couldn't take another day on that island. So, at 9:00 AM, we set off.

Unfortunately, our boat was only a small fishing boat with a tiny motor. Even in the protected bay at the island, the waves were choppy and the wind was fierce. The ocean looked dark and menacing...not like somewhere I wanted to be. I'm normally not a fearful person, but from the moment we got on board, I had a terrible feeling. After thirty minutes of raging waves and relentless rain, my fear motivated me to put on a lifejacket. Out in the open sea, the waves grew and grew until each lunge of the boat sent my stomach into my throat. Whitecapping waves threatened to crash over the boat and all passengers sad huddle on the floor, hanging onto the sideboards to avoid being tossed around on the deck. I can honestly say that this was one of the worst moments of my life. My chief fears of 1-being lost at sea, 2-being eaten by a shark, and 3-drowning to death, didn't actually seem that implausible at the moment. Philip will tell you he wasn't scared, but don't believe him. He demanded that our boat driver give up his lifejacket for him, and we discussed our capsizing plan which included finding each other first, saving only our passports, kicking off heavy shoes, and swimming towards any land in sight.

Even our boat driver was scared of the waves and at one point hid in the bay of an island for almost an hour hoping that the storm would pass. It didn't.

After FOUR HOURS of torment, we finally spotted dry land. Though this wasn't our intended landing site, our frightened driver headed in as quickly as possible. Towards shore, the huge waves began to grow even bigger. I let out my first scream as an enormous wave crashed over the back of our boat and filled the whole deck with water. The next wave followed twenty seconds later and it became apparent that the boat was beginning to sink. Still rather far from the shore, we looked to our driver for advice and guidance. The best he could give us was..."swim."

So, that's what we did. Phil leapt off the front of the boat and held our passport and camera out of the water. I jumped out from the back and immediately began swimming inland. After a few meters, I found that I could touch the bottom in the breaks between the waves and my panic decreased to a reasonable level. I honestly felt like I was in a movie as we ran onto shore and looked back to see our boat completed submerged in the ocean. Spotting a small hut down the beach, we ran for cover to get out of the relentless wind and rain. With chattering teeth and blue lips, Philip searched around the storage hut and found three musty dog blankets that we quickly divided among us, and we all huddled together for warmth. After calming down and taking stock of the things people had lost (passports, cell phones, cameras, shoes, etc.) we walked along the beach until we reached a large resort where we rented motos to take us back to our hotels. A simple ending to an exhausting morning.

Needless to say this experience created some great friendships among the passengers. We all met up later for dinner to discuss the day's events and remind each other that, yes, it actually did happen. All's well that ends well...and luckily this day, it did.

Same, same; now different

My new obsession: Oreos. Before you yell about me "not being engaged with the local culture" let me explain....

Apparently, everything in SE Asia is "same same." It's a phrase that every local knows and can be used for price bargaining, ticket booking, food ordering, and any other activity where someone can convince you to order/buy/reserve at their shop rather than another, because they all offer similar services and goods. Phil and I have also taken to using this phrase to describe the recent menu offerings of SE Asia...same, same...same, same. Don't get me wrong, I love noodle soup, pork with garlic, fried peanuts, and fried rice, and each region does have a certain specialty and local flavor; but after a while, I've just got to have something different.

Oreos: My only previous obsession with these delicious chocolate biscuits was a few years back when the Mint Oreo was released; my tastebuds recognized this new flavor as a remarkably similar substitute for Girl Scout Thin Mints, a luxury I previously only enjoyed once a year. This obsession only lasted until I saw the nutritional contents on a package, and I've honestly not touched them in years. However, now that I can't read the nutritional info on these heavenly tubes of choclate joy, I've rediscovered oreos as a hint of American goodness that is widely available even in the remote reaches of Laos and Cambodia (remember that slow boat? kids would hop on at mid-journey riverbank stops and sell you oreos and pepsi).

On the surface, I agree; it's a terrible thing to travel abroad and constatly seek out imported food from home. Travellers should sample local specialties and enjoy the same readily available snacks that the average SE Asian villager eats while squatting on his front porch. But after three months, I've decided that I deserve a treat from home every now and then...oreos it is.

Got Bugspray?

Thanks Dr. Richner, but news of a highly painful disease, transmitted by mosquitos and involving large amounts of blood, is not what I want to hear.