Where in the world is....?

Listen Up

2007-07-17T17:00:00.000+08:00

Looking for Kerosine for your camping stove in Lhasa? Take notes below, and try out this tongue twisting conversation that I had with a shopowner the other day:

Me: you mei you mei you?
Him: mei you? mei you mei you.
Me: Hmmm, na'er you?
Him: Hmmm, na'er you.

(Translation: I want kerosine. He doesn't have it. But he tells me where to get it.)

Look like mish-mash to you? It would certainly seem so were it not for the crazy little things called tones that you have to add to almost every word in Chinese. Since the word for kerosine and the word to have are homonyms, this makes for a very singsongy, tongue-twisting challenge. (For those interested, the first phrase should be read "you3 mei2 you3 mei2 you2" with number corresponding to these different tones, 2 being a rising tone and 3 being a low falling-rising tone).

It's a hard phenomenon to get used to for those beginning the study of Chinese. Though it grows on you after a while. I'll leave you with one of my favorites: forty four lions eat forty four persimmons. (Si shi si zhi shi zi chi si shi si ge shi zi).

The Alternative...

2007-07-12T20:17:00.000+08:00

Coke that tastes like rotten apricots (along with a multitude of other taste alterations)...

Countless mid snuggly night sleep bathroom breaks....

Metallic water sensations....

Severe tingling in your feet at 2:30 AM that wakes you up and continues for an hour....

Ringing in your ears....

Daytime tingling of the feet, hands, lips, forehead, scalp, cheeks.....

And all of these atrocities are suffered in the name of staving off the other ugly alternative of AMS, otherwise known as altitude sickness. I had never given this nasty little condition much thought until I flew from near sea level to Lhasa and proceeded to run around the city to every monastery and walk every kora imaginable in the firs two days I was there. Then the headaches started. And then came nausea, sleeplessness, and fatigue. Now, I'm not one to let any physical illnesses get in the way of my travelling adventures (reference Wilburt the Campylobacter blog), but these seemingly mild symptoms put me in bed for 14 hours and led me to pull out the medical literature and pills my father had sent me for altitude sickness. I popped the acetazolamide pills, and hoped that their magic would work quickly.

And they did. I felt better, and began to have less AMS symptoms. However, after a few days the side effects of this alternative listed above proved to be too symptomatic themselves, and I gave up my altitude meds.

It's been a give-and-take ever since. Balancing how badly I feel due to altitude (and how scared I am that my AMS will develop into HACE - cerebral edema or HAPE - pulmonary edema) with the annoying lifestyle alterations created by these magic pills.

My problems are quicky resolving though, now that we've left Everest Base Camp. We've thankfully reached the height of our altitude climbing in Tibet, and it's literally all downhill from here.

Altitude?

2007-07-09T22:16:00.000+08:00

When they say the word mountain in China, they mean Mountain with a capital M. Set your sights way beyond the heights of the Rockies - these crags around here way taller than anything in the States. And we're trekking up them.

I've been climbing higher than I've ever been before in my life, and I can definitely tell. On a five day trek from Ganden to Samye, Philip and I hauled ourselves (luckily two sturdy yaks were hauling out packs) over passes of 17,220 ft and 16,800 ft. (For comparison, the tallest mountain in the Continental US tops out at 14,500 ft.)

For those of you who haven't been to these heights, let me describe what it feels like to be there, from a lung's point of view:

Lung 1: ....."where's the oxygen, man"
Lung 2: , "I", , "don't know",
Lung 1: "I" "am breathing as hard" "as I can"
Lung 2: "It's just not" "enough"

And despite the coughing, wheezing, gasping, and moaning, I'm having the time of my life. It's amazing, beautiful, and a literal breath of fresh air after months of being stifled by Beijing's pollution.

We're bound for Mount Everest Base Camp tomorrow, where we'll sleep above 17,000 ft and reexperience all of our altitude symptoms anew. I can't wait, and will report back later from the roof of the world.

A Fresh Start

2007-07-07T22:20:00.000+08:00

Every time I think I'm ready to integrate back into the American culture, I find myself once again engaging in activities that, though seem logical to me, might be quite alarming to those of you back in the States. Let's take today:

Today I returned from a six day seriously intense trek over high mountain passes between two of Tibet's largest monasteries. Before embarking on our landcruiser adventure tomorrow, I sought out the laundry service of our hotel to make everyone in our car a bit more comfortable. Upon hearing the ridiculous prices charged by our foreigner's hotel, I followed the advice of friends and washed all of my laundry in the fountain in front of our hotel. Faux pas? I call it ingenuity.

Try that on for size next time you're staying at a Hyatt.

Beware: The Evil Winds Are Blowing

2007-06-06T15:39:00.000+08:00

Exam room 401 is not what you would call large. And considering that two desks, two treatment carts, two cabinets, six patient beds, six roasting lamps, six moxabustion machines and countless other treatment apparatuses are placed about the room, there's not a whole lot of room for the two doctors, three visiting docs, four rotating students, and three foreign misfits to stand while we rush patients in and out for treatment.

On a seemingly unrelated note, deodorant is quite difficult to find here in Beijing. I've only had success in foreign import stores located near the embassies.

Now, add the first two paragraphs together, and you will understand my pain as the temperatures in Beijing continue to rise. I genuinely fear the upcoming summer. The natural answer to this problem would be to open a window - simple, cost-effective, easy, right?

You would never guess that the same nice cool breeze that cuts the odors of a room could also bring calamity upon its inhabitants. To "受风" (shou feng) is to be hit by the wind, and many of our patients have already suffered this atrocity. They come to us for facial paralysis, stroke recovery, and colds, and it is our duty to both treatment their illness, and also to protect them from the evil wind during their treatment. We have strict orders on who can and can not be placed in the bed next to the window, and in extreme cases the window must be closed and locked before certain patients enter.

So day by day, I suffer in front of the half inch crack in the window of room 401. Anything to protect our patients, right?

Side note: before you roll your eyes, know that I'm rolling mine. I sincerely believe in the efficacy of Chinese medicine, but I simply cannot make myself believe in the evil winds. I'm trying, but it's hard to push twenty years of logical western medical thought out of one's consciousness. However, I do have my own theories about the winds, be they friend or foe, which I won't post here lest I bore my readers with "Carmen's view of TCM." However, interested parties are free to inquire and subject themselves to my opinionated rantings.

And a deadly holiday to you too

2007-05-09T21:44:00.000+08:00

It's that time again, holiday season in China. For seven days in May and October, thousands of citizens trample each other through bus depots, train stations, and airports to be the first to arrive at the same top ten spots of gaudy scenic fame.

The day before our holidays began, the director of our program paid a visit to our class to enquire of our whereabouts during the coming week. Like teenagers reporting our nightly plans to a parent, one by one we were required to give a complete plan, including flight/train itenerary, to our director.

And one by one, the bad news came.

-Going to ride horses in Mongolia? Only light trotting allowed, a man broke both his legs last year when his horse bolted through the grasslands and he lost holds of the reins.

-Travelling out west to the Tibetan Plateau? A group of foreigners recently got lost in the woods for three days without food and water. One of the girls didn't bring a sweater and died from exposure when nighttime temperatures dipped below freezing.

-Beach plans in Dalian? It's too cold; besides, swimming is a dangerous adventure and should only be undertaken with a lifejacket securely tied around your legs, arms, and neck.

-Taking a boat down the Yangtze River? Many people indulge in a bit too much alcohol on these boats and have fallen off the side at night and drowned in the river.

-Driving through remote mountainous areas of Yunnan? Watch out for rockslides, there's usually no warning and large rocks can crush or roll even a large bus. Heaven help you if it's snowing and there's an avalanche...

-Hiking around monasteries in the mountains of Eastern China? Monasteries are built on cliffs, and cliffs have edges. Do you want to come back alive from that holy experience? Stay in a group, at least ten meters from the edge.

-Experiencing the Muslim culture of Western China? You're wallet's a goner; people there will steal anything. And bring your own noodles from Beijing, the food there is (gasp) different and will definitley make your intestines turn inside out for days.

And so on and so on....for over an hour...

With a caution for every activity, and countless stories of past deaths, I began to think that I might have to cover myself with bubble wrap and lay on the floor in my apartment for the entire holiday week to avoid my impending death.

However, I'm happy to report that I did survive the holiday. Our director came to class on our first day back to do a head count and make sure one of us wasn't missing out on a glacier somewhere. "小心" (be careful) might have to be the new Chinese slogan after "work to welcome the Olympics" becomes outdated.

Peace and Quiet

2007-05-07T17:45:00.000+08:00

With 1.6 billion people in this country, it's hard to find anywhere that you can actually be alone, let alone find peace and quiet. However Ben, a veteran Beijinger and fellow nature lover, has gone to great lengths to find camping sites and hiking trails out of reach of pollution, peddlers, and phone coverage. Don't ask me how, but with current road maps, topographical maps, old CIA maps, and google earth, Ben leads us fearlessly down dirt roads and farmer's footpaths.

Last Saturday we boarded a bus out to the countryside, where we rented out a bread car (named for its loaf-like shape) and headed into the wilderness. After almost two hours of veering scarily close to the steep embankments on the mountains of the northern Beijing prefecture, Ben decided that we had arrived. On a random curve, on a random road, he steps out and finds a footpath that leads up through terraces, some abandoned and some currently tilled, and eventually up to the Great Wall. I still don't know how he does it, but I'm glad that he does. This amazing discovery led us to a beautiful unrestored section of the Wall and wonderful terraced (and therefore flat) land on which to pitch out tents and build our campfire.

Ahhh, finally, peace and quiet.

Well, as long as you don't count Dutchess, the miniature doxen who runs full speed and leaps into the side of your tent at 5:30 AM, apparently imagining that a door will magically appear if she hits it hard enough.

Aside from this, peace and quiet.

Almost there, but not quite yet

2007-05-02T12:47:00.000+08:00

Someone's going to have to recall the NY Times article that I recently referenced in my blog. A brand new advertisement wall has gone up in Beijing promoting the opening of a new restaurant. It's newly designed and obviously aimed at foreigners, boldly proclaiming that:

Utopia is beyond your mind, but your Buffalo is not.

It almost competes with my favorite store sign of all times for a clothing shop near the embassies:

Before I became a man, I was arrow. That was a long time ago.

Almost, China, almost there.

什么？ oops, uh, say again?

2007-04-24T17:02:00.000+08:00

As our school's International Department is quite large, it's not uncommon to hear four or more languages being spoken in a hallway or even a single exam room at the hospital. However, this week probably tops them all with the arrival of visiting docs from Italy who speak extremely limited English at best. To deal with the communication difficulties caused by the aforementioned situation, I and fellow student from Mexico have been solicited to translate for the doctors because Spanish and Italian are similar.

Similar, yes; the same, no. We speak Spanish to them (well, I mumble through forgotten Spanish with Chinese words slipped in) and they speak Italian back to us. Here's a verbatim excerpt from today's conversations:

Francesca: ...........

(a long Italian/Spanish/English sentence after which I finally gather that she is asking me what are ashi points)

Me: 好好, los puntos de 阿是son muy importantes. Para usar los, 首先, oops sorry chinese, primero es necessario applicar la presion, 压力, pressure, presione? sure, por la area donde el paciente tiene dolor. 然后, uh uh, then....

And you get the point. I search around in my tiny head for fragments of a past medical Spanish class and attempt to banish my Chinese responses and sentence connectors. Hopefully we'll be able to help these docs figure out exactly what they're learning. The docs are sweet as can be, and I actually look forward to this language madness in the clinic.

So whether you speak Chinese, Japanese, Indonesian, Korean, Tagolog, English, Spanish, or now even Italian, you're welcome to our clinic and are even guaranteed a translator for your language needs. Pretty impressive I'd say, and highly entertaining.

Celebrating Good Public Order

2007-04-23T12:42:00.000+08:00

On the eleventh of every month, something very magical happens in Beijing. Order descends upon the city for this blessed twenty-four hour time period of National Queue Day. Men stop fiercely elbowing their way to buy subway tickets, and it's actually possible to exit a subway car without having to battle the incoming onslaught of new passengers. Don't believe me? - believe NY Times:

"Last week, the city [Beijing] commemorated “Queuing Day,” an event held on the 11th of every month because the date symbolizes an orderly line. Volunteers wearing satin Queuing Day sashes shooed rush-hour commuters into lines at busy subway stations, while hospital administrators and a few city officials handed out long-stemmed roses to patients who stood in line to pay their bills or pick up medicines. Local news media swarmed the event."

Yes, this really does happen. It's a day to celebrate proper queueing techniques and it's a day that's been long overdue for quite sometime here. I can't even begin to recount the supermarkets "lines," airport "lines," and ticket "lines" I've been in where I had to endure pushes, shoves, blatant line jumping, elbows, and breathing on the back of my neck as impatient fellow patrons attempted to edge their way forward.

For any Miss Manners enthusiasts, I'll include the link below as the rest of the article discusses a few more Beijing manners problems, all of which are quite interesting and by all means very true.

http://www.nytimes.com/2007/04/17/world/asia/17manners.html?pagewanted=1&_r=1&ei=5087%0A&em&en=d9b58e74515ea703&ex=1176955200

I hesitate to include the entire article as it makes the city sound like an awful, dirty, spit-lined, disorganized place. We "china enthusiasts" try to see these things as charming bits of Chinese character rather than repulsive habits. After you visit, I'll invite you to make your own judgement.

The Morning Grind

2007-04-19T13:20:00.000+08:00

And....they're coming across the line, black's pulling out first but blue is close behind. They're peddling furiously folks, with the pack following close behind. Rows two and three are splitting and coming around the outside - better squeeze in on the left there, bus #13 will be turning right soon. Oh no, a pedestrian unit is entering the street, looks like they're going to go for it - they're walking steady and the swerving begins.

This, and much much more, is my life every morning at7:34 AM when I pull out of my apartment complex into the bike lane in Beijing. In those previous minutes preceding 8:00, everyone is on a mission and in a hurry, including me. We pass and swerve, ring our bells and avoid small children, all in the name of arriving to work on time. I have managed to avoid any major accidents thus far, though I recently had my first scare of a side swipe from a swerving moto (no worries, no permanent injuries). I'm seriously thinking of rigging some kind of rear view mirror for my bike, though a helmet might be a more practical realistic purchase.

Okay, check mirrors and pull out, increase speed and watch for pedestrians. Lunch break is over, and I've got to brave the streets to make it to my conference on time.

express yourself, or not

2007-04-19T11:15:00.000+08:00

In America, we say that the squeaky wheel gets the grease. In China, they say that the tallest nail is the first one to be hammered down.

Let's just say that I've been feeling that hammer a bit more than usual this week. I've tried to fall into line and "do as the romans do" - I even carry a teal "aul Frank" bag to school - but it seems that I'll always be a bit of a stand out around here.

Wilburt the campylobacter

2007-03-08T16:57:00.000+08:00

Wilburt the campylobacter is my dear friend that I made I Fiji and who traveled with me in New Zealand for quite some time. He and I met on the beach right after I refused to pay for water at my resort and drank the brackish staff water instead. Wilburt soon discovered that my GI tract was a quite cozy environment, and therefore made himself at home.

Wilburt was shy at first, and only chirped up with low fevers and general weakness . However, a 20+ km day of grueling hiking at the Tongariro Crossing gave him just the confidence booster he needed to speak up and hold his own. Wilburt loved climbing among the volcanoes, and thought that the emerald green crater lakes were some of the prettiest he’d ever seen. These beautiful sights strengthened his soul and his will to secure his position in such an adventurous host’s body. He quickly multiplied into many little Wilburts and made himself known in a very real and uncomfortable way. Philip was a dear and carried our pack during the entire eight hour hike, but we still had to stop every twenty minutes or so for me to double over and groan in pain.

Sadly, Wilburt’s enthusiasm was beginning to get on my nerves, and it became evident that we could no longer be friends. Try not to pity him - Wilburt meaningful existence. It's not every campylobacter that gets to go skydiving or roll down a hill in a giant inflatable plastic ball. He accompanied me on quite a few crazy adventures, but the time eventually came when we had to say goodbye. I’ll always remember him with fondness ,but hope that we never meet again.

*sidenote: Tests from the hospital eventually showed that Wilburt was not actually a campylobacter, but rather a nasty GI bug of another sort. However, the name had already stuck, so "Wilburt the campylobacter" it will remain.

What a way to celebrate

2007-03-07T18:53:00.000+08:00

What a better way to celebrate an engagement than to throw yourself off of a suspended platform into a deep gorge? Bungee jumping at the Nevis Highwire was a pee-in-your-pants experience that I'll never forget, but will probably never repeat. With regards to statistics, the drive out to the jump site was probably more of a risk than the actual jump, but no one wants to read stories or see pictures of the bus, so I'll stick to describing my "perfectly safe" adventure. The bungee jump actually begins with a traverse over to a platform house suspended across a deep canyon. Here we buckled up,stared through the glass floor at the river below, and each patiently waited our turn to take the big leap. 134 meters is a long way down, and considering that the cords stretches to a length of 124 meters, you can imagine how short 10 meters can feel when you're hurtling headfirst toward a seemingly impending death. Notice my hand gripping the nice jump-coach's hand in the second picture and you'll get a sense of the sheer terror I felt as I scooted out to the edge. But thankfully my bungee bungeed and I foiled death once more, living to tell the tale and giving my parents even more reasons to pray for me at night.

The beginning of the story of the Storeys

2007-03-07T17:38:00.000+08:00

Leave it to me to get engaged and then disappear into the wilderness without leaving the story or pictures. Here’s my attempt at reconciliation to those I’ve left in the dark:

On a bright sunny afternoon in the beatiful lakeside city of Queenstown, Philip and I were quite busy making plans for our upcoming two week vacation in Fjordland on the south island of New Zealand. In typical Carmen fashion, I was frantically flipping through guidebooks and huffing at the prospect of having to walk around the streets in search of a payphone to make our reservations. Always quick with a solution, Philip assured me that we had passed a phone near St. Joseph’s Church, a beautiful quaint chapel up on the hill. It wasn’t until we made it to the steps of the chapel that I looked up from my guidebooks and noticed Philip’s suspicious behavior. Overlooking Lake Wakatipu, with the summit of Mount Te Tapu-nui behind him, he asked me to marry him and I said yes.

There's the story in a nutshell, though details, pictures, and celebratory squeals are all options for those of you I haven't been in touch with yet. We're incredibly excited and are looking forward to a wonderful wedding in May of 2008!

You know it's time...

2007-01-17T12:11:00.000+08:00

You know it's time to come back to America when...

-You decide that an extra $1.25 isn't worth the ride into town, and hike another 10 k even though you've already done 20 k already that day and the sun set in 90 minutes.

-Bagels, not the beautiful wats, parks, or pagodas, are the most exciting discovery of an entire city.

-Having you hair washed and lower legs rinsed off counts as a shower (if you feel clean you are clean mentality).

-Your carry-on weighs 45 pounds because you dont' want to pay for the extra weight in your checked bags.

Land of the free, home of the salad - here I come!

Monkey trouble

2006-12-19T17:24:00.000+08:00

Cute, aren't they? 30-ish pound monkeys like these roam all over the forests of Emei Shan, a famous holy mountain in Southwestern China. Pictured above is Allison, my roommate on the steps to our monastery/hostel luring Mr. Monkey forward for a close-up shot.

I thought they were cute too...at first.

Searching for wild monkeys all morning, we were delighted when two curious georges hopped onto our path. Funny and inquisitive, one monkey immediately approached us and began a scratching/staring/glancing routine that got us all to stop and whip out the cameras. Little did I know that these monkeys have actually been trained by pickpocketers of NYC and that I would later be their next victims in a long line of gullible tourists.

If only Tracy had seen monkey #2 flanking our group a moment earlier....By the time she let out a cry of alarm I was already marked as the new target. Before I knew it, the sneaky monkey took a flying leap from a lower stair onto my backpack, and the sudden unexpected weight nearly pulled me backwards down the stairs. Screaming from shock of a monkey attack, I tried to regain my balance and run away. Monkey #2 was quite smart and quickly located the brand new pack of mint oreos stashed in the exposed side net pocket of my pack. After snatching his spoils, he dropped off of my back just in time to avoid the slingshot of a monastery guard who had heard my helpless yelps.

My shock and disbelief at the mischeviousness of wild monkeys was met by laughs and too-little-too-late warnings by workers of the monastery. After recovering from my wild animal attack experience, the event became one of the most humorous of our trip, and we bemoaned only the fact that we were unable to capture this momentous occasion on video. Most of the following day was spent trying to recreate an attack on camera, but our timid attempts proved only mildly successful. So much for proof; you'll just have to believe me.

Woof (woof woof)

2006-12-19T15:21:00.000+08:00

In an effort to slow the overcrowding of China's largest cities, the government passed yet another borderline-oppressive regulation one month ago. Effective immediately, residents of Beijing must now abide by the "One Dog Policy."

You heard that right, no more Lady and the Tramp; it's one or the other and you'd better choose soon before the police catch you walking your two cute yappers outside together. Several of our dog-owning friends have begun new lives of deception by only walking their furry friends under the cover of night.

In addition a limited quantity of pets, height of dogs in the cities has also been limited to 30 cm. However, this doesn't seem like much of an issue though since most Chinese prefer little yappy muts anyways (an inference made after steering my bike around countless little pomeranian-like dogs in sweathers, boots, and hats running around the courtyard).

One child, one dog. I'm not sure what they'll limit next, but I'm going to think twice before investing in a pair of beta fish.

Take off your pants to fart

2006-12-04T17:32:00.000+08:00

“Take off your pants to fart”

What? Did you just hear what I just heard?

Don't grab for the q-tips yet and please maintain your faith in my Chinese translation ability....this is actually a commonly used Chinese phrase. Now, because the Chinese have a weird way of both doing things and saying things, at first it's hard to know how to interpret this statement. For example, a child almost peed on my shoes as I stepped off the bus last week, and a man walked into our restaurant last night in full pajamas and slippers. As you can see, manners and decency aren't always high on the list around here. Therefore, imagining this expression in its literal sense doesn't seem like that big of a stretch.

Thankfully, this phrase is simply a way to express that a person is making things more complicated than they should be, and can be used in any context. For example: "Cab driver, why did you take off your pants to fart? You could've just taken the third ring road instead!" I would personally go with “making a mountain out of a molehill,” but that’s just me.

How much do you love me?

2006-11-19T18:57:00.000+08:00

After six months of highly limited contact with friends and loved ones, I am happy to announce my reconnection to the western world. I know that China isn't the most convenient place to call or send packages, so I'm doing my best to make this as trouble-free for those of you who want to make your lonely, sad, poor abroad friend really really happy (okay, so I'm neither lonely nor sad, but I would like to hear from any/all of you).

3 troublefree ways to make carmen smile:

1. Call me! Home phone: 86-10-84061204, Cell phone: 86-13717644671. I have already included the country code/city code for you, so all you need is to dial 011 (international code) before these numbers. You either need an international phone card, or, see next point....

2. Skype me! Skype is a free program that you can download on the internet and use to chat with anyone from China to Botswana. The plus to this option is that it's free, free, FREE - i.e. even my poor college student friends have no excuse. My user name is carmen.wolfe - add me to your friends and we can set up a time to meet online and chat.

3. Mail me! Well, mail a package to me! Either cut/paste/print out the chinese characters below or copy the romanized translation - putting both would be best to ensure that the disgruntled chinese postman doesn't decide it's not worth his time to deal with a poor foreign girl's mail and "accidentally" lose it.

中国
北京市; 100001
东城区东直门内北小街
26号楼12单元103号
Carmen Wolfe

Carmen Wolfe
DongZhiMen Nei Bei Xiao Jie, Building 26, Apt. 12-103
Dong Cheng District
Beijing, China 100001

As an added incentive for option 3, I'm offering personalized China presents that I will carry back across the big wide Pacific in January and send to anyone whose return address I see show up at my front door. Postcards, letters, and packages all qualify :)

The Bright Side

2006-11-17T17:04:00.000+08:00

I did think of one exception to my previous statement that nothing in China is simple: home water delivery.

(Scenario occurs any time, day/night, rain/shine, summer/winter; exact transcript given)

Allison: "uhh, we're out of water"
Me: "Okay"
(pick up cell phone, dial number labeled "water")
"Hello, bring water. Jug number 2109."
Water guy: "same address?"
Me: "Yes"
Water guy: "Okay, we're coming"

(less than ten minutes later, knock knock)

Me (on the couch): "Hello water guy! Thanks so much for peddling your bike over here in the dark/cold and lugging this huge water jug into our apartment. No no, don't take off your shoes, it's okay. The water cooler is in the kitchen. Thanks so much! Here's a dollar, see you next time!"

It's so convenient I almost can't believe it. Well..it's convenient until I remember that in America all I have to do is turn on the faucet :)

What's in a name

2006-11-16T17:50:00.000+08:00

Opening of a bank account - simple, right? Well, in China nothing is ever simple. It took almost two hours and four sets of forms to open a legal bank account for Wolfecarmenchristine. Who's that? That's now my name according to my bank, see below for their logic.

Name 1: Carmen Wolfe.
Fairly standard wouldn't you say? Here's the loosely translated response I got when I handed the attendant my forms: "Poor little foreigner - do you not know that you're in China? You see, in China, we use Chinese names, you know, with Chinese characters. Please fill out the form again using your correct name."

(Tear up forms, fill out new ones while attendant works on account)

Name 2: 武凯萌
This is my standard Chinese name - a basic transliteration of my English name into Chinese characters that I use on all legal forms in China including school ID and police registration. As official as it sounds though, it's simply a made up name given to me by my former roommate that I have changed several times on whims to make it easier to remember. The Chinese name seemed to be sufficient until I handed over my passport and the attendant couldn't locate my Chinese name in it. She was suprised to find out that the American government doesn't legally recognize the fabricated Chinese names of American citizens. "Try again, please use the name in your passport."

(Tear up forms, fill out new forms as disgruntled patron walks up to the window where I'm sitting and begins to breathe on my neck)

Name 3: Carmen Christine Wolfe
That's as official as it gets. I feel confident and add it to all four required forms. All is well until they look at my Chinese visa. Sure enough, in traditional Chinese style, the name on my visa is listed with my last name on the first line, followed by my first and middle names below. Attendent in pitying tone: "Poor little foreigner, in China, we write our family name first, how could you not know? Sorry, but you'll have to do this again, correctly."

(Tear up forms, fill out new forms, man behind me physically scoots me and my papers over so that he can do his business while I finish)

Name 4: Wolfecarmenchristine
Tired of form filling, I complete everything except the name and then pass it over to the attendent along with my passport and tell her to write whatever she thinks my name should be. This is what she wrote, so this is what it is.

The three upsides to this experiences are 1) It's fun to have a new signature - I was tired of my old one anyways, and 2) I finally memorized my home address, and 3) Easy access to money - convenient to me, dangerous to my account balance.

The Cheap Seats

2006-11-06T17:21:00.000+08:00

"Impressions" is a nightly performance event in Yangshuo, China employing over 500 workers and performers to create a dazzling display of lights, music, and theater. The Chinese love their neon lights - in caves, in clubs, on the sign for the post office, etc. - and they spared no bulb in the creation of the show. However, instead of being tacky, they managed to create a pretty incredible show with nice visual effects of colored lights on the water at night with hundreds of performers rowing individual boats in patterns along the river.

A show this intricately designed obviously comes at a price, a rather high price at that. So instead of buying the tickets from the ticket office, I obviously set about asking around town for anyone who could sell discount tickets to the show. After a little prying, I found tickets at less than a fourth of the original price. The only catch was that we'd be sitting on the "second platform." Not sure what this meant (I was listening in Chinese and trying to translate to mom what our cheap tickets included), we blindly decided to take the deal.

I should have known something was wrong when we turned onto the dirt road, through the chickens, behind the old chinese houses, and through an empty field. Smashed cozily into a rickety Chinese minivan with several other Chinese tourists, my mother and I sped through the back "roads" of Yangshuo hoping that we were simply taking a shortcut to the river venue. As our driver parked the van behind a pile of old bricks, we should have guessed that we were in for a nontraditional viewing of "Impressions."

In an Underground Railroad fashion, our driver pulled out a lamp and directed us down a narrow dirt path through several different fields, yelling for us to keep up lest we be lost among the spinach plants. After crossing a few small streams and shuffling down a dirt embankment we found ourselves at the river's edge facing a bamboo raft bridge. Before us lay a collection of floating rafts tethered together to form a walkway out to larger barges outfitted with shoddily hand-made bleachers. A swaying and slightly damp walk out to the bleachers was followed by a shaky climb up a small wooden ladder to our lofty floating perches. So that's what a "second platform" is apparently...either they didn't quite tell me the truth about our "side seating" or something got lost in translation.

Despite our seating in the prop area of the river, we managed some great views of the show and enjoyed the brilliant colors along with the rest of the Chinese tourists. It was an adventure for sure, and I think that my mom will remember our jungle walk to our seats much more than she would've ever remembered a show.

Standing Up for Justice

2006-11-02T12:10:00.000+08:00

When backpacking, I have a certain knack for finding good cheap hotel rooms. This usually includes walking out of the train/bus station where a few dozens hotel touts bombard you with pictures and prices, carrying a Rough Guide travel guide in hand for map referencing, and insisting that you have a reservation while actually listening for which hotel is offering the best prices. Then, as soon as the touts have subsided, you either follow advice from former travellers and ignore all of the touts, or you actually take their suggestions but ditch them before arriving at the hotel to avoid commission fees and to bargain down the price even farther. 99% of the time, this works wonderfully.

However, when discovering that the train my mother and I were taking to Guilin, China wouldn't arrive until one thirty a.m., I decided that for her comfort and my peace of mind that we might should actually book ahead (something I haven't done in all of my four months of travelling.) I thought that it would be easy, right? I went to a travel agent. We argued about the price. He finally agreed to mine (250 kuai - 30 bucks). He booked the hotel. I paid him. He gave me a receipt with the price, the hotel's name, and their phone number. Very straightforward.

Yes, very straightforward until we got to Guilin. After being promptly picked up by a travel agent in his van we were taken to our hotel. It wasn't in a great place, it wasn't the most attractive, and it wasn't the name of the hotel that was given to us, but we were tired and didn't really mind. Well, I didn't mind until our agent casually mentioned as were were bringing in our bags that we would need to pay him an extra 100 kuai. Why? His reason: because we are foreigners and the hotel we had been promised wasn't available for us. The real reason: because the travel agent knew that at two a.m. we would have no choice but to pay the extra money and that they could pull this stunt and make a bigger profit. He's obviously never met a backpacker named Carmen Wolfe.

Naturally, I refused to pay the extra money. I had a receipt with the agreed price and I wasn't budging an inch over it. Yes, 100 kuai is only about 12 dollars, but it's not the money...it's the principle.

In China, any disagreements must be resolved through yelling, in Chinese, until you get what you want. So, this is what I did. My poor mom was a trooper sat in the lobby of the hotel at two a.m. while I fought for justice. I called our former travel agent and yelled, while I yelled at the new agent, while I yelled at the hotel staff, and while the travel agents proceeded to yell at each other. After almost an hour of yelling, nothing was being resolved. I wasn't letting go of my red stamped binding contract receipt and finally declared that we would sleep in our agent's van to preclude him from going home if he didn't find us a hotel, right then, for the agreed price. Seeing that he wasn't going to sleep at all that night unless he fixed this problem, our agent was suddenly able to think of a perfect place, and by 3:30 am we were resting soundly in our 250 kuai room.

Is it worth it to argue for over an hour at two in the morning over twelve bucks? To most people, no. But to me, I do things like this for the next traveller who comes along after me - I assure that they won't try pulling that stunt on a foreigner for a while. I'm just taking it one small victory for justice a time.

Stamped and Cleared

2006-10-19T12:08:00.000+08:00

The Red Stamp. Yes, it seems a bit archaic - the entire Chinese business system still revolves around the placement and authentification of red stamps.

The number and intricacy of the stamp depends on what you're trying to get done:
Buy a sweater from an small shop: 2 stamps
Purchase a hair dryer at a supermarket: 6 stamps
Open a bank account: 12 stamps
Apply for a residency permit in Beijing: 18 stamps
Lease an apartment: 22 stamps
and the most complicated of all, receive money from Western Union: 38 stamps.

That's right, it took me 4 hours and 38 stamps to receive my tuition money at the bank from Western Union. In addition to all the stamping, I had to photocopy my passport four times and fill out three separate forms (each in triplicate copy) of my name and every shred of identifying information I have. After jumping through several other hoops of passwords, passnumbers, and passcodes, they finally handed over three inch high stacks of cash, held together by paper strips with official red stamps, in a paper bag, closed and sealed with a red stamp.

Home Sweet Beijing Home

2006-10-18T11:32:00.000+08:00

For the past month I've been on pins and needles waiting for my roommate Allison to arrive in Beijing. Though living in the dorm wasn't bad per se, it was certainly lacking something as a living space...like color, decorations, internet, storage space, refrigerator, laundry facilities, kitchen, water cooler, and most importantly, sound. After living in the Grove I'm not accustomed to a house without people, and the daily silence was beginning to freak me out.

As soon as Allison arrived in Beijing (4:00 PM), I moved her bags into my dorm room and instead of resting, we went apartment shopping. Chinese apartment shopping is quite a process. Basically, you go to any realtor and ask for apartments in a specific location. Within ten minutes you're already on your way to scope out the choices. Beginning with the cheapest apartment first, you walk to the location and peek inside. After discussing basic things like, "can we get rid of the red and gold temple carpet" and the fact that we need beds in both bedrooms (yes, we had to ask), the realtor asks if you want it. No, not if you like it, if you want it....right then. No looking around, no walking around the neighborhood, no meeting neighbors, just a decision. In their crazy minds, if you like an apartment and it will work, why look at others? Especially others that are more expensive?

We bucked the system, asked to see the 36$ more expensive apartment, and loved it. Our only hesitation was the small size of the refrigerator (a complaint that was countered by our realtor with "no, this is good, you can lose some weight.")

Hoping that you will make a quick decision and stop bothering them, realtors often tell this kind of story: "You're actually the fourth person to look at this apartment today. One guy is coming back in the morning at nine to decide, so if you want it, you need to decide before he does." Now, there's no way to tell when this is a story or when they're really telling the truth. Scared of losing the apartment that we really liked, we took a breath and forked over the cash. By 10:00 PM that night, we were no longer homeless.

With the efficiency of apartment hunting, you would think that we would have been settled soon after. This, however, is a different story. Number one priority was turning on the fridge and stocking diet coke (done), but we're still working on gas, electricity, phone, wireless internet, police registration, foreigner tax payment, a couch, sheets, a rug, wall decorations, candles, a water cooler, a water delivery service, a toaster oven, a desk, a desk chair, etc. My head is buzzing with papers, receipts, cards, and red stamps. It's a pain now, but will worth it when we're done.

A Pauper No More

2006-10-01T23:11:00.000+08:00

As my mother prepared to pack her bags for China, I gave her strict instructions to pack lightly in a small backpacker's pack so that it would be easy for us to travel using the public buses, trains, and ox-carts. She did quite well, and when she arrived at the airport, she had a bright red pack full of all her daily needs.

However, rolling right behind her was bag number two, a big black rolling bag clearly weighed down and bulging slightly on the sides. Some would have expected me to scold her gluttonous packing, but instead she received kisses and many thanks as I tore into the suitcase packed with items I had requested from home. Aside from chips and salsa, I haven't really felt homesick for anything "American" so far. However, when I realized that my mom could literally bring me anything I wanted, I think I went a bit overboard in my requests.

Upon unpacking and sorting these 50+ American items, the net volume of my personal possessions and clothing increased by at least 100%. Let's just say that I'm ecstatic about my recent acquisitions:

1. I finally have shoes that fit, long pants, machine washable sweaters, sports bras, and shirts that come past my belly button (I'm apparently both fat and have a long torso according to Chinese standards).
2. Thin, hose-like socks weren't cutting it for my afternoon jogs in the park, so I had my mom bring a dozen pair of hanes plain athletic socks - my feet feel like they are resting on pillows.
3. I relocated my eyes and cheekbones after the arrival of my make-up bag and have honestly noticed a difference today in the number of people who stop to take my picture (is it just me, or is taking a point blank picture of a stranger a bit rude?). I, and everyone around me, are very excited about what a little blush, eyeliner, and powder can do.
4. We're lucky no one searched my mother's bags in customs lest they accuse her of plans to open a tampon dispensary in Beijing - a girlfriend and I had put in orders for a year's supply. Though you can sometimes find Playtex at a specialty import store, at a price of $11.00 USD per 20 tampon pack, this is an expensive monthly habit in Beijing.
5. Yes, it's Wal-mart crap, but to me, it's American-made gold: degree deoderant, a bottle of peppermint tums, another bottle of tums, unisom, ginger pills, burt's bees wax, wall putty, a pocket calender planner, and vitamins with a label I can read.
6. Those of you who know my sweet tooth, know that I couldn't resist an opportunity to receive homemade baked goods. My mother made her special brownies with butterscotch chips which I have been eating for breakfast everyday. Don't worry, my thighs could use a bit of extra padding after SE Asia.

I no longer have to do laundry every six days and finally have antacid for post-chinese meals. I wear make-up, jewelry, and have fashionable shoes. I think the daily stares I receive have gone from "that poor poor girl" to "did she win the lottery and have some sort of surgery?" Needless to say, I'm one happy American.

My mom and I will head out to backpack in and around Guilin, China tomorrow, so for tonight I'll slide on my new Reefs, grab my plain no sequin sweater from express, and head back to my newly Americanized abode to finish off the last of the brownies - I certainly couldn't let them go to waste.

Could you repeat that?

2006-09-07T22:45:00.000+08:00

Classes have started at the International School of BUCM and have made me quite a busy little girl. I've been quite out of touch with blogging and emailing, but this is simply because if I took time to get on the computer, it would take away from the ridiculously small number of hours of "free time" I have outside of class, self-studying, sleep, and desperate housewives watching.

In an attempt to become truly fluent in Chinese, I have registered only for classes taught in Chinese - this includes lectures, books, study materials, homework, and tests. I'm finishing up with my third week of class here and I can honestly say that I have just recently figured out exactly what class I'm taking at the moment. Here's how bad it is: when I bought my books for this semester, I couldn't read the titles of half of them. That, my friend, is a bad sign.

After three years of Chinese, you would think that I would be able to understand an intro lecture on Chinese Medicine. However, during the first week, I was struggling at around a 70% comprehension level. This might sound do-able to you, but here's an example of what I hear in class (chingchongcheng has been inserted for the 30% of words or phrases that I do not understand):

".....Now, we know that the most important advancement in the chingchongcheng time period is chingchongchengchingchongcheng. This technique involves using a chingchong to chengchung whenever physicians encounter changchingchong. The first major work from this era is the chingchong, written by chengchong. This work is extremely important because it is the first chingchongchengching. Mr. chengchong spent many years compiling these chengchong records, and his work is still used today by chungchong physicians for changcheng. We won't be reading the entire chingchong in our class due to time restraints, so all you need to remember about it is that chingchangchongchungchengchangchong."

Right, that 30% is pretty important. Don't worry, I can understand any of the conjunctions or grammar paterns they want to throw at me, but it seems that I'm missing a very important set of vocabulary words. My listening and reading abilities are slowly improving, but I've still got a long way to go. My review time after each class has decreased from four to two hours, and I've even started making time for lunch these days. My life is Beijing is shaping up nicely, and as soon as I can understand what changchengchungchong means, I'll be golden.

What I think they're saying....

2006-09-02T17:26:00.000+08:00

Beijing University of Chinese Medicine. It's a proper medical school in the middle of Beijing with a compact campus where the sidewalks are crowded with bicycles and the benches outside the classrooms are actually small red chinese pavillions (very charming).

And then there's me - that girl - that international student who runs around campus and looks quite out of place. Hordes of student walk past me every day, and if I could listen in and actually understand their Chinese, here's what I think they might be saying.....

Girl A: "Oh, there she is - that poor international girl. She must be having a hard time adjusting."

Girl B: "I know. Have you seen the clothes she's been wearing? They're all so plain - no buttons, sequins, bells, or bows!"

Girls A: "We should be nice to her, maybe she doesn't have much money and just can't afford to have bright purple sequins around her neckline or in large butterly patterns."

Girl B: "That must be it. If she had money she would surely buy shirts with sayings on them like "grandma's little helper" or "you preserve to harv more, much zhyang." Or maybe it's that she can't find clothes to fit her. She's pretty fat, like most Americans. I bet even XL's would be a tight squeeze for her."

Girl A: "And what about her shoes? They're like something out of the jungle (my chacos) - they look like tire treads tied to her feet. She doesn't even wear pantyhose socks with them!"

Girl B: "Yeah, but she'll learn. Look, she already has a pink tea mug like the rest of us instead of that nalgene water bottle she carried around at first. Give her a few months and her whole wardrobe will be hello kitty."

That's Beijing

2006-08-31T09:53:00.000+08:00

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

2006-08-27T21:26:00.000+08:00

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...

2006-08-24T21:11:00.000+08:00

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

2006-08-23T21:55:00.000+08:00

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

2006-08-23T21:20:00.000+08:00

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

2006-08-22T22:15:00.000+08:00

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

2006-08-13T23:03:00.000+08:00

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

2006-08-11T23:28:00.000+08:00

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?

2006-08-04T23:13:00.000+08:00

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.

Cambodia

2006-07-28T22:35:00.000+08:00

Cambodia - the country of Angkor Wat, beautiful beaches, deserted islands, vast highlands, and the splendid capital of Phnom Penh. Unfortunately it is also the country of street beggers, limbless land mine victims, UXO (unexploded ordinance) areas in almost every province, relentless beach hawkers, pickpocketers, six year old thieves, child sex tourism, sexual slavery, extreme poverty, and a legacy of genocide so horrific it's almost unbelievable. A week in this country has both thickened my skin and softened my heart as I have faced each of these realities. I'm torn between anger and compassion, between the desire to help and the realization that in most cases I cannot.

Every day 40 people in the world are killed or maimed by land mines. As one of the most heavily mined countries in the world, Cambodia's countryside is littered with land mines planted during the war. Ordinary children, rice farmers, and travellers fall victim to the carelessness with which these mines were placed and to the neglect of the responsible parties to clean up their murderous mess.

From 1975-1979 a man named Pol Pot led the government of the Khmer Rouge that was responsible for killing millions of Cambodian citizens (experts put the number anywhere between one and three million). To learn more about this horrific event in history Philip and I travelled to Cheong Ek, the "killing fields," outside of Phnom Penh. Large craters in the fields mark the site of mass graves used to hastily dispose of the victims' bodies; their contents now rest on dozens of glass shelves in a large pagoda built as a tribute to those who perished on those grounds. If you haven't ever heard of any of this, it's probably not just an oversight on the part of your history teacher. Both America and Britain backed this genocidal dictator as they were afraid that the advancing North Vietnamese Army would precipitate the spread of communism in SE Asia. Outraged by the killing of their own civilians by Pol Pot in south Vietnam, the Vietnamese did eventually bring down Pol Pot and are now seen as heros, while America is seen as...well you can probably guess how they feel.

The incredible temples of Angkor Wat reveal the legacy of a powerful ancient kingdom; their tall towers area perfect getaway for reflection and a relaxing look at the surrounding countryside. However, as soon as you step outside their outer gates you are met by children carrying postcards, t-shirts, and books, shouting to you about their cold drinks and lunch options. These hawkers are often children between the ages of five and eight who (in most cases) have been forced by their parents to tout these objects instead of going to school because tourists are more likely to buy from cute little kids. Not wanting to contribute to this form of child labor, we tried to only buy from older women. However, to get postcards we finally did aproach some of the children. Their abilities to understand any language that Philip and I tried to use to secretly discuss prices was amazing, but their haughty attitudes, high-pitched yelling, willingness to undercut each other on prices, and whining complaints when we would not buy from all of them made me quite uneasy, and we decided to just walk away. Apparently "you can't look and not buy" in Cambodia and the young girls ran after us threatening us with physical violence and cursing with extremely forceful, degrading English. My stunned reaction was somewhere between rage and pity. Threat of the police means nothing to these girls, so before losing our tempers we walked quickly over a bridge and away from their continued cursings.

In Sihanoukville, Cambodia hundreds of locals roam up and down the beach carrying books, postcards, trays of fruit, bracelets, jewelry, shrimp, baguettes, scarves, paintings, oils for massages, string for hair tweezing, manicure supplies, and anything else they think a tourist might be talked into buying. If the relentless interruptions from our reading weren't enough, the theft of our bag by four boys (age six to ten) was enough to make me never want to even acknowledge these sellers again. Ignoring their questions and requests seems rude, but when "no thank you" is only met with more questions and outrage at your disregard for their handiwork, what do you do? (Note: we eventually regained all of our property except for our cash, no thanks to the police of the city who will only help you if you file a report and pay $20 for it - outrageous)

Cambodia is a third-world nation still recovering from horrific, tragic past events. Looking past all the logistical frustrations of traveling in this nation, I have loved the time we spent here, the stories I have heard, and the things I have seen. It's not a piece of cake to travel like Thailand, but it's incredibly rewarding and receives a high recommendation from me. Just make sure that when you come you bring some thick skin and an open mind.

Don't believe them....

2006-07-28T21:48:00.000+08:00

Don't believe them when they tell you....

"no problem, you can take bicycle to see the temples" (guesthouse owner renting us the bikes)
Though many of the Temples of Angkor are certainly within biking distance of the city, a two day bicycling tour of the extended loop around the area should not be taken lightly. Our circuit covered over 80 kilometers of bumpy, dusty roads (my bum still hurts), where I had to hold my head down to keep from breathing in the exhaust from passing motorists and tuktuks. The glorious photos I took of myself in front of Angkor Wat will always remind me of our journey, as you can clearly see the layer of grit covering my face and teeth.

"you want to go to the national museum? no, it is closed. no, you cannot walk there to check, it is very very far from here" (motorcycle taxi driver in Phnom Penh)
Desperate taxi drivers will say absolutely anything to make you climb on board. Thankfully Philip and I had a map of the city to consult along with a schedule for the museum. A two minute walk north of our location led us right to the gates of the beautiful (and open) museum.

"no, it doesn't hurt at all" (beach hawker in Sihanoukville offering to tweeze my leg hair one by one using a small string and baby powder)
Ingenious as this method may be, it still hurts like the dickens and shoud never be agreed to for large surfaces. As soon as she began, searing pain began radiating down my legs; I grimmaced with each hair she ripped out. She simply laughed and said "no pain, you must be strong." I'm apparently not...a two inch bald spot on my shin speaks of my weakness.

Sangthaews - the ubiquitous "buses" of Laos

2006-07-22T17:15:00.000+08:00

To make it from Si Phan Don back to Pakse, Philip and I tore ourselves from our air-conditioned splurge at 8 am to take the public "bus." Our journey was an early, rude awakening from our pampered previous day (my half birthday and philip's excuse for tricking me into spending $15 for a hotel).

The public bus, otherwise known as a sangthaew, is an interesting method of transport. Picture a bare-bones pickup truck that has had a metal roof installed over the bed. Three long benches, one on each side and one in the middle, run the length of the bed and are padded with rough blue plastic for the "comfort" of the passengers. Customers sit along these benches with children in their laps so that they won't have to pay for them (you apparently pay per bum width) and luggage and bags are either tied to the roof or placed underneath the seats. Since there are not specific seats in the truck, the transportation coordinator (i.e. the guy who hangs off the back by holding onto bars installed on the roof and takes money) can cram as many people/packages/chickens as he can to increase his profits from the day's drive.

Today's sangthaew was filled with interesting passengers....

The first was a man who actually spoke some english, so we leaned over to try to hear him above the noise of the motor. We struck up a conversation until he told us that he was headed to the hospital due to a terrible cough that he had had for a while.....TB anyone? Philip and I politely leaned back, ended the conversation, and stuck our heads our the window. A mouth full of dirt is better than one full of infectious disease anyday.

The second character was a small, frail elderly woman who exited the bus halfway through our journey in front of a small shack on the side of the road. I lifted my legs for her to scoot by and felt sorry for making an old lady climb past us out of the crowded bus. I realized that my sympathies were misplaced as she singlehandedly heaved her huge bag of fresh fish (so fresh they were still flopping), crawled past everyone down the middle aisle, and hopped down off the back of the bus with more grace than I had ever managed. They may look old and frail, but these women are tough.

The third passenger worth mentioning is another possible source of highly dangerous infectious disease, the duck that flapped around for three hours under Philip's seat. Wrapped up like a package with rope, this bird displayed its dislike for the ride by pooping all over the floor and struggling against its bindings to get out into the aisle for some fresh air. Scared by the prospect of avian bird flu, Philip lifted his legs every time the poor animal moved a feather. (We didn't know if ducks were possible carriers of the virus, but we sure weren't taking any chances.)

Last but not least is another smalll, elderly woman casually snacking in the corner - she was quite cute until she gave you a big smile and revealed blood-red gums and teeth. Her bag of ruby red spit did not bode well for her (or my) health and was enough to make me scoot closer to the duck, the lesser of the two evils. After first spreading white chalk (a substanced similar to lime that it said to "soften" the gums) on a large green leaf and popping it into her mouth, she would open a small container and stuff her mouth full of beetlenuts. Supposedly this creates a "buzz" sensation, but I'm honestly not quite sure - no one has ever been able to speak english well enough to explain it, and I'm certainly not willing to risk my teeth to find out.

Si Phan Don (translation, four thousand islands)

2006-07-22T15:00:00.000+08:00

At the southern tip of Laos the Mekong River fans out to create beautiful fertile islands - not four thousand as the name would have you believe, but at least several hundred splotches of land ranging in size from several kilometers of beautiful rice paddies to a small collection of reeds whose roots constitute land for the day if the river is running low.

Philip and I have been lounging about on three of these islands for the past few days enjoying the lowest prices we've found in all of southeast asia. These low prices, however, are low for a reason, as we found out shortly after our arrival. After passing on our first accomidation offer of twenty-five cents per bed, Philip and I found an adorable bungalow built over the water on the western bank of Don Det - a prime location for sunset watching and hammock laying (at a price of only $1 each). We had no electricity in our small hut, but were actually quite thankful for the darkness as it helped to hide the rats, roaches, spiders, dogs, and other assorted animals that seemed to enjoy our bungalow as much as we did. (For an expanded view of this story, see Philip's account).

Cycling provides the best means to transport for exploring these small islands, so each day Philip and I would rent out single gear clunkers to peddle our way slowly across the "roads" and paths that criss-cross their way through the ironic sites of rice paddies lined with palm trees and dolphins frolicking near freshwater waterfalls. With only about thirty freshwater Irrawaddi dolphins remaining in the area, we were lucky to get a peek at them by hiring a fisherman to illegaly take us to a Cambodian island where a bribe was paid to the officials there to let us sit and watch the dolphins from the shore. Don't worry - ten thousand kip ($1 USD) and a smile was enough to get us safely back to Laos without any embassies having to get involved.

Taking the slow boat to laos...the really slow boat

2006-07-17T18:00:00.000+08:00

Once you've made it all the way around the globe, up through Thailand's mountains, spent hours in public buses sharing your seat with a Thai baby and chickens, and have shouldered a fourty pound pack all the way to the small town of Chaing Khong...there's one last step in the journey to Laos: a slow boat down the Mekong River.

Sounds romantic and picturesque, right? Hmm, though the sight of the Mekong running through the valleys in Laos is certainly breathtaking, the sounds, smells, size, and speed of the boat also takes your breath away (but more like the sensation of suffocation rather than delight). To maximize profits, boat operators here pack as many foreigners as there are "seats" onto a small wooden longboat with a heavy, noisy diesel engine that putts at a painfully slow pace down the river. I can't give an actual speed for the boat, but let's just say that turtles waved as they passed. Originally cargo ships, these boats now have wooden planks no wider than eigth inches (obviously no one bothered to measure the average foreigner's rump size) and extremely upright wooden backs. This wouldn't be so bad if it weren't for the fact that no floor room existed either, forcing me to hug my knees for eight hour stretches.

Then, after all the foreigners were packed on, the locals made their appearance and climbed aboard all available floor space in front, in back, and on top of the boat. With them they brought bags of dirt, rice, cages of ducks, babies, baskets of corn, and all of their fish net knitting supplies to occupy their time on the trip. We stopped at sand bars and dirty river banks to unload, reload, and pick up an extra kid. Sometimes we would stop without explanation, only to have a woman run down out of the hillside thirty minutes later to deliver lunch to a single passenger.

All of this...for a total of fifteen hours over two days...

The Mekong slow boat is terrible and wonderful all at the same time. But if you make it to SE Asia, it's one of the things that you just have to do...and never do again.

The Storey Story

2006-07-08T23:11:00.000+08:00

It's interesting.

Philip and I spend every day, all day, together here in SE Asia. (This has less to do with a dependence complex than it does with the fear that if we lose sight of each other in a market it might be a few days before we find each other again.) We experience all the same adventures and see the same sights. However, our memories of these experiences often differ and at times you might even think that we had taken separate trips. For the other side of the story, check out The Storey Storey at http://philipstorey.blogspot.com - I highly recommend the recent mountain biking story which I have chosen not to blog about as it reminds me of pain, misery, and terror. Enjoy!

Pai and the Art of Motorbike Maintenance

2006-07-07T19:44:00.000+08:00

In northern Thailand a small paved road winds 140 kilometers from Chaing Mai to the beautiful city of Pai. Rather than subjecting myself to three hours of motion-sickness torture in the a public bus, Philip and I decided to rent a motorbike instead and make the journey at our own pace.

Those of you from Brandon may remember my early driving record and cringe at the thought of me weaving along the side of a mountain on a motorbike. I too had this fear and almost abandoned the idea after we had an accident (not a crash, just a small encounter with the pavement) after driving off about 10 meters from the bike shop. (Oh, and for the record, I wasn't driving). We took this as a minor bump in the road and had a few more practice rides before heading out on our big adventure.

The road to Pai brought us over a high mountain pass along a winding road that has numerous side trail options to visit waterfalls, hot springs, and beautiful overlooks. We savored our time on the road and descended into a gorgeous green valley that cradles the city of Pai. Unlike many of the tourist towns of Thailand Pai has managed to create enough infrastructure to make backpacking possible while still preserving the traditional farming lifestyles of its surrounding villages. Rice paddies sprawl out from the river and small bungalows dot the countryside; waterfalls lie within several kms and a relaxed attitude permeates the town - perfect.

Aside from relaxation our main event was elephant riding/bathing in the river. At the elephant camp we hoisted ourselves onto Ham Noi, a ten foot tall beauty and set out for our trek. Spiny - that's the word I would use to describe what it feels like to ride an elephant. Ham Noi's thick, tough, reptile-like skin was covered in one to three inch hairs that were so sharp Philip tried to hold up his legs while riding (a bad idea considering the length of the fall to the ground). Nevertheless we loved our ride and bath - we actually ended up bathing more than the elephant...our guide's favorite game to play in the river was "climb on, climb on, higher! onto the neck" and quickly thereafter command the elephant to thrash its head violently and toss us eight feet into the shallow river below. It was really really fun, until Philip scratched his chest on the river's rock bottom. Apart from small battle wounds we loved our adventure and highly recommend it.

The rest of our time in Pai included relaxation and a proper american hamburger in celebration of the fourth of july (cooked by a real american vet living in pai). After a few days, we made our way back to Chaing Mai along the same route. Our trip home needs less commentary - simply five hours of pelting rain with Philip and I wearing bright orange ponchos to make ourselves more visible on the road. It wasn't the most pleasant, but we made it and lived to tell the tale.

Retroactive blogging - the best of the best

2006-07-07T00:06:00.000+08:00

Due to exhorberant internet prices on the islands and a packed schedule in Bangkok and Chaing Mai, I've lagged quite far behind in my blogging in the past two weeks. Though I have tons of stories to tell, I know that an abbreviated version my adventures might be appreciated in this case. So, here is the best of the best of Thailand (so far)....

Best shark spotting site: Chumphon Pinnacle, a dive spot off of Koh Tao; considering it was my first time to see an actual shark while diving, I did well and managed not to pee in my wetsuit or bolt to the surface (and it was a big one, Phil says 6 ft, I say at least 8)

Best high life: With tons of bolted routes in the cliffs that rise from massive boulder in the bay, the Perhentian Islands can't be beat for an afternoon of rock climbing - blisters, sweat, and trembling muscles are rewarded by breathtaking views of the ocean from the top (that's me in the pic!)

Best "master cleanse" resort: The Sanctuary, Koh Phan Ngan; if your ultimate vacation includes seaweed shakes and daily colonics, this is the place for you; i decided against deep cleaning my bowels and instead spent each afternoon on a floating hut anchored in the bay, swinging in a hammock with the waves

Best temple adornments: Wat Arun differs greatly from the other eye-scaldingly gold temples in Bangkok - its 60 meter facade is decorated with old pieces of colorful lacquerware donated by anyone willing to give up an extra plate or saucer

Best place to strip down: Surrender yourself to experienced hands at Saija, one of the best places in Chaing Mai to get a Thai herbal oil massage; one hour of bliss is enough to get scarily friendly with your masseuse, and at a price of six dollars it's available to even the most frugal budget traveller

Best "budget" resort: Cocohut, Koh Phan Ngan; complete with infinity pool overlooking the ocean; as long as you're willing to share the bathroom with thirty other people, the price is very very nice

Best sunset vista: Wat Mae Som is a buddhist temple set high in the hills surrounding Pai and seems to be made exclusively for watching gorgeous sunsets that fall over the valley

Best use of sleeping pills: Overnight bus from Bangkok to Chaing Mai - though only 200 B ($5), this turned into a hellish trip as I struggled to use one small blanket to cover both my body in the freezing cold bus as well as my nose to block out the horrendous stench coming from the onboard bathroom

Best football game: England vs. Ecuador - we watched this nighttime game projected on a huge screen in Hat Rin along with hundreds of brits; lets just say that it's a good thing England came out on top (best comment from the crowd: Come on Rooney, you fat cow!)

Best comment in the hostel: "Honey, will you throw me the umbrella so that I can use the toilet?" When checking out our new pad, we were pleasantly surprised that the bathroom seemed quite bright and free of the usual smells that plague hostel toilets. However, had we glanced up, we would've noticed the absence of a ceiling, which technically wasn't a problem at all, well....until the rain started

Best classroom experience: Baan Thai Cooking School. After graduating from college, the last thing I wanted to hear about is more class; however, the cooking classes here are out of this world, complete with market shopping lessons and instructions for making curries, pat thai, sweet and sour veggies, and cashew nut chicken (those of you who make the trip to nashville to visit me next year may be rewarded with a dish or two!)

Tsunami Relief...kind of

2006-06-30T22:11:00.000+08:00

North Andaman Tsunami Relief - this is the volunteer agency based in Kuraburi, Thailand (read, a collection of shops built around the highway) where Philip and I spent some time volunteering two weeks ago. We heard of NATR through the Rotary Club of Ko Samui, a random connection Philip made through his Rotary higher-ups and dignitaries. In short, Rotary foots the bill for the projects of NATR and thought it would be a great stop on our whirwind trip of SE Asia.

On our bus to Kuraburi, it was only our second day in Thailand and we were definitely struggling with the language barrier. Unlike Malaysia where anyone under 30 grew up with bilingual (Malay and English) education, many Thais actually only speak Thai. We blundered through our phrase book and made it off the bus at the right mudpuddle only to find that no one within twenty meters of the bus station spoke english and no one had ever heard of NATR (weird, in a town this small). Luckily, a volunteer with NATR that actually spoke Thai happened upon us and gave us a crash course intro to the town, polite Thai phrases, and where we could buy the best roti (roti (n) - a delightful Thai specialty now coined "thai pancake" so that foreigners can remember how to say it - it's basically thin dough fried in coconut oil and coconut butter then filled with anything from vegetables and curry to bananas and nutella, in a word, delicious).

Okay, back to saving the world as a tsunami volunteer. Well, not exactly. Philip and I sat at computers and translated pages and pages of documents into Spanish. How does that have anythind to do with a tsunami? Well....

since the tsunami in December 2004, millions of dollars have been poured into this region to replace boats, homes, trees, etc and in many villages their standard of living has actually drastically improved since the disaster. NATR has built new housing on islands, evacuation towers, and a water tower to supply fresh drinking water to one of the most devastated islands (it was actually ripped in half into two islands during the tsunami - a harrowing sight when you look out to sea). Additionally, the tsunami affected the local economy of the area as many families chose to move inland from their traditional fishing villages due to a mixture of fear and respect for the ocean's power. Now, NATR is working to develop ecotourism in the region to provide an altnernative to traditional forms of labor (mostly fishing for the men and peeling cashew nuts for the women). They also promote local handicrafts such as soap making and greeting card construction to supplement their incomes.

Whew, that sounds like a blurb I translated at some point, but it's a quick overview of NATR's current big projects. NATR is always looking for partners and people to help them fund projects, and some of their prospective connections are now in Spain - hence the need for Spanish translation of their official documents and reports (enter Philip and Carmen). It wasn't much, but we did what we could and hope that they'll put our work to good use.

We hit the road after our work was done to try and escape the southwest monsoon season that was currently pelting us in Kuraburi day in and day out (not so fun when all of your transporation consists of the back of a truck). Nevertheles, I'm extremely glad for our time in Kuraburi and will always remember the bright attitudes of triumph from the tsunami survivors we spoke with. These people have endured an unthinkable disaster and have somehow come out on top. Increible.

Why not - we'll splurge for the sixty cent pad thai!

2006-06-16T21:30:00.000+08:00

5:30 PM - After boarding our first bus in Thailand at the border crossing at 8:00 AM this morning, Philip finally decided that he'd had enough of the plastic coated seats and loud Thai music videos blaring through the sound system. "We're getting off" is pretty much all he said before grabbing our Lonely Planet and deciding that we'd traveled far enough for one day and this (wherever "this" was) was our new destination.

6:30 PM - Luckily, "this" turned out to be Krabi, a small town on the southwestern coast of Thailand with a small town atmosphere, huge book swap shops, handicraft stores, ATMs, plenty of venues to watch tonight's world cup match between Argentina and Serbia, and a sprawling night market lining the river bank. Let's just say that we hit the jackpot with this place, and ate tonight like royalty...well, if royalty can sit on a plastic stool and turn a blind eye to the rats that occasionally scamper across the patio. After perusing and taking hefty samples from several of the food carts, Philip and I settled on the sixty cent pad thai (it was ten cents more than the stall next door, but ours had prawns and was cooked right there before our eyes and watering mouths). It was nothing short of amazing. After a Thai pancake filled with pineapple and chocolate sauce, I admitted defeat and rolled myself away from the food stalls. I can already tell that Thailand and I are going to get along quite well - if they keep up the spectacular food and equally spectacular prices, I'll certainly keep eating and travelling.

10:00 PM - Our transportation crisis has been solved and a ten o'clock a.m. bus will deliver us to Kuraburi tomorrow by midafternoon (that is, if we're actually saying the name right and can visually recognize the town in time to alert the bus driver so that he can slow to a roll and dump us on the side of the highway). Thailand public buses - they're cheap, but trickly - wish us luck!

The Postcard Promise

2006-06-15T21:45:00.000+08:00

To my family and friends (from college, high school, girl scouts, FBC, random travelling buddies, whatever) : I miss you all very much and hereby make a pledge. I know that most of you will not be able to join me at any point during this year of travel, so I'm offering to bring the magic home to you. If you will leave me your snail mail address as a comment on this post, I promise a beautiful postcard filled with handwritten sentiments from yours truly. All I ask is for your patience during the shipping process; as I am conserving funds as much as possible, these postcards will be taking the slow boat back to America (or wherever you may currently be).

Blood, sweat, and....well, just blood and sweat

2006-06-10T20:34:00.000+08:00

Eww. That's all I have to say. I know I'm going to be a doctor and must get over this grossed out sensation that I have when I see bugs and blood, especially when they're together, but apparently I haven't quite yet reached this maturity plateau. Maybe that's why I need this year off, to get over these aversions. ..

The story, from the top: After two weeks of traveling in Malaysia Philip and I stumbled upon a truly remarkable place, Taman Negara, the oldest rainforest in the world located right here in central peninsular Malaysia. Within the jungle are six hides, small hut raised off the ground containing simple bunk beds and a window overlooking a salt lick. The idea is to hike into the jungle and spend the night in the hides to catch a glimpse of large mammals such as tigers, elephants, tapirs, and deer that inhabit the area. So the big questions is, which hide should we choose. The obvious answer - the farthest one (pictured here for your viewing pleasure). So Philip and I set out on a journey yesterday morning with packs full of food, tons of water (8 liters, quite heavy) and otherwise modest provisions. The twelve kilometer hike is nothing to be sneezed at; just over five hours of trekking finally led us to our hide.

Quite unfortunately, when we arrived at the hide, so did the rain, greatly lessening our chances of actually seeing any animals. After an exhausting day of hiking with high hopes of a tiger or elephant spotting, the only animals we saw during the night were the rats who raided our food bag hanging from the rafters. At 6:45 our alarm roused us from our "sleep," otherwise known as fifteen minute turning intervals, packed our bags, rubbed our sores necks, back, and legs, and headed out for our trek home.

Though we had thanked the rain the night before for cooling our hide, we soon came to curse it and the situation it had caused. Apparently, disgusting black leeches just love to come out and play after a good rain, especially around rivers - I apparently missed this lesson in girl scout class. Sporting chacos and shorts to make wading through the main river easier might not have been my best choice of the day. Word spread like wildfire through the leech community and within twenty minutes it was an all out war. I noticed one on my foot, took off my sandals to discover three more. While Philip was trying to pick them off I watched three more crawl onto the big toe of my other foot. In the meantime they began crawl up Philip's pants to the point that he had to remove them and beat them against a tree. Though the leeches' bites don't actually hurt, the thought of these bugs sucking out my blood just kind of made me sick and spurred me to quickly find my long pants and sneakers in my bag. I know it doesn't sound dramatic, but it was, and even after this change of attire I still had three leeches to crawl underneath my pants and give me pretty decent bites from which I bled all over my pant legs and socks. Like I said, eww.

Those details aside, it was a great trip - one for my record books. As for now, I'm going to watch where I walk and get some sleep in a bed that's not made of wood.

Numero Uno

2006-05-24T09:53:00.000+08:00

Hey Y'all! Now that I've decompressed from graduation, I'm working on preparing for a year of difficult communication with those I care so much about. Therefore, I've set aside some time in my hectic schedule here in Brandon, MS to create this blog to update yall, and most importantly my mother, on my whereabouts during this upcoming year. Testing, one, two, testing, one, two...