Thank Vishnu there are no trains in Cambodia

Only buses.  Crappy ones.  And it was impossible to get on the overnight bus to Siam Reap (the city adjacent the temples at Angkor), since there are only two companies in town that travel to Siam Reap after 1pm.  So I had to wait overnight and take the next day's bus (a twelve person minivan whose trunk fell open and spilled everyone's bags as it pulled away from my hotel).  At least the tour guide coincidentally sitting next to me spoke a little English, and pointed out a few things to me, like the crops burning in the fields to clean them before the next season, or the massive townhouses outside of Siam Reap, which the guide claimed were owned by people making money off of Western investment into the tourism industry in Siam Reap.  I arrived at the New Angkorland hotel after sundown, and called to set up a tuk tuk ride for a dawn trek to the temples.  Angkor Wat tomorrow morning.  

This Damn Monkey Slapped Me in the Arm

So Wat Phnom ("Mountain Temple") and its surrounding park are pretty breathtaking.  The temple (right) is one of the tallest structures in the relatively low-lying city, and its hilltop placement means it overlooks most of the city from its northern vista.  The temple itself is in the spirit of the rest of the capital city - definitively Buddhist, but with some sense of context of country.  The most notable part of the park to me is the landscape over which the temple looks:  the giant clock built into the ground is the recumbent centerpiece of a sort of open-air zoo.  I was distracted from the elephant-feeding station (US2 for a bushel of bananas to feed them) by the bevy of monkeys running freely about the park.  I saddled up next to a group of monks feeding a family of monkeys (I tried to come up with a clever pun for this scenario, but decided the sentence was funny enough on its own);  the above picture was taken with "mama monkey" before I got a little too close to her little one (below).  Once I snapped a pic of her baby, she sized me up for a brief moment, showed her teeth, and quickly slapped me on my uncovered forearm - and bear in mind, this uncovered forearm had just spent the day in the deadly Cambodian sun, unprotected.  Needless to say I was in some pain, and my stream of expletives translated well enough to scare off the monkeys, the monks, and just about anyone else near me in the park.  Touche, monkey.  Next time I'll admire the cuteness of your progeny from afar.

     

Mike Eats Ice Cream; Gives It the Thumbs Up

Unfortuately, I think my thumb got in the way here. 

[Edit: I lost the original of this picture, and had to retake it with a copy I found online, hence the grainy appearance.  The original thought, though, I assure you was knee-jerk.]

Pnom Penh is kinda small (or conversely, Mai Lynn is a big deal)

Special thanks to Mai Lynn Miller Nguyen (COL '07) for showing me around Phnom Penh.  As an editor/writer/apparently-all-things-to-all-people at AsiaLife magazine, she has her finger to the pulse of what's going on in Phnom Penh's current "cultural revolution" (no, not in the Chinese sense) - or I should say, westernization.  So once I'd finished my motorcycle derring-do during the days, I'd meet up with Mai Lynn (and her friends), who was happy to show me about as she checked out some new spots herself with an eye toward what to mention in her magazine (or so I gathered).  
My first night I received a text to meet at Metro on top of hotel Timbalaya, which happened to be 2 doors down from my hotel, on the riverfront boulevard Sisowath Quay.  I arrived late, though, and was only able to give the rooftop scene a glance before we headed to the Chinese House a little further uptown.  We bopped around at night to a pretty Western club scene - according to a couple conversations I had, foreign investment is pouring in, and those who are positioned to do so are making a penny for themselves.  One bar was a Miami-influenced "Copacabana," complete with outdoor beach and bottle service.  Another was a rock club, with '90's and '00's American music the featured tunes.  Each of my two nights out in Cambodia ended in a tuk-tuk ride where the rider was noticeably inebriated (or just flat-out crazy).  These nights out were fun, but also served to illustrate the beginnings of, and propensity toward, inequality in a developing economy being flooded with foreign money.  Is being Mumbai in 10 years a worthwhile goal or not?  To paraphrase myself paraphrasing Chubbs in my high school's senior yearbook quote:  Best of luck, Phnom Penh.  Best of luck.

The Killing Fields at Choeng Ek

I wish I had the skill or the historical knowledge to write an actual comment on what I saw at the Killing Fields tactfully or perceptively; since I don't, I'll stick to this link and captioning some pictures I took. Absolutely horrifying to see we humans are capable of this.  Thirty-five years ago.  Impossible for me not to shed a tear on behalf of us all.

Real, shattered, bleached pieces of human skulls/bones.  Some recently unearthed, as more are turned up frequently by storms.

Since-excavated mass graves, some of which were alloted for women or children only.  As metals (read: bullets) were "too precious to waste" in these camps, starvation/maiming with bamboo weapons/hangings were the means of choice for the Year Zero "societal cleansing" organized by Pol Pot.  Infants and young children were simply smashed over trees and rocks until they were left lifeless. 

Nine levels of skulls and other bones are found in the tower overlooking Choeung Ek, memorializing the victims with ineffable profundity 

Particularly sharp palm bark was used to slit the throats of detainees.  Heinously, this differs from the method of executing children via repeated smashing, in that case infamously using chankiri trees.

The intensity was overwhelming.  The demonstration of our capacity to repeat history (whether knowingly or unknowingly is to me irrelevant) was sickening.  There is only so much of this place I could stomach in one sitting, but bearing witness to this place is something I'll never forget, and feel I obligated in some way, as I'm sure most do who come here, to share.

Welp, I'm in rush-hour traffic in Phnom Penh, Cambodia. Time to learn how to ride a motorocycle.

I put off writing anything about renting the motorcycle until I returned it safely this afternoon. Flashback to arrival in Pnom Penh:

First order of business was renting a bike. After ignorning the most persistent group of jostlers yet (tuk tuks, motos, cabs) outside the PP bus terminal, I walked down Monivong Blvd, the main North-South thoroughfare, to find "Lucky Lucky" bike rental, as per my guide book. In response to the question of whether I wanted a "big bike" or a little one, I had no choice but to say "big one." They ushered me over to a grown-up-sized Honda Degree, a real live motorcycle with a clutch, footbrake, and everything. Despite having never ridden a motorcycle, I was not one to back down. After a quick tutorial (and more than a couple embarassing stallouts), I was humming down Monivong in first gear, desperately looking for a side street to turn down so I didn't die. A few more stallouts in the alleys later, I was back in front of "Lucky Lucky," feeling the intensity of the irony dripping from its name.
"Ready?" was all the guy said to me when I got back - and I'm sure it was with a chuckle, cause I had to be visibly shaken. But I told myself, in the immortal words of Jim Morrison (by way of Lucas from Empire Records), "The time to hesitate is through."

After a quick run-in with the cops, I was on my way (see separate post).

The rest of the day was harrowing. I thought i was going to rent a moped and have a leisurely bike ride around town to find a place to stay. Not so. I was literally holding on for dear life; each intersection was an epic battle for survival. My first major issue was idling without stalling out (after short trial and error, I realized this was accomplished by holding the clutch down in first gear - but those first few "trials" were at busy intersections, so I was desperately trying to restart my stalled bike either at the start of, or smack in the middle of, violently restarting traffic). After this was mastered, the next important steps were being able to make left turns (flat-out terrifying), and down shifting quickly enough to slow down/idle, without stalling out. I'd been bouncing around in 1st or 2nd gear, making only right turns ~toward the river that marks the Eastern border of the city proper (where I'd read there were good hotel deals) long enough. Time to make some hay and find a hotel.

I was too frazzled to even learn what place I was photographing here - but it's in Phnom Penh!

Oddly enough, I did manage to see a bunch of the major monuments/points of interest. The national museum, the royal palace, the largest temple Wat Phnom, etc. are all on the east side of the city, along the river, so I came across them in my quest for accomodation. The traditional Cambodian architecture is possibly my favorite style, at least by way of religious buildings. I settled upon a cheap and dcent hotel, Corzyna, along the river for around US18/day. Tomorrow's agenda: riding the bike ~20km outside the city to the Killing Fields.

Happy Birthday Kassie

Today (Mar 9th) is my girlfriend Kassie's bday.  I hope any of you who know her wished her a happy birthday.  All I can say is happy birthday hunnie, and I'm sorry I wasn't there :(  You all better come to our joint "kassie's legal/mike mayyy have lost his legal status as a U.S. citizen so now HE needs the fake ID" party when i get back.

lymy behomesoon

[Editor: I know, sappy to publish this when posting way after the fact, but I have a forum with which to publicly apologize so i'm going to use it]

Border Security, Cambodian Style

Were I so inclined, I swear I could've brought a loaded AK-47, an Asian love slave, a barrel-o'-heroin, and a live hippopotamus (whose stomach was full of AK-47's and barrels-o'-heroin) across the Cambodian border. The customs process consisted of a) choosing which bags to have checked (leaving the rest on your bus, if you so wished) b) walking through one "scanning" checkpoint, with no one inspecting the contents of your bag or your person, and c) having your passport stamped by your bus driver and getting back on the bus.  Absurd.  Insane.  Pretty heffin' dangerous.  Oh also, this happened: 

This is taken from my bus.  Which is next to a car.  Both of which are on a boat. 

"Never thought I'd be on a boat..." at least not while I was still on a bus.  With Cambodia apparently lacking adequate bridges1, when we had to cross rivers on two occasions, we were whisked across by hardly imposing "barges" that would probably fit nicely on half of what would be considered a barge most places in the world.  As scary as crossing was, disembarking was when I was really losing it.  Safely, shockingly, we completed this process twice after entering Cambodia. 

1 - And also adequate barges, but who's counting?

A Moment of Reflection

Gellin' like Magellan, on the rocks at Stanley, Hong Kong

I left in a hurry.  I did, somewhat purposefully, close to zero research.  I didn't have a clue why I was going where I was going, or what I was looking for (nor do I still).  My knowledge of Asia had come from the 9th grade history, some business school case studies, word-of-mouth, and the discovery channel (seldom covered).  I guess I wanted to see first-hand.

The factor having the most profound impact on my experience thus far is the language barrier1.  It makes true immersion virtually impossible under these time constraints.  This was not like my week in Buenos Aires, where the porteños and I had two languages in common2 and therefore fitting right in (i.e. doing nothing and smoking cigarettes) was a breeze.  Instead, my most "immersive" experiences have come, naturally, when language is removed from the equation:  on the road, playing sports, eating.  These instances for me have been short but noteworthy - not for their shocking contrast to western norms, but rather for how much common ground there is: you're playing different sports, but you're playing for ultimately the same reasons - competition, excercise, fun; you're driving under wildly different laws, but you're still driving with the ultimate goal of getting where you're going without anyone getting hurt.  Within these arenas, you encounter every type of person - the asshole driver, the helpful pedestrian, the guy who doesn't want to let you play, the guy who encourages you and gives you advice - just as you would anywhere else.

The concept of "a people" gives way quickly to the concept of "people."  The North Vietnamese didn't treat me any different than the South Vietnamese.  The Chinese didn't treat me like much at all - but that's cause they didn't having a GD clue what I was talking about and I was on too short time to bother.  The con artists treated me like a bank - but not because they were Chinese, because they were con artists.  And the Hong Kong Koopa Troopas (bc Hong Kong still sounds like a Supermario level) fall under the same umbrella - from attempted pickpockets to helpful subway riders.  Does the fact that "People are People" is a mid-eighties new-wave hit by Depeche Mode cheapen the fact that it's more or less my creedo at this point?  Probably.  But I'm gonna post the link to the video anyway.  Enjoy.  Time for Cambodia.

1 - That, or Vietnamese food being so cheap and awesome.
2 - OK, 1.5 to be harsh but fair to my Spanish.

This is not the War Remnants Museum

On my way back from the Cambodian embassy, I wanted to see the war remnants museum. Several people had said it's pretty compelling, so I figured I'd check it out. Since my hotel doesn't have a printer (duh), I drew on paper a simple copy of the relevant map I'd looked up on googlemaps: my hotel, streets to the embassy, streets to the museum, landmarks. Basic. Since my embassy visit took longer than expected (shocker), I had to hustle to catch the museum before close. Struggling to find it based on my simple map, I decided to ask around. Not a lick of English spoken in this part of town. Eventually, I encounterd a white dude.
"You speak English?" I asked.
"Well of course," he said in a calm British accent, carrying himself like a true local.
"War remnants museum, can you tell me where it is?"
"Gosh, it's all the way on the other side of town. You've got to go through the park. It's all the way on Pasteur and Li Ti Truk, although that means nothing to you. You should take a taxi," he condescended.

Angry with myself for having copied the map wrong, I took off in this direction. I got to the museum as it's closing. I pleaded (pled? plade? already I've lost my marbles) with the security guard to let me in. "Last day in Vietnam!" I cried, lying and out of breath. He relented and mercifully let me in. I jogged around, trying to take it in quickly. "This is lame," I thought. "These relics are boring, nothing really compelling here. Oh well, at least I saw it." I left, confused and disappointed. Oh well. Some things don't live up to the hype.

Tonight, my actual last night in Vietnam, I saw this:

The actual war remnants museum. Teeming with war remnants; in fact, there are so many, they have to keep some on the outside!  And it's one block from where I'd encountered the absolutely certain British man. And it's closed for the night. Cam on, guy.

I think I'm gonna find this trip to Cu Chi "exciting"

Well, to the disappointment of the German couple sitting beside me, the free drugs never appeared on our "speed" boat trip to Cu Chi (~3 hrs, ~50km - at least I'm not on a bus).  Nonetheless, the place was still fascinating.

      A rail-thin Vietnamese woman demonstrates a covert entrance to the tunnel

Our tour guide, Hai, (like "Hi!"- Hi, Hai! - this one absolutely KILLED1) was actually a South Vietnamese communications officer.  This did not stop him from demonstrating the viciousness of the Vietcong booby traps, nor the stealth of the some of the tunnel entrances (as above), nor the power of both American- and Soviet-imported guns (I shot an AK-47, 30,000dong (1.50)/round, still waiting for that damn german couple to email me the pics).  The thing the tour impressed upon you (with the help of an old-school Vietnamese propaganda video), was the collective dedication/passion to the cause of eradicating the American presence.  Awards were bestown upon men, women, and children for killing the most Americans.  Tunnel cities were built to conceal villages to protect the people, and also to enable more effective American-killing.  The videos and guides delivered all this information without a hint of emotion or perspective - the stoicism was what I found most incredible.  Unsure of my understanding of or attitude toward the war or the information presented to us, several of my tour compatriots offered words of comfort to me (the only American in our tour).  This I found curious as well -  I didn't have time to investigate if terms like "monolithic communism" meant anything to them, and vice versa.  Instead we learned more ways to kill Americans, and ruthlessly.  Ultimately, the Cu Chi tour is a celebration of guerilla triumph over a violent and intrusive presence; in may ways it resembled a tour of Jockey Hollow in New Jersey, tables turned dramatically.  Touche, Hai.                 

1 - Too soon to make a "killed" joke at Cu Chi?  Dzzt, too late.   

Weird Vietnam, (cont.)

Tao Dan park is full of benches. As I walk through it tonight, every bench, every single one, has a Vietnamese couple on it, whispering sweet nothings into one another's ears. And I'm the only person not on a bench. I wish there were a good way to capture this. My camera/pics don't cut it.  Dozens, possibly north of a hundred, benches. Whatever number of benches, multiply by exactly two (no more, no less) and that's the number of people who are here besides me.  All on benches, in perfect pairs.  A paraphrase of Dana Carvey's standup comes to mind:  "If you're alone in Tao Dan park, you're probably a retard, get on a bench!"  Weird, wild stuff. 

On the south side of the park there is an amphitheater. It's closed to the public, and I can only peek inside. The theater is full of people - probably sold out. A man is lecturing the crowd in Vietnamese, bright spotlights upon him. Intrigued, but with a theory, I sit and listen. The man rarely pauses for breath; the crowd is silent and seemingly rapt. I'm timing:  three minutes go by. I look around for an attendant, to see what's going on. More lecturing. Another three minutes, barely a pause, nary a sound. I find a woman, likely a ticket-taker. I ask her what's inside. Strugging with her English, she slowly replies: "Comedy show."  Just as I suspected.  The meager laughter finally arrives as I walk away, dumbfounded, almost on cue. 

Vietnamese love working out in the park at night

Apparently, they don't like being photographed either.  This is the "best" of several attempts.

To my complete shock, gyms aren't really en vogue here. Everyone comes to the park to excercise. Aerobics classes. Calisthenics. Excercise machines. It all happens at the park. At night.

What have you done pho me lately?

40,000 dong for a delicious snack sandwich?  Don't mind if I do.

Banh mi, Vietnamese for bread1, is a synecdoche2 where the name of the bread refers to the entire sandwich.  Its the street meat of choice in HCMC. The standard accompaniment for your banh mi ~baguette is beef, a pate of sorts, some chili sauce, and cucumber/carrot salad.  That's what's pictured here, purchased near the Cambodian embassy. Its cheap, its odd, and its delicious. It's definitively quicker than pho (champion of the north), and edible on the go.  What have you done pho me lately, pho?  I'm kicking you to the curb - which actually puts you in pretty good company, alongside all the other delicious street food in Vietnam.

1 -  Or more specifically, "flour cake"
2 -  Does dropping this term make me "synecdouchey?"  'Fraid so, mon frere.

These kids know how to hustle

Thanks Asus, for being to sh*tty for me to post my video

I meet Chris and Blake while humoring a Vietnamese scam artist (I was already "onto" her when she'd slipped up in miscounting her siblings, but cheers to these guys for confirming my suspicion, and interjecting that beers cost 10,000 dong (as opposed to 50,000, as she quoted me while ordering).  She realizes I'm more inclined to hang out with them then get her paid, so she qietly and awkwardly takes off.  The forced hug was really something else.

Chris and Blake had met in Thailand and were following similar itineraries, and had so reconvened here.  They introduce me to their "guide," a toothless vietnamese nutball who smokes like a chimney1 and speaks good English - apparently Blake is riding from here to Hoi An with this crazy man via motorcycle.  Not a short ride, btw.  They'd stayed in HCMC longer than expected (about a week), and had a few spots to eat and hang out, so I threw in my lot with them.

We stay in Pham Ngu Lao, meeting occasionally with girls the two of them had met with their lead-in line: who would win in a fight, a bear or a lion?" (the guys are in consensus: its clearly bear btw) - they had made some cute friends with this one, I should add.  I assure them I'll only be wing-manning them, rather than competing with them, and they drop their guard toward me and we have a bang-up time.  Above video is on the streets of District 1, Chris getting hustled into buying books and cigarettes from Vietnamese kids around 1 am.  I'm jealous of Blake's bike journey.  I gotta get back on a bike.               

1 - Earmuffs, Eric:  This is a case of the proverbial "chimney" calling the "chimney" a "chimney" by the way.  Smokes are 30,000 dong and a conversation starter!  At prices like these, you can't afford NOT to smoke <<coughhackcough>>!! 

Saigon or Ho Chi Minh City

The waiter who served me this morning glory salad flip-flopped like John Kerry in 2004



I've attempted to ascertain whether the Vietnamese here call the city Ho Chi Minh or Saigon.  My efforts have produced more confusion than clarity.  Since most of the population speaks little English, I've limited this question to English-inclined waitstaff, tour guides, etc.  The first response is clear and definitive:  "Ho Chi Minh City."  Or, another girl, with equal certitude: "Saigon."  Ugh.  Content with some sort of answer from each respective conversation, I move on:  Where did you learn English?  "Univeristy."  Here?  "In Saigon, yes."  Only this was the guy who had originally said HCMC.  And the waitress who originally said Saigon later referred to "working in Ho Chi Minh City."  This happens in a handful of instances.  Ha-whaa??  My tour guide says Ho Chi Minh City, "but Saigon OK."  One waiter said, "either," and then when I called it Saigon, he corrected me:  "foreigner say Ho Chi Minh City."  I give up.   Saigon is quicker to say, HCMC quicker to write.  I'll go with that.  Cam on.   

Mike meets expats, learns they like hookers

Crazy Buffalo - the landmark bar for Pham Ngu Lao expats seeking other expats

Last night, headed out into Pham Ngu Lao district to check it out. See that Man U is playing Liverpool (and getting their asses handed to them, to boot). Decide this would be a good way to meet English speakers and converse. Head into the Boston Sports Bar, where I see nary a remnant of anything Boston related whatsoever. British football flyers/decor everywhere - interesting take on Boston sports. Strike up a conversation with the men sitting next to me, who are speaking Vietnamese to the bartenders and English to one another. One is Australian, and a 7-year-veteran of Vietnam (yeah, that's not gonna get old) The other is a 10-year-vet, and from Morristown, New Jersey of all places. He is floored by our proximity of origin - never in ten years had he met someone in Vietnam from as close to his hometown as myself. These gentlemen are proud of my journey - and warn me that I may become them. Vietnam is a wonderful, and wonderfully cheap, place, they say, and I agree. Morristown, a history teacher (and a bad one, from the incoherence of his mini-lecture about HCMC being at the "forefront of history" or something hollow a bad history teacher might say to his disinterested class1), has work tomorrow and has to go. The aussie - a tall, out-of-work graphic designer, puts a burly arm around me and agrees to stay out for a few more beers - before driving home 20km on his bike.

Aussie begins lecturing me as we're leaving the bar. "Any girl round here out after midnight has an agenda. Not a bad one, or an illegal one, but an agenda," he says, pointing to girl after sleazy-looking girl. He nods to the bar across the street and says, "that'll fill up with hookers in about an hour," and chuckles. We walk to a nearby bar, Sevens, where a trio of hookers greet him warmly, and me warily, at the door. One pounds the table and scolds him in Vietnamese - I await the face slap and the "not sure what I did to deserve that," a la Jack Sparrow in Tortuga, but it never quite materializes. He mutters something back and we enter. We pound cheap Tiger beers and play pool against a New Zealand couple, as our hooker/waitress flirts with us (him) and tops off our beers at any available moment. The other girls make forays into our personal space, but are met with glares from hooker #1. "These girls'll treat ya roight," he whispers to me, "unless they're boys," as he points to a new arrival. "Whoa. Coulda fooled me," I think to myself, confusion and disgust levels approaching all-time highs. Aussie apologizes for his regular spot having an off night. "Let's go find you a girl, mate," and he pays for our beers as we walk out. I tell him I'm not in the market, which seems to disappoint him. We near our starting point, which is adjacent my hotel. "Alroight, I'm gonna go to my hooker bar. You sure you don't wanna join?" Thanks, aussie, but no thanks. "I'm sure I'll see you round," he calls as he enters his empire, an odd and pleasant Caligula.  Here's to you, and not becoming you.

1 - "Nowhere during your rambling, incoherent response did you even come close to anything that could be considered a rational thought.  You are awarded no points, and may God have mercy on your soul."

Sport transcends language barrier, BAM!

Finally made it to South Vietnam, in Saigon, a safe haven from those damn dirty Vietcong. Oh crap. They're standing right behind me, aren't they? And I'm in Ho Chi Minh City, not Saigon? This could get hairy (cues Billy Joel's "Goodnight, Saigon").

I arrive with no plans and no knowledge of HCMC, so by virtue of telling the taxi stand worker, "hotel - big street - many hotels," I luckily land myself on Pha Ngu Lao, the main thoroughfare of the expat/backpackers district in HCMC. It overlooks a beautiful park, a smaller cousin of famous Tao Dan park to the northeast. All sorts of soccer- and badminton-related games being played here. Tromp from hostel to hostel, looking for my critera (internet, AC, single room) and land in Sin Sin Hostel - curious if the name portends anything about my stay. I drop my things off and meander about. Right off the park and the main drag, so I'm pleased with my locale. This area is at least majority westerners, in terms of people walking in the streets/eating at streetside cafes. There's a pleasant, lazy feel to the area - most people stroll around in sandals and sunglasses, likely on holiday and without care. A welcome exhale in comparison to Hanoi.

Here I encounter a game that combines soccer and volleyball (apparently, this), played in sides of 3 with a gym-class-softball sized, wickerish ball. The actual "court" is being used by the intense and experienced - as a foreigner in hiking boots, I don't even get a sniff. I set my sights a little lower, on the "practice" game being played beside the court. Here, five Vietnamese adroitly juggle the wicker ball in a wide circle, rarely dropping it. I'm nervous about joining, a) from my experience on Cat Ba (read here) and b) from my gear (hiking boots and long pants), so I watch for a bit. A new guy shows up, who's here in all his "gear" - fresh-to-death Asics (the shoe of choice for this game), new football kit, headband - and after a short evaluation, I decide I'm clearly more skilled than he, so I ask to join.

They're surprisingly friendly about letting me join, and quickly widen the circle. I stick to headers - as anyone who's played an soccer with me knows, my forte - to get acclimated. The wicker(ish) ball is pliant and easy to control, so I get more daring with my footwork. My moves work out, except when I get too cute. I get into a rhythm with the group, and we play for hours. The ringleader coaches me on when to use particular body parts to receive/send balls. There is no score, no time, no count kept, but the intensity is high. When someone errs, everyone is disappointed. When an especially long rally is kept, it ends in applause - from the group, and a few bystanders as well. I more than hold my own. Once the ball is played well out of the circle, I decide to call it a day. The fact that the group quits makes me feel both guilty and complimented, so we play for a few more rallies. Afterward, I'm offered a disgusting watery sports drink/tea mix, and try to ascertain the name of the game we're playing. The group's best English speaker - fresh-to-death - brusquely informs me of a few things: ball/game - "gao-may" (actually cau may). From Thailand1. Cheaper to buy ball there. America strong. I ask the best place to eat, and he is gravely confused. Fair enough, worth a shot. As I thank everyone profusely for letting me play, our skilled ringleader says, in his best sign-language-English: "Feet - good." Approval from sensai make grasshopper proud.

1 - Where apparently the game is called sepak takraw, see article above

Soup-Nazi style fish restaurant kicks ass

I found the family's secret recipe in an armoir, right behind the mulligatawny

Thanks to a tip from my motorbike rental agent, I had lunch at this place.  According to the elderly British couple sitting next to me, the place had grown in the last ten years from soup-nazi-style (my term, not theirs) kitchen to two-room sit down restaurant, but they stuck to their bread-and-butter - or rather their grilled fish - the only dish they serve, on table-served skillet with bitter vegetables, onions, rice noodles, peanut salad, sauce, and whatever sort of fat/oil they use to fire up the grill. Somewhat forgettable fish on its own, but stir the fish and vegatble stir-fry over rice noodles and the symbiotic result is pure deliciousness.  Let's just hope Elaine doesn't ruin this place too.  Next!  

These water puppets woulda been fun on acid

Granted, the show is traditional Vietnamese fare.  And it's touted for children.  And it only cost like 80,000 dong.  But this sloppily executed and lacking-in-narrative hour-long show in ten acts could've been a lot better.  As my Brazilian friend sitting next to me mentioned, maybe if we'd found some drugs first?  At least the music was actually pretty sick.   

Halong Bay Travel Journal

Vietnam Vets Kevin, Jess, and myelf

Instead of intermittent posts in Halong, since I had no internet/computer I just kept my journal.  Click here for a sampling thereof  (link coming soon. asus sucks).  Chao.

- Magellan

Check out my Junk

I'm having trouble wrapping my brain around this strange cultural phenomenon here in Halong Bay, Vietnam.  Apparently everyone just takes pictures of their junk.  Everywhere you turn, people are just rabidly snapping photos of their junk - and it's still pretty cold here this time of year.  Must be a Vietnamese thing.

My junk is the larger of the two in the foreground above; as you can see it doesn't quite fit in the shot.

Three guys let me take a picture of their junk at the same time. 

When your junk's tucked behind you, as above, someone else has to take the picture for you.

Here's a picture of a rock in a cave.  Did I mention that Vietnam's currency is the dong? 

Get your mind out of the gutter.  From Hanoi, I bought a three-day, two-night package to stay on a traditional Vietnamese "junk" boat on Halong Bay, including a night's stay on the boat and a night's stay on Cat Ba, the largest island in the bay.  Will post more in a few days. 

Phinally, some totally rad local phởod

Phở:  pronounced (~)"feu" (some say it's a bastardization of the French for "fire"1) is the ubiquitous and delicious street food of choice in north vietnam, particularly Hanoi (I'm told by Link).  Typically comprised of rice noodles, beef, basil, lime, and spices, rarely does it cost more than 40,000 dong (US2), and it's served in ~every streetside stand or cafe you can find.  Above was somewhere in the Old City, and probably the best I had (it did cost a whopping 50,000 dong though).  Gonna have to look for this back in the states. 

1 - [Bill Maher interjects]: "Bastardization of the French?  That's like a legitimacy double negative!" [smug BillMaher grin].  Liberals and conservatives hold hands and chuckle.

The Blog Takes Sides

I didn't inted for this blog, created to document my responses to my travels and maybe entertain myself or others, to take on a platform.  But I have no choice but to take up a cause:  to prevent anyone, family or stranger, friend or foe, from ever purchasing Asus products. 

I know what you're thinking:  any idiot can avoid buying crappy Asus stuff without a dumb blog telling them to.  But if you ever find yourself with Best Buy gift cards burning a hole in your pocket, looming travels to document and preserve, and the logic of "$100 net expenditure for a new computer!" screaming on your shoulder like Homer Simpson before a big decision, listen to the other shoulder.  Run away.  Set fire to the store.  Do anything other than buy the Asus. 

This hunk of junk (along with communism) is the main reason my blog was/is delayed.  The interface sucks - the mouse clicks random spots on the screen at random intervals, making uninterrupted typing impossible (the bootleg solution is to turn the smartpad settings to nearly-off, rendering the mouse nearly-useless).  The processor is too slow to upload videos onto blogger - or to watch a video on itunes.  Skype software is virtually impossible to run (straining my relationship as well, TYVM), thanks to the same shitty processor.  Just don't do it. 

Maybe my calling will be to start an Asus support group, so we can all go through the denial, guilt, anger, regret, and, eventually, hope of our actions together.  Let me know if you'd be interested - anonymously, of course.  I'm here to help.      

Is this donut hole a practical joke?

Looks like a pretty appetizing donut hole, right?  Until you bite into it, and find eggs.  Or fish.  Or beef.  Someone tell me what this thing is called.  I wanna know where you are at all times, so I can avoid you.

Cozy, if you're Hanoi-bal Lector

Arrived in Hanoi, Vietnam late last night.  The "visa-on-arrival" process was a little shaky - probably because I had none of the following:  passports photos, US currency, paper copy of "approval letter," non-snarky attitude toward immigration employees - all requisite for obtaining a visa.  Apparently, the policy of the immigration office in cases like this is to stop everything, group huddle (with everyone at the office), and give me a visa, no questions asked.  I got mine before a bunch of New Zealanders who'd arrived before me.  They were none too happy.  Score one for Mike. 

Hanoi is completely effing lawless - at least when it comes to the roads.  Upon hopping in a cab from the airport, was immediately terrified of the motorbikes buzzing about our two-gear taxi like locusts.  I felt like the helpless trucker in a fast and furious motorcycle scene - I was sure Michelle Rodriguez was going to shoot a grappling hook through our taxi and flip it over. 

Sure enough, though, when I woke up this morning to explore the city, I was absolutely itching to get on one of these motorbikes.  If I learned anything at Georgetown, it was how to survive on a deathtrap moped1; this was to going be my final exam.  I shelled out the whopping US11 for a full day on the bigboy bike (250cc's), and nearly ran over an old lady just trying to start the bike.  Before long, I was on the road and whizzing through the traffic of Old City Hanoi.       

Apparently this has been well documented; I think this guy does it the most justice.  Above is my picture of this infamous intersection.   

1 - Courtesy of hours logged as a delivery boy for Rhino Bar & Pumphouse.  Damn good Jack Daniels pizza, if I do say so myself - and I brought 'em anywhere in D.C. (I may have invited myself in and stayed for awhile, but that's neither here nor there).  I am still recovering from my 21st birthday and all of senior year there.  Here's to Rhino. 

I love this stuff

Thanks for the gentle reminder.

You getting all this? 

Makes about as much sense to me. 

Great Wall: Great or Not Great?

On at least some level, the reason I flew last minute to Beijing was to see the Great Wall.  So I licked my wounds from the long con and woke up at dawn for the day trip to Badaling.  Our tour guide, Michael, showed us to the center for holistic medicine on the way up.  Here a Chinese doctor tapped my wrists for maybe two seconds, and through a translator told me, "You have stomach problems.  Buy this medicine."   I was impressed, but I was still reeling from the con job.  I passed - I'm sure that'll come back to haunt me at some point. On to the wall. 

I amuse myself by recording impromptu interviews with Chinese tourists, asking them what they think of the wall.  The results are hilarious, but my recording kinda sucks [video coming soon].

On the Wall:  The scope of this thing is staggering.  Everywhere you look, there is wall, wall, and more wall.

I'm sure that's why Badaling is the place to go if you want to come see it - this is where the wall loops and comes to a sort of crossroads, and as such a fortress of sorts was built here.  The result is that the viewer is surrounded by iterations of the wall from all angles.  I find two very simple ideas most interesting:  one, the height of the wall is actually great enough for it to be an effective barrier to keep out invaders - this sounds dumb, but I find it impressive to witness in person - so I'm sure my photos don't capture it. More interestingly (to me at least) is the fact that this was a "wonder of the world" built strictly on the basis of function.  Not to praise some notion of god or gods, not to be co-opted by the religion du jour, not to strike one's eye with beauty of design or intent.  We're all here to see this massive wall that had been built just to DO something, to keep invading Mongols out, and it's since become a symbol of human (and maybe governmental) achievement.  I thought that was pretty cool. 

The two Costa Rican women in my tour group took a bunch of pictures of me on the wall, but I lost their email addresses.  So, I guess, someone find me those pics, or something.  Thanks.  At least I got this keychain:

That's right.       

Shanghai'd in Beijing

Does this look like the face of a fat Chinese con-man? (the guy on the right's pretty ugly, too)

Long story short, I got conned.  Worked over.  Taken for a ride.  I was Cassidy in Season Two of Lost, and these Chinamen(1) were a two-headed Sawyer, playing me like a fiddle.  I should've read all the signs:  the all-too-friendly approach; the willingness to lend me money; the suspicious introductions using American names rather than Chinese.  I'm sure I had a target on my white-bread neck that would've been conspicuous in Gary Larson's "How Birds See the World" cartoon.  But after last night's ordeal, I welcomed the notion of any English speakers showing me around.  I was the perfect score. 

Inauspiciously, "Tom," "Henry," and I toured Tianenmen Square and Old Beijing, where I got a decent showing around.  Then it turned south; we got massages (no Kassie, nothing dirty) that my "guides" fronted the money for (such a red flag! but I was in too deep), and then tea.  Once the bill was presented to us, I quickly saw what was going on here.  Classic "bring the tourist to our shop, overcharge the sh*t out of him, and take a cut" scam.  But we were very far from where I was staying/knew where to go, and I didn't want trouble.  So I quietly took my medicine and paid.  It was clear we all knew what was going on when they asked "Where next?" and my response was "I don't know, I don't have any money left."  Instead of walking me back to where we'd met, they simply pointed me to the subway and got on their way.  You win this round, you fat-faced pig.   

I'm thinking maybe I should've read those emails from Digilio more carefully; but then I'd run the risk of having to write "Digilio was right, Part II" and I cannot stand for that. 

Once I got back to my hotel room, I checked my receipts and calculated my costs post-exchange rate.  A couple hundreds bucks for a massage and some crappy drinks?  Hm, I've seen these prices before... this place is starting to feel like home...

1 - Is Chinamen the preferred nomenclature when you're actually in China?  I'll have to ask Walter Sobchak -  if it's not, I was just quoting The Dude.    

Dammit, Digilio was right (part One of One)

When my friend Danny Digilio exclaimed in an email from Taiwain (I think, but I could be mistaken, might have been another densely populated Asian city), "There are so many Asians here!"  I thought, based on the obviousness of his claim, that he was an idiot.  But since arrival in Beijing, the sheer number of people everywhere has kept the thought constantly on the tip of my mental tongue.  Above is my attempt at a picture of my subway car, which was being crammed full of people from the outside by station attendants, as in this famous video.  My picture doesn't capture it, but that's what's about to be happening here.     

The airport express train into the city was fairly navigable, and the subway system, once I'd gotten a briefing from a friendly Canadian embassy worker, was a fairly intuitive "loop with spokes," a la Chicago.  My hotel, booked on http://www.agoda.com/ , was the Days Inn Forbidden City.  Armed with the hotel name (written in English and Mandarin), street address (English & Mandarin as well), district, (Dongcheng), nearest subway stop (Wangfujing, where I got off), and the Forbidden City name baked right in, it couldn't be hard to find this place.

Boy was I wrong.  3 hours.  3 hours is the time it took to find my hotel, (in the 2 degree-Celsius weather having packed no jacket because I didn't even plan on coming to Beijing), asking cops, train workers, restaurant employees, beggars, young people, old people, dogs, lampposts, and kitchen sinks where Nanheyan Street is.  Verbally or in writing.  English or Chinese.  Once I finally get proper directions, I find out this street more or less forms the Eastern border of the Forbidden City, and at any given time was no more than 200 yards from anyone I asked.  Oh yeah, when I got there, they didn't understand how to process my booking from my iphone, so that ordeal took another hour. 

To quote the immortal Cher Horowitz, of Clueless fame (yes, I had to google her name): I know you can be overwhelmed, and I know you can be underwhelmed, but can you ever just want to get the f*ck out of China within 4 hours of getting there?  I'm tired.     

Mike eats obligatory gross beijing street food

Scorpion.  Cricket.  Seahorse.  When in Rome, right?  Would've been a lot harder to gulp these suckers down if I didn't have an audience of appalled Costa Ricans to scream at the atrocity, drowning out the crunching of arthropod exoskeletons and stingers and such.  Actually the cricket wasn't too bad - was meaty and tasteless enough that the thing just tasted like fried batter - kinda a like a melodic, nocturnal zeppole.  But for the most part, this crap was almost as gross as the dog I ate for lunch... 

Time to get the heck out of China.  I've done everything wrong, and paid the price.  It's freezing.  I'm eating crickets.  I'm behind schedule already.  Time to get back on track:  Good morning, Vietnam!

More shoes than Schramm would know what to do with

Street meat in Kowloon; spicy and delicious, but devastating to the GI tract

Today I switched hotels from the Bishop Lei in the Mid-Levels to a guest house in Wan Chai, a somewhat more ethnic cantonese neighborhood if you wander off the main drag, which resembles Madison Ave in midtown.  My play for the day was to explore Kowloon, the area that comprises the urban parts of "mainland" Hong Kong.  Once I got across town, I was transported into Cantonese South China.  No one spoke a lick of English, and I was totally lost.  Is this what China will be like?  I was looking for the ladies market, another famous street market for locals to hawk their wares.  Once I found it, I noticed sneakers in every direction, as far as the eyes could see.   I was in Schramm heaven.  All photos taken without moving, only rotating:

This place was hectic.  And daunting.  And different.  And interesting.  It's time.  I have to go to China.

TFS Hong Kong drinks like TFS New York

Last night met up with Jeroen and his friends from work, also TFS brokers in HK.  Went out on Wyndham Rd., sort of the heart of the expat scene from what I gather.  Reminded me of a trendy/fancy version of the bars in Morristown, with more going on.  These Dutchmen drank beers and smoked cigarettes like Dutchmen and I tried to keep up, and we shared war stories from the broking/trading floors and from traveling.  Eventually we went up to Dragon-i, one of the few real late-night spots in HK, according to these guys.  Who knew, LA and Hong Kong weren't late night towns?  It wasn't quite as wild as I'd expected, but it was still a great time - and I owe them a night out when they come to New York, because they didn't let me pay for a thing.  Thanks once again, Jeroen & co.  I wish I'd taken a picture of our crew; instead here's a picture of a street stand selling doggy outfits.  Enjoy.   

My Man-Purse Wins Again! (fine, maybe for the first time, but it wins!!)

Modeling my man-purse in L.A.

Opted for visiting the Stanley Market today, one of the suggestions given to me by Eleonore (my former coworker who lived in Hong Kong while working for TFS) and Jeroen (Eleonore's best friend and current HK resident/TFS employee).  Had no expectations for Stanley, but found out that a) it's on the opposite side of HK island from my hotel, and b) it's a very expat-heavy neighborhood on the South shore, a beach neighborhood of sorts.  The Stanley Market itself is known for its souvenir-y goods geared towards westerners, so I went and checked it out. 

Among the cheap goods and knock-off handbags, I let my guard down.  While looking at t-shirts for Kassie and Lauren, I was approached by three pre-teen Hong Kong kids; they asked if I spoke English and if they could practice with me for school.  I distractedly answered basic questions like "Where are you from?" and "Do you enjoy Hong Kong?" for a few minutes as they wrote notes on a paper.  Before I knew it they wrapped up the interview quickly, and were on their way, disappearing into the crowd.  As they left, I hit the panic button and reached for my "murse" to make sure my things were still there.  All square.  Then I reached for my back pocket, where I'd thrown an old, empty j-crew flip wallet as a "decoy" to see if I'd get pick-pocketed on my journey.  Sure enough, the old wallet was gone.  HA!  I'd fallen for their ruse, but I was prepared!  I was just pissed because I hadn't even yet put a smiley face with a tongue sticking out in the pocket yet!  All I can say is, man am I glad I was wearing my man-purse!  How do you like that, Meg?  CAN YOU STAND IT??   

The Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man is going to come to life and eat us all

Don't worry, it's not the Stay-puft marshmallow man.  Actually, it's the world's largest statue of Buddha (according to my Hong Kong source Jeroen, the previous two holders of the title had been in Afghanistan, and toppled somewhat recently).  But the imposing size and position of this statue did give me the feeling he was going to come to life and wreak havoc on Lantau, the island where the Buddha is found.    Easy there, big fella.  I'm also a little wary of the Swastika emblazoned on your chest.  I've got my eye on you.

Lantau is the large island west of Hong Kong island, with a couple highly populous, high-rise urban enclaves, whereas the rest of the island appears to be forested foothills and near-deserted beach villages.  Would've been an interesting place for an elevated cable-car ride, but of course today was the one day a year the island's cable-car, Ngong Ping 360, was closed for repair.  The bus had to suffice.

I sat next to a Thai tourist traveling by himself as well; he introduced himself in broken English as Joe (wha?), and we helped each other out with photos.  He pointed out differences between Thai temples and Hong Kong (~Chinese) temples, noting that these were more ornate and elaborate.  Or so I think; his English, though decent from a stint working at a hotel in New Jersey, made it it difficult to communicate clearly.  But he was a nice dude, who lives in Bangkok, and he told me to email him when I get there so he can show me around.  I gave him my facebook and email; still waiting to hear from him.  For now, let's have a look at Buddha.

See?  Contrary to common Western misconceptions, Buddha is not a cannibal.  In fact, he's apparently showing the position of abhayamudra, for kindness and fearlessness.  I think we can get along after all, Mr. Gautama.