sorry kids

Watching the sunset over Luang Prabang, Laos was beautiful:

My favorite picture of Sylvan so far... he looks like a little old Greek fisherman or something. Look at that CRAZY beard!

Sylvan was sick for a few days so we took it easy and hung around Luang Prabang sampling the local food and eating more than our share of baked good from the delicious Scandinavian Bakery. Seriously amazing chocolate croissants. After a few days of lazing around, over-eating, and over-sleeping, Sylvan was feeling better and we were both feeling a bit ancy. During our walks around town, we had seen a number of relatively inexpensive massage and spa services. We were particularly interested in a local herbal steam treatment. It sounded relaxing and fun, but neither of us were sold on the idea. If we had time, and it worked out... great,but we decided that volunteering our time was more fulfilling. We decided to check out the "Big Brother Mouse" organization, which encourages local children to learn to read. Foreigners are welcome to donate money or volunteer time. Big Brother Mouse matches volunteers with children so the volunteers can read aloud to the children... kind of like story time at a local library. We wanted a bit more information and to check the place out. Luckilly, the office was close to our guesthouse. We walked over around noon to find a sign on the door that said "will return at 12:30" so we decided to have lunch and try again that afternoon. We came back around one and the sign was still on the door. It was hot and even though we were in the shade, we were both dripping with sweat.

I know, I'm horrible. Fifteen minutes later, when no one had showed and it was nearly 1:30, Sylvan and I headed into town for a milkshake and a massage. Two and a half hours of affordable amazing massage... awww... My two favorite parts: 1. the small Lao woman hopping up on the massage table and walking up and down my back and legs, 2. the amazing aroma from the hot herbal steam... sorry kids.

the hmong village

Glug, glug, glug. I looked down toward my feet and the source of the strange sound. Water bubbled in through a crack in the tiny wooden boat. We reached the shore. Our feet sank deeper into the muck with each sloppy step as we walked up the muddy bank into the small river-side village. No roads reach this place, but they have running water and electricity. The river provides transportation and access to outside food and goods.Children run toward us waving and yelling "Sabadee!" which means hello in Lao.

We walk passed small stores and cement houses. The people look happy and healthy. Our guide, Lee, explains that we are in a Khmu village. The three main tribes in Laos are the Lao Loum, the Khmu, and the Hmong. Lee is Hmong, the poorest of the three tribes. We continue our journey through the jungle. We walk up and down hills and finally, up a very steep slope. An hour and a half after leaving the Khmu village, we reach our main destination, the Hmong village in the mountains.

No children ran to greet us. We walk passed one small thatch-roof structure housing handmade crafts. A very dirty, naked baby wearing only a bracelet sits between his grandmother's legs. The men and women are out working the fields. The children and elders are the only people left in the village. No one seems to notice or acknowledge our presence. We stop 50ft down the path at a similar structure to have lunch. Under the shade of the thatch-roof, two women sit on an elevated bamboo mat with two small children. One of the women works on a hand-stitched pillow case. The other lays there, fanning herself and watching her baby play with an empty water bottle. The women are dressed simply in well-used clothes you might find at a goodwill back home. The children's clothes are filthy. One of the little girls wears a dirt-stained t-shirt and skirt. The other wears a t-shirt, but no pants and has dirt smeared across the right side of her face. They are both about 18 months old. The girl in the skirt waves to us and smiles. It's the first expression of kindness I've seen from someone in the village. I smile and wave back. Other children approach us. They do not smile or wave, but look at us strangely. Bits and pieces of torn and stained clothing hang from their dirty bodies. The youngest children are naked from the waste down. Unlike the children from the Khmu village, none of the children around us smile, laugh, or play. Like their elders around them, the children look sad and bored. I began to feel troubled.

We have lunch and Lee tells us that the villagers live here because the land is free. The twenty families that live here have never had the privilege of running water or electricity. Lee explains that it is common to have as many as 9 children. The more children you have, the more help you have in the fields. The village grows food to feed itself. The people pay no utilities, no taxes, and no rent. Their only source of income is from the crafts they sell to other Lao people, who in turn, sell the goods at the night market in the city. One man sits outside his house weaving beautiful baskets. One basket takes three full days work. Lee speaks to him in native Hmong and the man invites us in. The house is built on the ground. We walk through the small door and into the dark space. It smells of smoke. The dwelling consists of one large room with several bamboo cots along the perimeter and an assortment ragged clothing and used goods strewn about. Cobwebs dominate the spaces between structural ceiling members. Sylvan and I look up and a startled by several large spiders. "Spiders in the house are good luck," Lee says with a smile. Lee explains that this is a typical Hmong house. To our left is the "kitchen" where a fire simmers and glows bright orange in the dark room. Above it are husks of corn, drying in preparation for next years crop. A small wooden pot filled with rice sits to the right of the "kitchen" on a small wooden bench. I looked around the half-dark room. "An entire family lives here," I thought to myself. It was like something out of national geographic. A place that I have seen, but somehow thought didn't really exist. Could people actually live this way? The village is completely isolated, an hour and a half hike from any other village.

We walked through the rest of the village, then returned to the picnic table and benches under the thatched roof. We stayed there for some time. I watched the two women on the bamboo. One of them lied down. They sat and lied there for over an hour, not doing anything. The children walked around in groups, back and forth from house to house. I wanted to go the village to see the minority people, to visit with them, to play with the children, to experience their lives. I asked Lee what the people in the village, the elders and the children, do all day to occupy their time. He thought for a moment, then replied "Nothing." I left the village feeling quite depressed. I have seen many poor people throughout my travels in SE Asia. I have never seen a people so unhappy.

As we hiked the next two hours through the jungle, I reflected on what I had seen, what it meant to me, and what I should learn from this experience. The trek back was strenuous and the path was over-grown. The jungle was loud and crawling with life. We also found a lot of the jungle life crawling on us: giant centipedes and beetles, black worms, armies of ants, and swarms of butterflies. The insects in the jungle are larger than life, like something out of an Indiana Jones movie. We managed to make it through the jungle safely. Another adventure...

crossing the border (continued)

See "crossing the border" below for the first part of this story.

Once safely on the bus and in our seats, one of the guys at the front walked down the aisle handing out bottles of water. The bus was air conditioned and reasonably comfortable. The TV at the front of the bus showed some bad Vietnamese Kung Fu film with fake fight scenes. The speakers blasted "SMACK,CRASH, KA-PWING" as people wer hit, thrown, and shot at. It was comical and only mildly annoying. The bus was nothing special, but not bad. The road was bumpy and the film was loud but I tried to sleep anyway. An hour later, 11:30am, the bus stopped in front of a small road-side cafe/restaurant. The driver and a few guys got off and I assumed it was a bathroom break seeing as how many of the passengers had been on the bus for some hours before Sylvan and I had gotten on. I went back to sleep. Half an hour later, we were still there. Everyone had gotten of the bus and was having lunch at the little cafe. I wasn't hungry so I stayed on the bus and went back to sleep. An hour later, we were off again.

I was a little worried that we had missed the opportunity to eat a meal, but we had a couple snacks with us and assumed that we would stop again for dinner. The Kung Fu movie ended and was followed by the even less exciting sequel. Sylvan decided that since only one guy from the first movie had managed to stay alive, they had to make a sequel to kill him off. I put in ear plugs to drown out the noise and put my hankercheif over my eyes. Then I smelled smoke. Could someone actually be smoking on the bus? Of course... because I'm in SE Asia and anything is possible here. Sure enough, the guy in front of me was smoking a cigarette. In the air conditioned VIP bus, the windows didn't open so I tried to breath more slowly in order to inhale less of the smoke. Most of the buses we've been on have clearly displayed no smoking signs. This bus did not. For some reason, I just didn't expect that smoking would be permitted on public transportation, even in SE Asia. It's funny the things you take for granted.

From what I had read, the border crossing at Lao Bao was about an hour and a half away from Hue. After the Kung Fu Wonder Movies, the man at the front of the bus put in some kind of Vietnamese Celebrity Song and Dance competition. It was easy to see that the announcing was cheesy, even in Vietnamese. The dancing was mildly entertaining and even though the sound was loud, it was more pleasing than the constant sound of fighting and gunfire. A few minute before reaching the border, we stopped at a random village and two girls, without luggage, boarded the bus. They immidiatly walked toward Sylvan, who was one of the last passengers in the bus and, since I was slumped down in my seat, the only tourist visible. They wanted us to exchange our Vietnamese Dong for Lao Kip. Having lost money in border currency exchanges, and expecially seeing as they had targetted the first tourist in sight, I advised Sylvan not change any money. Ironically, I was carrying most of our cash. After insisting several times that Sylvan change money with her, the first girl finally got the picture and asked me. I know that I look mean and come accross as rude, but in cases such as these, I think it works to my benefit. I only had to refuse one time and the girl left me alone. A few of the other passengers changed small amounts of money. We stopped at a gas station and I noticed A group of three women sitting around a table. The two girls who had gotten off of our bus joined them. Sylvan and I concluded that it must be some kind of corrupt currency exchange business. As we waited for the gas tank to fill, a different woman from the table got up and boarded the bus. Again she walked striaght to Sylvan. She insisted that he change money with her and kept repeating the same two or three phrases over and over again for nearl two minutes. "You change dong with me. No change at border. You have dong? You have dollars? You change with me." I'm not a patient person and one thing that I absolutely can't stand is when you politely refuse someone over and over and they continue to insist. Poor Sylvan was being so nice. Well, I'm not so nice. "Hey!" I shouted at her. She turned around and looked at me. I said, rudely, "No. He said no. He doesn't want to change money" and I waved my and toward the door in the way you might shew a cat or a dog away from you. Regardless of whether or not she understood what I said, she got the idea and walked off the bus. We left the gas station and just as the Celebrety Competition ended, we reached the border.

We got out of the bus in Lao Bao to have our passports and Vietnamese visas stamped and processed. We found ourselves at the back of the line. Poor, stupid, white tourists. I left my exit paperwork in my luggage so I had to run back out to the bus and get the driver to open the luggage compartment under the bus. This was quite a task as the driver spoke no English. I ran up the the bus and he pointed at the office indicating that I should go back over there. I said "visa papers" and made a little square with my hands, then motioned writing on the box. I then pointed to the luggage compartment and said "bag." The driver ran back into the bus and got me a pen. I smiled and shook my head and again pointed to the lugguge compartment and said "visa, paper" making a square with my hands. He understood, went to the luggage compartment, and pulled out my bag." I opened it quickly and pulled out a small stack of papers. The driver spotted the visa, grunted, and pointed at it. I locked my bag, he put it back in with the other luggage, then pointed for me to go back to the office, and in some kind of sign language explained that the bus would drive over the border and I would walk. Since this was common border-crossing practice, I understood and shook my head yes. Sylvan was still at the back of the line when I got back. By the time we had finished with the Vietnamese side of the border, all the other passengers on our bus had already walked over the the Laos side and were getting their passports stamped. Clouds rolled in over the hills and it began to rain.

Apparently, if you are a resident of SE Asia, you don't need a visa to travel between SE Asian countries. Sylvan and I walked to the Laos side of the border and up to the "Visa on Arrival" counter and were handed two full sheets of paper each. We were not given a pen. Luckilly we both had a pen handy. As we sat down and began filling out our visa applications, the last passenger on our bus got his passport stamped and started walking away. One of the guys who seemed to be in charge of the bus came over to us and got out attention. He pointed at the bus, and made the motion of getting our passports stamped, then pointed back toward the bus and down the road. He spoke in Vietnamese and maybe broken English but neither Sylvan nor I could understand a word he said. We nodded that we understood, assuming that the he and the other passengers would drive a little further down the road and that we should meet them there. A few minutes later, when none of our fellow passengers were in site, the man came back and performed the same sign language dance, this time with more fervor. Again we nodded that we uderstood. He ran back toward the bus. We were about half way through our paperwork. As thunder crashed and the rain drops began to swell, our bus sped off down the road. Sylvan jumped up and nervously exclaimed, "Our bus is leaving!" I replied "They wouldn't leave us, I think they're just going down the road" and continued with my paper work. We were both a little nervous about the busses rapid departure but couldn't even chase after it without a Lao Visa. Ten minutes and $70 later, we headed out toward the direction the bus had gone. There was an ATM and a money exchange teller. I asked what the exchange rate was and the teller held up a sign that showed dollars to kip and euros to kip. I aksed about dong. "No dong" she said and the two women standing next to the window, who were dressed exactly like the two women that had boarded our bus before the border, immediately began pestering me to change dong with them. Why on earth would a money exchange teller on the border between Vietnam and Laos not accept Vietnamese currency? Something was wrong. I smelled a scandal and refused to change money at the border.

Sylvan and I began to walk down the road and saw no sign of our bus. "They probably went to a cafe down the road to wait for us." I said, but we had both already begun to panice. The rain had let up a little, but the groud was slick and muddy. My flip flops splattered the backs of my legs with mud as I walked quickly down the road, frantically searching for any sign of our bus. Men on motorbikes passed us and honked, trying to sell us a ride. We refused again and again. We walked accross a small bridge a quarter mile from the border and still saw no signs of our bus. "Something's not right." Sylvan said in a panic, "They shouldn't have driven this far." We increased our pace and kept walking. "We should go back the border and call." Sylvan said in desperation as he again increased our pace. "Would they really leave us? But, all of our stuff. Should we have gotten our bags before we crossed the border? If they were going to leave why wouldn't they leave our bags?" I said still hoping to see the bus, but coming to grips with the fact that I would probably never see the bus, or my bag again. "Okay, we'll just go around this corner, then we're turning back," Sylvan announced decidedly. A half mile from the border, we were both jogging in a panicked state. I spotted a cafe and what I thought was our bus. Just as we increased our pace into a half-sprint, one of the men from our bus came toward us on a motor bike. He nearly ran into us before we saw him as our gaze was focussed on the cafe ahead. Sylvan and I stopped running, smiled, and put our hands on our chests in relief. The man was coming to check on us. He pointed to the bus and signed for us to go there.

I cannot explain the feelings of panic, frustration, anger, and fear that coarsed through me during the half mile journey from the border to our bus. It's the feeling that no one is coming to save you. I imagine it would be similar to being lost in a dense forest having told no one where you were going. No one would know you were missing and no one would know you were lost. No one would come looking for you. OUr situation was not so dire. We had each other, we had our passports and credit cards, we had access to a telephone. But having never experienced anything like this, it was quite an eye-openning experience.

Our fellow passengers were finishing up cups of tea and coffee as we made it to the bus. I akeed to use the restroom as they men in charge tried to herd us back on the bus and found the squat toilet, aka hole in the ground, behind the cafe. As I climbed the stairs into the bus, one of the passengers, holding her small child, ran toward me and the bus door screaming. I moved out of her way and she ran past me and out the bus door as the smell of feces wafted after her. A lot of people here can't afford diapers and it's common for little kids to go to the bathroom in their pants. She ran to the bathroom sink, aka a large trough with a bucket, ripped off the kids pants and began splashing buckets of water on the poor little kid in an attempt to clean him off. She rinsed off the front of her shirt and rinsed out the kid's pants, then returned to the bus.

I took my seat and stared blankly ahead. Sylvan asked me if I was okay. "Not really," I said as I tried to process what had just happened. I was worried. I was worried that, not having changed money, we might not be able to buy food until we reached our final destination the following morning. I was worried that the people on the bus would once again leave us virtually stranded. I was worried that I wouldn't be able to sleep that night out of concern for my safety and well-being. The bus started, the movie blared, and we continued our journey.

At 4:30 we stopped in the middle of nowhere. Sylvan and I got off the bus, hoping to get something to eat. We walked into what appeared to be a restaurant, aka covered patio with tables and chairs. We asked the driver and men in charge how long we were going to stay at this place. They pointed at one of the female passengers on the bus. Apparently she was the only one that spoke any English. We repeated the question pointing to our watches. "Two o'clock" she said. Sylvan and I looked at our watches, 4:30pm. "What does that mean?" Sylvan said to me. "Two hours? That can't be right. We're not going to be here for two hours." I said. The woman saw our confusion and told us that we should eat. We pulled out our dong and told her that we had no kip. She told the owner of the restaurant and they said okay. We handed her 55,000 dong, roughly $4. She said, "You like rice, chicken, soup?" We agreed and sat down. A different woman brought out two plates. The plate she set in front of me had a large portion of rice, what appeared to be some kind of omlette or scramble, and a fish head about the size of my fist. Sylvan had a smimilar dish but instead of a fish head, he had the tail.

I ate almost everything on my plate. I was so happy to have food. I ate parts of the fish head, leaving the eyes and mouth intact. They didn't serve us any drinks, but they had given the other passengers tea, which is comparable to serving water with a meal at a restuarant in the States. I tried to ask for a drink, but the woman pointed to an open cooler containing bottled and canned drinks. I signed that I had no money to pay for them. She didn't care and went about her business. Sylvan walked over to the other passengers and asked one of the guys if we could have some tea. The man was very friendly and though he didn't understand English, he knew what Sylvan was asking. He handed Sylvan his cup and pointed to the tea. It was such an intimate gesture. He literally gave us his cup so we could drink.

The sun set over the mountains. The bus was dark except for the over-lit television. I put a hankercheif over my eyes and tried to sleep. In a half-sleeping state I watched the scenery outside pass under the moonlight. It was surprising light out and I noticed that we were driving trhough water. In fact, as far as I could see was water. We were driving through a flooded area. A foot or so of water covered the ground. At one point we stopped to clear a fallen tree from the road. I was pleasantly surprised to make it through without too much of a delay.

At 1:30am, four and a half hours before our scheduled arrival time, we arrived in Vientiane, Laos. We were exhausted. We climbed off the bus and double checked with other passengers to make sure that we were actually in Vientiane. A tuk tuk driver spotted us, the only white people in the crowd, and began hassling us. He wanted 60,000 kip (about $7), which seemed like way too much money even if it was the middle of the night. We found the woman who spoke a little English and aksed her for help. The next thing we knew, we were getting onto a share taxi with other passengers from our bus. A share taxi is actually a small truck with seats in the bed. A bike, several bags and boxes, our luggage, one small family, a young woman, and Sylvan and I were crammed into the tiny truck bed. Our driver dropped off the other passengers and took us the to guesthouse we requested. He knocked on the door and woke up the receptionist (guesthouse receptionsists often sleep in the lobby for security and for late arriving guests). The guesthouse was full. He tried nextdoor. Full. He drove us down the block. Full. It was 2:30am. People get up around 4 or 4:30 when the roosters start to crow. Sylvan and I were about to get out of the truck, thank the driver for his efforts, and wait out the early hours of the morning on the sidewalk, but the driver insisted on taking us to one more guesthouse. The guy had one room left. It was expensive, but it was clean and comfortable. Sylvan was starting to get a cold and we were both extremely tired from our stressful adventure. We decided to stay the night and find a different, cheaper, place in the morning. We thanked our taxi driver, payed him, and went up to our room.

Sylvan and I were hot, sticky, and tired... but mostly we were happy to be safe in Vientiane and happy to have each other. We hugged, laughed a little about the ridiculous day we'd just had, brushed our teeth, and went to bed.

crossing the border

Make sure when you buy the ticket, that you get something IN WRITING that says you will be on the same bus the whole time. A lot of tourists get sucked into paying for a VIP bus only to be transfered to a very uncomfortable local bus at the border. --Advice from Lonely Planet

The bus ride from Hue, Vietnam to Vientiane, Laos is said to be 20 hours if you manage to buy a ticket for the VIP direct bus. The bus leaves at 10am and arrives at the specified destination at approximately 6am. Sylvan and I shopped around a little bit before purchasing two ticket, $30 per person, on the 10am VIP bus. We had no idea what great adventures lay ahead of us.

Sylvan's alarm went off at 6am. He wanted to get up early and update his blog before spending 20 hours on a bus. I slept for another hour or so, got up, showered, and packed up our bags. Sylvan was still on the computer when I went out to find him. We sat down to have breakfast. It was 9:05. We had plenty of time.

Just as we finished ordering, the woman who worked the reception counter walked over to us and said "bus come 9:30." Having had a few buses and shuttles show up early, we were somewhat prepared for this change of plans. I went back to our room, grabbed our bags, paid the receptionist, and officially checked out of the hotel. 9:45, the bus had not arrived. I checked again with the receptionist. "10 mo minute.'" she said in broken English, "done worry." A few minutes later and older gentleman wearing a jacket approached us at our table and said, "Vientiane?"

We were off. We followed him out of our hotel and down the alley to the main street where his van was parked. It's not uncommon to take a shuttle to a main bus station so we weren't surprised to find a van in place of a bus. He asked for our ticket, which was actually just a receipt our hotel receptionist had given us. He took it, examined it, and put it in his pocket. I was a little concerned because that receipt was the only proof that Sylvan and I had, in fact, purchased bus tickets. We drove for a few minutes. Sylvan and I noticed that we were heading out of town so I asked our driver where we were going. He assured us, as best he could in broken English, that the bus was very far out of town because we were on the VIP bus, which apparently comes from some other town, by the main highway, and doesn't waste time or gas by coming into Hue. Well, what the heck. We drove for another 10 minutes or so before pulling over on the side of the highway at what appeared to be a truck stop. The driver made a phone call from his cell. It's impossible to tell what people are saying when they speak Vietnamese as I know absolutely NO Vietnamese. Because Vietnamese is a tonal language, it's also impossible to tell a person's mood from the way they speak. Most Vietnamese sound impatient and annoyed--- always. After ending the phone call with what can only be described as a grunt, he turned around and said to Sylvan and I "we wait here 10 minute." The driver then got out and smoked a cigarette.

There, on the side of some highway, in a rickety old van, we waited for our bus. Sure enough, a few minutes later, a bus pulled of the road and honked. The driver pointed, indicating that this was our bus. We ran across the highway, with our bags. Our van driver apparently gave the bus driver our ticket or communicated with him about our arrangement. I asked just to make sure and our van driver assured me that he had given the bus driver our tickets. Then the van driver patted Sylvan on the back, in a way a man might pat his son on the back, and wished us safe travels. It almost felt safe.

There were no other tourists on the Tourist VIP bus. No one spoke any English. A man pointed toward the back of the bus. Sylvan and I found our seats in the half empty bus. Thus began the 20 hour journey.


To be continued...

xtreme vietnamese adventures

Just because you CAN do something doesn't mean you should. In the States, there are all sorts of liability issues that keep us, generally, safe. And if we're not actually safe, we know that in case of emergency we would be well taken care of. Here in Vietnam, and the rest of SE Asia, safety and liability really don't seem to be an issue. It is easy to rent a motorcycle whether you've ever driven one or not. Outdoor adventure trips are common and, without certification, it's easy to find your self abseiling down a waterfall or scuba diving in the South China Sea.

It's all about taking calculated risks. Abseiling down a waterfall and scuba diving in the South China Sea are risks I'm willing to take. Scuba diving was great. Sylvan and the instructor both siad I was a natural. Now, of course, Sylvan wants me to get certified so we can go diving all over the place. And a picture is worth a thousand words so I don't think I need to explain abseiling:

It turns out that renting a motor bike was safer than hiring a driver. On the way out to the sand dunes in Mui Ne, my driver crashed into the back of Sylvan's driver's bike. CRUNCH! Both drivers managed to keep the bikes from falling and no one was hurt. I didn't even see the crash coming. We were going very slow because the guy on the bike next to us was out of gas and asking us if he could "barrow" some of ours. As we agreed and started to slow down, we crashed into Sylvan's driver's bike,which had already pulled over. I've been witness to several motor bike accidents since, as they are quite common. In Vietnam, you are required by law to wear a helmet so the crashes seem less severe but people are often thrown from their bikes or somehow trapped underneath it. Just yesterday I saw a woman with a small child involved in a crash. The child flew forward, over the handle bars, and out of her hands. As her bike fell on top of her she screamed, not because she was in pain, but becuase she couldn't reach her child. Someone nearby scooped up the kid immediately. The child did not appear to be injured, just a little scared. Everyone involved was wearing a helmet.

for the love of coffee

Some of the best coffee in the world is grown in Da Lat, Vietnam. Sylvan and I took a tour of the country side and of a coffee plantation.

i love this guy

Oh the happy buddha...

my new diet

It's no secret that I love carbs. I scoffed when the Atkins diet grew in popularity and wondered how anyone could live a happy fulfilling life without bread and pasta in their daily diet. I'm italian. A life without carbs is no life at all.

In SE Asia, carbohydrates are fairly easy to come by, but not in a form that my body is used to. The noodles are made of rice or beans or eggs. Small baguettes can be obtained, but are sometimes hard to find. I was exstatic to find these small baguettes upon our arrival in Vietnam but my excitement quickly diminished upon biting into the bread to find that the soft fluffly interior was nearly non-existent. There was no fluff to speak of. My teeth crunched through the airy interior right into the next layer of crust. Still, happy to have found a carb to quench my desires, I suffered through the hallow loaf of bread.

A few days ago, my stomach decided that it no longer enjoyed SE Asian cousine and began rejecting food in one way or another. The sign and smell of food envoked a feeling of nausia. Even reading the name of certain foods on a menu was enough to make me ill. I yearned for comfort food: something I could recognize and possibly digest. The fruit here, although delicious, is somewhat exotic and generally acidic. The soup, a food I often seek when ill, is rich in flavor and often spicy. So I turned, quite naturally, to a food that never lets me down... carbs. More specifically: bread.

In the past two days I have consumed an enumerable amount of small, somewhat hallow, baguettes. The climax of my baguette consumtion was reached at approxomately 10pm last night. I walked out of our hotel in search of a bread/sandwich stand. I knew that at 10pm, this might not be an easy task as most Vietnamese are early risers and get to bed rather early. I walked a block or so and found a woman who was just packing up her portable restaurant. I approached her and as she locked away her tiny plastic tables and stools she shouted something to me in Vietnamese and motioned for me to walk toward the cart she'd left a few feet away. I waited at the cart for a moment until she returned. It was clear that she spoke no English. I said as clearly as I could "Bahn Mi." and held up two fingers indicating that I wanted two bahn mi (literally baked noodles in Vietnamese, but it means bread). She pointed at the cheese and other things she had on the cart attempting to sell me more. I shook my head and again repeated my request. She knew what I wanted. Now I had to figure out how much it would cost. I had a small wad of dong (Vietnamese dollars) in my pocket and pulled it out not only to count it, but also to show the woman so she might be able to point out the correct amount. I had 14,000 dong (which is just less than a dollar). She took the money and counted it, then put it in her cart. I knew that two pieces of bread should cost less than that as Sylvan had purchased two baguettes and a sandwich the night before for about the same price. I picked the money back up, again held up two fingers and shook my head no, indicating I would not pay that much for two baguettes. She took the money back, nicely, and somehow convinced me that she would work it out. She then grabbed a huge pink plastic bag from behind her cart and began stuffing it full of baguettes. I stopped her as fast as I could but she had already put in seven airy loaves. I figured she was trying to get rid of as much of her product as possible since I was the last customer of the night. She handed me the huge bag, smiled, then pointed to the bag and back at the money. I took the bag of bread, five baguettes more than I wanted, thanked her, and ran back to the hotel. It turns out that she knew better than I, what I wanted. I had, in fact, wanted seven baguettes. I ate them all, except the one I gave to Sylvan.

And whether it was the bread itself or the peace of mind that came from eating something somewhat familiar, I am feeling much better today.

saigon

Ho Chi Minh City (HCMC), formerly known as Saigon... is still actually known as Saigon here in Vietnam.

The traffic is intense and the food is delicious. Like Bankok, Saigon feels like any other modern city. Tall buildings line the street, designer shops are around every corner, and it's easy to see a name you recognize: Levis, Adidas, even KFC. But sharp contrasts remane betwen Saigon and a western city. Instead of yellow taxis and large cars, the trafic here consists mainly of scooters, cyclos (bicylcle-powered taxi), motorbikes, and bicylcles.

Today Sylvan and I explored HCMC and enjoyed a short morning run in the nearby park, delicions Pho soup for breakfast, a massage by the blind in the afternoon, rice noodles with clams for lunch, and a miriad of other delicious and amazing snacks and beverages. I bought some custard apples (see photo) and lychees at a local fruit shop, enjoyed a chocolate crousant at a bakery, had a taro perl milk tea for 10,000 dong (75 cents), and sampled some local snacks: sticky bun thing with meat and egg in the middle of sweet bread, some ricey bean paste pudding wrapped in a banana leaf, and some deep fried bready goodness.

Oh I almost forgot... the greatest tasty temptation I enjoyed today was the strongest coffee I've ever had in my life. For 6,000 dong (about 40 cents) I got the strongest milk-coffee in the world. All the beverages in SE Asia are really sweet. Sylvan and I think it's to balance out the spicey in everything else. Sweet cuts spicey. So usually when you get a milk tea, they pour a bunch of condensed milk into the bottom of a glass, fill it part way with really thick, dark, amazing coffee, throw a bunch of ice in it and send you on your way. Sylvan and I were walking in no particular direction to no particular direction when we found ourselves walking down a lovely little alley. There were local kids playing, people sellnig food, and not a tourist in sight. We came upon a little old Vietnamese woman brewing and sellig coffe off of a counter in front of her house. I'd been wanting to try "street" coffee so we decided to give it a go. She spoke very little english but figred out that I wanted milk-coffee with ice. She poured the condensed milk, which by the way, I love. I love condensed milk. How have I gone my whole life without knowing the joys of condensed milk? Anyway... Then she poured in some dark coffee out of an old water bottle. Next she poured in some really thick coffee out of one of the pots she was brewing on the counter. She set the cup down and I watched the nearly black liquid start to mix with the creamy condenced milk. She grabbed a big block of ice with a towell. Sylvan watched her in awe as she grabbed a large metal tool and lifted it high abover her head. SMACK. The tool broke the ice with a loud crack and sent pieces of ice flying in every direction. Many small pieces of ice smacked Sylvan in the face. Sylvan closed his eyes tight as his head flailed backwards in response to the little shards of ice. When he opened his eyes, his eyeballs seemed to roll around in their sockets. You know, like when cartoon characters get hit in the head really hard. It was hillarious. He was fine (no ice chunks in his eyes). The woman preparing the coffee didn't notice that she'd shot us with ice, nor did she care, and she continued to break the ice into tiny pieces. Eah crack grew a bit quieter as the pieces got smaller. She filled my glass with ice, threw in a straw and a plastic spoon and said "six thousand." It was the STRONGEST, most amazing cup of coffee I have ever had. I sort of loved it.

If you're wondering what the blind massage was all about: Throughout SE Asia you can get a massage by a blind person. The proceeds benefit schools for the blind and other similiar programs. Sylvan and I tried it today. We each got an hour massage. It was kind of creepy to be honest. Getting a massage from someone who speaks no English is a little unsettling. Getting a massage from someone who can't see is also a little unsettling and the combination is even more so. I paid at a reception desk and was given a ticket. Within seconds, Sylvan and I were separated and I was litterally handed off to a woman whose chalky-white eyes were wide-open, but saw at nothing. I tried to relax as the blind woman grabbed me by the wrist and led me into a massage booth. There were six booths in the rooms separeted by partician walls and curtains. The blind women spoke to each other in Vietnamese. The massage was not exceptional but it was nice enough, and more importantly... it was for a good cause.

the mekong river

The Mekong river has many uses. For the people of the Mekong Delta, the river is a source of food, a place to go swimming, a place to was dishes, clothes, and themselves. The river is a floating market and a means of transportation. The river is also a bathroom, a place to throw garbage and dead animals, a place to throw anything the people no longer need or use. The river is the livelyhood of the Mekong Delta people and they're killing themselves with pollution.

Our boat trip into Vietnam was depressing. The air was thick with smoke from combustion engines and factories along the river. The skies were grey with rainclouds and heavy rains loomed on the horizon. After the rain, the sun broke through the clouds to reveal large crop fields and a more pleasant landscape devoid of smoke and factories. As we got closer to Chao Doc, we began to see small shacks along the rivers edge. It is common to see an entire family live in a one room shack. The bathroom is a whole in the floor and waste falls directly into the river. The same river where the poor drink and bathe. One of our guides explained that the poorest people live in boats on the river because the river is free and you don't have to buy property or pay rent to anchor a boat. Floating houses are common in fishing villages. Some villagers have fish farms directly underneath their houses. We visited one near Chao Doc. There are cages underneath the house-boat so the fish can't escape into the river. The fish are bread and raised in the cages and are fee a mixture of what looked like ground rice husks and pieces of rotting fish in pebble form, much resembling dog food. When you throw food into the water the fish go nuts.

My favorite part of the river so far was the floating Market. Boats float around selling all sorts of local produce. There are floating "restaurants" and "drink bars" where people literally have a fire on their boat and are cooking noodles and soup. When you see something you want, you flag down the boat. When the boat gets to you, it anchors to your boat and you float together while the transaction takes place.

made in cambodia

Hoards of women walk out of the gates. It must be just after 4pm. Each woman is dressed in pseudo-trendy clothes wears some kind of badge. The badge, which hangs from a lanyard on the woman's neck, is in Khmer. It appears to be some kind of employee identification. Some walk alone or in groups, others pile onto large trucks (share-taxis). The women chat with friends and fellow employees. A factory worker probably makes less in a day than you or I do in an hour, but still the women smile and laugh as they make their way back home.

I have to wonder: Are we helping them? Why should these women spend their day inside a factory so I can buy a $6 shirt at the Gap? Maybe working in a factory is a good job here in Cambodia. It is a job, after all, with a salary... the women seem happy and healthy enough. Are we helping by giving them a job and, thus, supporting their local economy? Maybe. Maybe a Cambodian woman can support a family on a factory worker's salary. Even so, why is her time, her life, worth less than yours or mine?

Next time you buy a shirt, check the tag. It might say "Made in Cambodia."