From the Feet of Mount Fuji

Japan. Since the evening of August 25th this country has shaken me, pacified me, confused the hell out of me, astounded me, and entirely surrounded me. It is garishly electric. It is stubbornly ancient. It is perfectly spiked hair and sharp designer suits. It is pleated mini skirts and knee high stockings. It is warm and overtly polite yet solitary and cold. It is Kobe beef, sashimi, sake, mountains, fast trains, tiled roofs, bonsai trees, tatami mats, and anime. It's live-action anime! It is a challenge and I love it.

This journey is coming full circle soon. Very soon. I want to publish at least one more entry before I am stateside. Here is it.

When I first arrived at the Kansai Airport outside of Osaka, I immediately felt I a world away from China. Everything and everyone was so orderly. There was no pushing, people lined up and the signs all made sense. First things first, I found a map. The kind woman at information showed me that I was a considerable distance from the center of Osaka. I had no place to stay, so I pointed to the most central-looking part of the city and was given instruction on how to get there. Arriving at the Namba Station, I wandered into the streets of Japan...

Walking around for a while, keeping my bearings oriented to my station of arrival, I came across a sign that would soon become too familiar: Popeye MediaCafe. These wonderous little places are 24-hour internet/media/comicbook cafes that offer a desk chair and a computer from 21:00-06:00 for about $18. Free coffee, a shower, and sometimes ice cream is included. I was set.

The next day I met up with Yohei, an Osaka local I had met in Hanoi, Vietnam. He suggested we make a day-trip of visiting Kyoto. We arrived in the main tourist center and I felt the same way I did about Luang Prabang, Lao, and other UNESCO World Heritage cities...the stone and wood may still be there, but the atmosphere may as well be branded by Disney. Kiyomizu-Dera temple was impressive, anyway, built without nails and nestled perfectly in wooded hills. But I will revisit Kyoto.

Yohei invited me to stay with him at his parents' house, an offer I could hardly refuse considering the Osaka alternatives were an overpriced office chair or an overpriced four-mat tatami room the size of most of your closets. The tatami rooms, by the way, smell pleasantly of a clean hamster cage and include access to a public bath. When I arrived at their modest apartment, the father watched baseball while the mother bustled about preparing dinner. The home-cooked meal of samma fish and seafood hotpot warmed my heart. Conversation was limited but enjoyable before I eagerly fell into a sound sleep. This gracious show of hospitality leveled me out after a bit of a rough start on Japanese soil.

Before leaving Osaka, I would spend one night at the inner city ohnsen (hot spring) called SpaWorld. With online coupon, this place was the same price as my desk chair. Check it out. http://www.spaworld.co.jp/english/european.html I would also wander most of the city's great sights by subway and visit the Osaka Water Museum to learn all sorts of neat things about how the city provides its citizens with delicious drinking water...which is second to the favored bottled water. I only drink tap water in Japan.

Kobe: beef, I'd have it for breakfast here if I could. After another few hours of mediocre sleep in a MediaCafe, I met up with Tak, my host from www.couchsurfing.com
We toured sake breweries and strolled the brightly-lit waterfront. Kobe was humbled by a massive earthquake in 1995, but has since pulled itself up with flashy new architecture and shopping malls. Japan is really into hyperconsumerism, and Tak and I are really into beef, so we combined the two and found a swish little Japanese grill restaurant. It was the night before my Visa credit card expired and I had used it only a handful of times on this trip. Yes, I indulged. Kobe beef is as good as it is supposed to be.

Well fed and well rested, Tak sent me on my way hitch hiking west toward Himeji city, home of Japan's finest castle. This was my first experience hitch hiking in Japan and it worked out great. First lift was a young, hip software guy. He dropped me halfway where I was picked up in five minutes by a mother and her two small daughters. "Wow!" I thought, "Catching rides in Japan is going to be cake!" Somewhere inside, I knew the luck wouldn't last...more on that later.

If you only have time to see one castle in Japan, go to Himeji Castle. It is an inspirational wander as you can imagine yourself a samurai protecting the Emperor or a ninja scaling massive rock walls in the night. Incidentally, I found a ninja shop and had to pull myself away from the ninja grappling hooks...really tempting. Here's a fun fact: while most of the castle walls are made of white plaster, one of Japan's best preserved examples of an oil wall still stands in Himeji after 400 years. An oil wall (or "abura-kabe") is made of clay and sand mixed with boiled rice water...and isn't the least bit oily. School is in every day. After a good stroll of the Himeji grounds, I utilized my dual ticket with the Koko-jo gardens next door. Anyone who has an appreciation for the tranquility of a Japanese garden would fall in love with this place. Oh, and it was built over old samurai houses. Which is awesome.

Back in Kobe I found myself wandering the Kitano neighborhood looking at popular Japanese tourist locations such as the American Teddy Bear Museum, Holland House, Brick House, etc. Basically, a bunch of late 19th century architecture that isn't Japanese...not too thrilling. So I walked along a sidewalk that led toward the hills. The sidewalk ended and became a footpath. This was interesting...I marched on thinking this trail could lead to the top of the hills of Kobe's northern border. Indeed, forty sweaty minutes later, I was looking down upon the city and its port. Atop the hill to my east was a big glass observatory and tudor-style tourist complex. With nothing in particular on my schedule, I hiked through a forest the likes of which I had never seen. The raven calls were all but drown out by the deafening song of hidden cicedas. Twisty trees clung to steep ridges as I picked my way down and back up again. My efforts were handsomely rewarded. Proving once again that Japan knows gardens, I found myself in a colorful and fragrant patch of land known as the Nunobiki Herb Park. The nearby observatory also housed an herb and spice museum...complete with mortar and pestle exhibits. Overall the hike was a great way to end my tour of Kobe.

Actually, my tour of Kobe ended in bitter defeat of my attempt to catch a lift to Nara. After a long wait in hot sun, I caved in and caught a train. I am, after all, hitching mostly for the experience. Upon arrival in Nara, the sun was setting and the clouds were leaking. Soon a mild drizzle turned into an unbridled rainstorm. A lovely woman gave me her spare umbrella and I trudged around searching for the Ugaya Guesthouse, the cheapest tourist board-recognised bed in Nara. I couldn't find it, so I found shelter in a cozy little bar boasting a Sapporo sign. Not 30 feet from door to wall and wide enough only for the bar and a few small tables, I figured this a good place to wait out the storm and enjoy some of Japan's best brew. Instantly, I became a celebrity to a friendly drunken trio at the far end of the bar. A tall mug of draft amber was placed before me as I began writing in my notebook. After the limited possible conversation had played itself out, I found myself engaged in battle with miniature Transformers toys presented by the seven year old son of the only other pair at the bar. They sat quietly downing glass after glass at the barstools nearest me. This was not a pleasant sight. I finished my beer quickly, strained a smile, thanked all involved, and left after presenting the boy with a simple little gift. He gave me his Optimus Prime figure in return, which I still carry with me.

I did find that guesthouse, slept a good sleep and took off the next day to wander Nara with two girls from Tokyo. Conversation was limited but lively. Nara Park is the highlight of the city, boasting well over 1,200 tame deer. I fed them some "deer biscuits" and was at once surrounded by very nibbly and demanding creatures...some with antlers. Escaping the deer, the girls and I strolled through Todai-ji Temple. One of the world's largest wooden structures, this temple houses a giant bronze Buddha. We posed and took photos, just like everybody else. Once they departed, I wandered more around the park and found a nice bench on which to spend the night. It was a warm, pleasant night, and I only woke once as the backpacker a few benches over jumped up to chase a deer that had run off with his provisions bag. Following the deer biscuit incident, I knew better than to bring food into their world. I rose with the sun and climbed the nearby peak for a great morning view of the whole city.

Still in the morning hours, I sought out the Nara Cafe for breakfast. Run by Mayumi, the Couchsurfing Ambassador of Nara, this pleasant little cafe was a great break and offered a delicious meal prepared by Mayumi and her staff. I had a good chat and got directions to an advantageous hitch hiking position.

I must have made a deep withdrawal from the kharma account for my Nara-Kyoto ride. A forty minute wait ended when a family sedan pulled up to offer a lift. Dad quiet but welcoming behind the wheel, mom eagerly working through her limited but impressive English from the front passenger seat (it's on the left side here), and 19 year old son doing the same in the back with me, I was offered a place to stay in Kyoto within ten minutes of pickup. That night, Masami (the mother) prepared okonomoyaki, a delicious egg/cabbage/pork/flour/seasoning pancake and yakisoba noodles. The next day, Keisuke, the son on university holiday, and I set out on an ambitious schedule of sightseeing. We had a good stroll through several main temples, including Sanju Sangendo. This long building houses 1001 Buddha statues, each about a meter and a half in height. There are also 28 guardian spirits (including my personal favorites, the gods of Thunder and Wind) which are regarded as national treasures. Impressive, to say the least. More impressive, I believe, than Kinkaku Golden Temple which I saw the next day on my own.

After two great nights with my Kyoto host family, I was dropped near a highway interchange that they believed to be the best for my hitch to Nagoya. Though it didn't feel right, I stuck it out...for six hours. Call it stubbornness, but I pushed through into the night. Finally, I turned my piece of cardboard over and copied down the characters for Kyoto Station. Arriving there, I found the cost of the train to be extortionate, so I went directly to the nearest convenience store, grabbed a beer and some snacks, and headed to Mount Inariyama. Tak in Kobe had mentioned how he climbed this temple mountain at night, and how eerie it was considering the paths are lined with densely packed tori-gates (those characteristically Japanese red arches). Sure enough, I found a path that led up a big hill that was lined with tori and shrines. I made it to the top with the feeling that I was being watched. And I was. Several cats were prowling around their shrines, keeping an eye on me from the dark. So, too, were the monkeys. I heard the rustle in the trees, but my only glimpse was that of a long brown tail slipping up into a nearby branch. I considered stringing up my hammock for the night, but wasn't sure if I was welcome. I opted for a bus stop bench instead.

Determined to hitch to Nagoya after a few hours of bench sleep, I set out hiking along the expressway until I found a suitable position near the entrance. I was picked up by a 26 year old guy with his younger sister as they were returning from a visit with grandma. After a great conversation about snowboarding and music, I was dropped at a rest area en route, the rest of the trip was picked up by a young looking dad with his wife and four kids. We carried on well and after a while, even the shy boy of the litter opened up to me a bit. The dad called in his brother to meet us in Nagoya and lead our caravan to the nearest subway station for me. These people are lovely.

My time in Nagoya was pleasantly spent at a couchsurfing host's small apartment. I went to the theatre to see Batman: The Dark Knight. Wow, epic movie. I strolled the city, which has a bit of a Portland vibe to it. I read a good third of Dostoyevsky's The Brothers Karamazov. I turned my nose up at the toll gate for the Nagoya Castle, knowing full well that I had already stormed Japan's best back in Himeji. I dined on an outstanding chef-recommended four-course meal at a little Okinawa restaurant. Oh...and I did laundry. This is a big deal. I hadn't done the wash in a while and the last of my respectable clothes had been used during my last hitch. Such a great feeling to have a backpack full of clean clothing.

Well, this is really carrying on, isn't it? To bring this up to the present, I'll mention that my arrival in Gotenba (at the feet of Mount Fuji) included a 12-hour, four-part hike/wait/hitch combination. The truck driver who spoke exactly as much English as I do Japanese was my third hitch of the day. He dropped me on an expressway rest area about a mile past the Gotenba exit. This is after he was pulled over by the police for something--swerving maybe?--he was doing a lot of that. Simple enough, I thought, I walk a mile back to the Gotenba expressway entrance, make my way to the train station, from which I follow the directions given to me by my soon-to-be couchsurfing host. Simple, that is, until the Highway Safety Patrol showed up. I was overly polite with them, working through all of the pleasant Japanese I know including, "I'm sorry, I only speak a little Japanese."

Then the police showed up. And they look serious here, with white helmets and everything. Again, extra nice with a big smile...this isn't China or anywhere in SE Asia, this is Japan...I'll be fine. In fact, the thought came into my mind that this could be very advantageous. I had no idea where the Gotenba train station was from the expressway entrance towards which I had been walking. Perhaps the police would be my last lift of the day? Given that I had been friendly and cooperative and the conversation was limited to "Nice Toyota police car. Fast?" Laugh laugh, "Yes. Fast," I was, indeed, dropped front and center at my destination. I was given a quick reprimand at the last moment, "Japan, no hitch hiking," but we shook hands with a smile. I, of course, interpreted this as "Do not get caught walking on expressways or seen by police while hitch hiking." Deal.

I celebrated my arrival to Gotenba with David of Australia by joining him at the local brewery for a real all-you-can-eat buffet. And we ate all we could. It was necessary fuel. Last night, my fantastic host drove me to the Subashiri 5th station (one of five starting points for the summit ascent), saving about $30 bus fare and ensuring perfect timing for sunrise at the summit. Under clear skies and led by a plump moon, I walked without my flashlight once out of the forest. The lava fields became a moonscape and the surrounding city lights twinkled far off in the distance. And it was COLD! David had loaned me his scarf, hat, and jacket, so I bundled and trundled up the mountain face. Charging past hordes of Japanese tourist groups, I found my little perch for the sunrise. Sheltered from the wind and granted a eastern panorama, I balled up in my warm clothes and blanket and watched as the best sunrise of my life stretched out before me. Golden rays pierced the sky as fog crept through the valleys below. Colors splashed across the east changed with each glance as a new Japanese day sprawled itself across my view. I could not have asked for a better reward for the climb.

After breakfast of and english muffin and cheese with a banana, I walked the crater rim with a French guy named Philip. The decent was hot and I was exhausted, but a long straight stretch of sandy volcanic gravel made for an extreme pace. I am now back at David's as he prepares tonight's curry. Later we will visit an ohnsen to rest the week's weariness.

As it is now dinnertime and I have clearly written too much. I will end here. This may be the last major post of this trip, but more will follow upon return. Thank you, all, for reading. I hope it's been a pleasant distraction.

Over and out.

Travel Unwrapped: So long Shanghai

I dedicate this post to my aunt and uncle, Vicki and Jim. Without their support and encouragement, Asia could have remained a mysterious and distant world. Now and for the rest of my life Asia is a land rich with the memory of experience. Good and bad, monumental and trivial, shared and solitary, these experiences have shaped me and have changed me.

This little planet harbors great wonders. Like unexpected, well-wrapped gifts, these mysteries are everywhere, waiting to be unraveled. I share the sentiment of many great travelers I have met over the past seven months. Traveling, we agree, often increases one's awareness or openness to the little magic in life. For example, as I sat in a Kunming hostel reading the book "China Wakes," the comment "Hey, that's a great book," led to dinner with two travelers from America. Four days later, I was in the company of five great people (the first two included) standing in quiet awe as the morning sun painted gold across the face of 6000 meter (nearly 20,000 feet) Himalayan peaks. This "choose your own adventure" lifestyle is the most rewarding way to live. The doors to discovery are open, but only if one's mind is open as well.

While exotic surroundings awaken the senses, travel also offers a fresh perspective on home. The journey doesn't end at home, it comes full circle and enters a new phase. I am excited to get home, to view Oregon with the same eyes that have watched glacial avalanches from across a Himalayan valley, that have stared up at the dizzying heights of the Shanghai World Financial Center (holding distinction as one of the world's tallest structures at 1,600 feet), that have seen abject poverty, joyful children, unbridled urban growth, giant beetles with comic antennae, and unspoiled natural beauty. I am eager to hear the sounds of Oregon with ears that have listened to stories of generations from across the globe, deafening cicadas, hair raising traffic chaos, music made by the blind, and raging thunderstorms. America is no less amazing and I am eager to turn my senses back to its wonders...and it's troubles. It can be challenging, I know, to maintain the travel mentality when settling into a place called home. I have been in Shanghai now for six days, living with an Oregonian friend who is very much settled into a local life. Stagnation happens in even the most dynamic settings. To avert one's eyes from the unknown is to become dormant, sedantary. The horizon holds many new wonders and I intend to keep discovering them.

Tonight I fly to Osaka, Japan. Being the budget traveler, I was going to spend 44 hours on a boat. Thankfully, my friend and host told me I was crazy and there are (relatively) dirt cheap flights across the East China Sea. So I'm saving $60 and 42 hours AND I get to ride the Maglev Train to the super modern airport. That train reaches 268 mph under normal operation! All for seven bucks. Wild.

I realize I've let slack the line of this blog. I still have a number of things to say about Vietnam and certainly need to provide a more detailed rundown of my experiences in China. Returning home, I'll have a project of rounding out this blog as I post albums of my favorite photos.

Again, I would like to thank everyone who has been in support of this trip. Mom and Dad, thanks for the encouraging talks on the phone and e-mails from the home front. Grandma, I hope you've enjoyed reading. Anyone else who brushes past this blog, thanks for reading. I'm happy to expand on stories and looking forward to the company of family and good friends.

Until next time,

Tom

Note from the Now

I woke up in China today.

Yesterday I squeaked out of Vietnam with the last little bit of currency I had left. The Chinese border control guards scrutinized my very existence as they searched my bag. I just played along cheerfully and after an unecessarily long waiting period was set free on Chinese soil. What an exciting feeling! All this fuss about China and I was standing within its borders. (I would find later that another border had to be crossed, this one patroled by heavily armed military officers. Fortunately, they didn't require a search of my bag).

My first financial transaction in China put me in good spirits. In Hanoi, I had been lucky to sell my malaria tablets for Chinese RMB currency. When a moto driver offered to take me to the bus station for 15 RMB, I shook my head and pulled out one of my 10 notes. Walking away, I heard the universal sound of success, "Okay, Okay!!" I was smiling the entire 20 kilometer ride to the bus station.

Sitting next to me on a fairly posh express bus was a friendly man who was eager to practice his English. Perfect opportunity for me to figure out and practice my essentials. Hello, please, thank you, beer, and I'm sorry are the first five I like to secure. This guy was practical and added "I go to ____" and a few more. He even helped me figure out how to catch a public bus to the city center. We parted with a handshake and a smile.

This is a good start to China. I have only 30 days, unless I can find a teaching position for a week or two. China's refusal to grant even long time resident English teachers visa renewals translates to opportunity for me to pick up lucrative short term work. Still not sure how that one will play out. For now, I'm looking at Shangri-la by way of Kunming. I've always heard the name Shangri-la and now I'm only a train ride away. Why not? From there, perhaps north to Chengdu for some fiery Sichuan cuisine. Might at as well check out the Three Gorges en route to Shanghai after that. I won't plan farther than that.

This is all for now. I'll get a post up about Vietnam once I've adjusted to China.

Cheers!

Good Night, Vietnam: Phu Quoc and the Kingdom of Dogs

To obtain my Vietnamese visa, I had two options. On one hand, I could rent a motobike and drive two or three hours west to Sihanoukville where I would exchange cash for a visa on the spot. This would make for a full day burning petrol, seeing a stretch of road I had already seen, and missing one of my final days in Kampot. On the other hand, I could give my passport and a few extra dollars to man who plies that road every day, have an extra day to say goodbyes around Kampot, and be set to go. It's a strange feeling handing over one's passport. I'd made a few phone calls and spoke enough with Ezza at Blissful to know this guy was running a legitimate business. It worked splendidly and within 48 hours I was toasting to my new Vietnam visa.

The last morning hours in Kampot were enjoyed at Blissful with their famous omelette (best in SE Asia) and an iced coffee. Of course, I had to purchase a kilogram of the pepper with which I'd grown so familiar. My affairs in order, I hopped on the back of Tikor's moto bound for the border. This is the same Tikor who guided Jessica and me through jungle and banana plantations to a hidden waterfall. The hour's ride was magnificent. This was a relatively new border station between Cambodia and Vietnam and thus the road was still largely undeveloped. I felt like I was in the remote coastal flat lands of southern Cambodia. Pausing briefly to make a photograph, I realized I WAS in the remote coastal flat lands of southern Cambodia. It was a beautiful feeling. I was saying goodbye to a country I had come to know over two months and was soon to be in VIETNAM.

I had a chat with the Fat Cats of the Cambodian border patrol. Before handing back my passport, the leather faced man in uniform behind the desk looked at me coldly and asked, "You are not come back?" I thought about making a smartass remark about coming back for the revolution. Deciding against it, I pointed across the border and said with a smile, "Vietnam!" Satisfied, he returned my passport and I walked to Tikor's motobike in no-man's land.

Borders are always exciting. This one was big, new, and quiet. Large red and gold signs were set off against bright white walls. The windows were still clean, the clean-shaven officers still inexperienced. When I arrived at the desk, I found two Chilean women trying to prove to the young men in crisp olive uniforms that Chile was a country in South America. I think they had to look it up in the big book of countries. It was here that I met Sasha of Australia. On the last month of a 12 month around-the-world journey, she was headed to Phu Quoc as well. We agreed to catch the boat together and set off with our motodrivers into Vietnam. (Yes, I said it. It was shortly before noon when I stepped onto Vietnamese soil, so of course I hollered out "good morning, Vietnam!") Unlike most motodrivers from Kampot, Tikor had enough sway with enough people to take me to a boat launch well within Vietnam's borders. After a good deal of negotiation and banter, Sasha and I had places reserved on the Phu Quoc-bound boat the next day. That night was spent in a very odd roadside hotel which we quickly determined was whistlestop love shack for Vietnamese couples escaping the confines of shared family housing. I also learned that the Vietnamese language was going to prove very challenging. Blank stares were the common response to my attempts to say even the basic "sin chao" (hello).

The boat was a riot. We took a little skiff loaded with people, goods, and motobikes out to sea only to jump aboard a bigger boat loaded with people, goods, and motobikes. We rested on cabbages and watermelons for a while until I hung my hammock in the back. Sasha and I alternated sitting on a pile of bricks and swinging over a pile of two-dozen tied-up, defeated chickens. A little girl, upon realizing the likelihood of falling through the toilet hole to the open sea below, squatted on the deck under the hammock and had a pee. Sasha and I had a laugh, taking a certain amount of comfort in feeling like we were a part of Vietnam. We were the only westerners aboard and we later realized we'd be grossly overcharged for the three hour trip. A lesson learned many times over in Vietnam.

Phu Quoc Island. The center of heated territorial dispute between Cambodia and Vietnam, the 574 square kilometer island is rapidly erupting into a major Asian tourist destination. It is renowned for its population of semi-wild dogs and production of fish paste (which is essentially packaged salty rotten fish mash). The place is greased for tourism. Upon arrival, a well dressed man wearing sunglasses said to me "Hello, Tom, would you like a moto to hotel?" Referring to himself as Number One, this man had been contacted by Sasha's motobike driver. I didn't trust him much, but we took the ride anyway. I would later come to believe he had a twin on the island, which weirded me out even more. Anyway, within the hour, Sasha and I had a terrific beachfront bungalow surrounded by palm trees for $9 per night. Good start to a new country.

This island was my birthday gift to myself. I had celebrated my Quarter Century Birthday for three days in Corvallis, surrounded by good friends. I was excited to celebrate the 26th on a tropical island, in an unfamiliar country, with people I'd only just met. As fate would have it, I was soon surrounded by an extraordinary group of travelers. Mark and Chloe, a lovely young couple from Canada, filled the salty sea air with guitar and song. Aileen and Dara of Ireland were quick-witted in their banter. Both old enough to be parents of the rest of the group, and each a solo traveler, Mike of Liverpool and Gabriela of Denmark, offered wise words and generous encouragement. Along with Veronique, a stunning, long-legged brunette from Montreal, and a quiet, thoughtful Tom from the U.K., our resort on Phu Quoc was packed with great company.

At the break of our first full day, Sasha and I teamed up with Mark, Chloe and the Irish for a motobike tour of the southern beaches. The ride was beautiful, meriting numerous photo stops. The beach was like no other I had ever experienced. The sand felt like confectioners sugar, and nearly looked the same. The water was warm and crystal clear. The only threat came from the odd jellyfish, but even these could be gently cupped in hand for examination of nature's inspiration for Dale Chihuly's blown glass. That night, the entire group got together for dinner and drinks. The bar played a rock and roll version of Happy Birthday and gave me a sickly sweet cocktail. The night wound to a close around a beach fire accompanied by the sound of the waves and the Canadian musicians.

June 2nd: I toured the island alone on my motobike. Sitting in a cafe in small town, I was very unexpectedly wished a happy birthday by Vietnam. While driving I had noticed the trucks used what we would call a "back up beeper" to indicate left and right turns. Thus, when backing up, trucks would sound out a polyphonic tune of a song of their choosing. Well, as I sat writing in my journal in the cafe, a truck backed up along the adjacent street. I had to laugh as it was piping out the "happy birthday" ditty. What a fun to place to celebrate the 26th!

The rest of my stay on Phu Quoc was enjoyed motobiking to distant beaches, lounging on the beach, crashing posh hotel bars, and hammock swinging in the company of three incredible dogs. I was given a marvelous birthday present by these three dogs, one that perplexes me to this day. But that's a story for another time.

Today I leave Vietnam. Tonight I will sleep in China. I have more to write after having stayed two months in this serpent-shaped nation.

Cambodia as a Local: Putting Down Roots

Without further ado...

The bus dropped me off along a familiar quiet street on a hot, blue-sky day. Only a short distance from my guesthouse in Kampot, I walked down the middle of the pavement and felt at home. I knew the waterfront vendor who cooks up a plate of delicious pan-fried noodles with sprouts and peanuts for $0.50. I knew when I arrive at the cafe adjacent the central petrol station (I'd named it the Refuel Cafe) I would be recognized and a $0.25 cent glass of sweet iced coffee would soon be in front of me. I could even picture the bed upon which I would soon rest my travel weary body. Well, if I'd made a reservation that would have been the case. Instead I spoke with the eccentric management pair, Angela and Ezza, about reserving a cheap room for a few weeks at the always-full Blissful Guesthouse.


Blissful Guesthouse is aptly named. The second western-run establishment to hit Kampot, it opened in 2004 under the direction of three business partners. Angela, a kind-hearted but hard-driving businesswoman from Denmark, found satisfaction in creating a beautiful place and making an effort to benefit the community around her. Ezza, his shaggy hair and weathered face belying his youthful strength and energy, had adapted well to life in Kampot and made the most of each day. Back before the roads were paved in the province, Ezza was the messenger between three cities. The muddy mountain trails could hardly pass as roads. An experienced dirt bike enthusiast, Ezza's job was essentially an extreme sports junkie's dream. He had over 100 kilometers of exciting terrain to cover in as little time as possible. Forever young, Ezza is. I never really got to know Jerome, but I'm sure he had his qualities, too. In addition to these three, the lovely Khmer staff, and the incredibly talented kitchen crew, Blissful employed the services of two amazing dogs. Fat Boy and Rebel (a Disney style love story as they were reunited by fate after four years separation) were a perfect pair. Fat Boy knew city life and only acted tough if he had to. Rebel, having done her time surviving the streets of Sihanoukville, had a keen, quiet strength. Dogs rule at night in Kampot as every house has at least one, if not four. The civilized ones stay within their environs while others unite under the stars to form vicious packs. Turf wars are frequent and brutal. Fat Boy and Rebel ran a tight ship. It was always a pleasure to return to the guesthouse to find them keeping watch.


The guesthouse itself is a two story affair with a restaurant/bar/social area on the first floor. The grounds boast three covered gazebos with hammocks, tables, and chairs, surrounded by lush greenery. Gravel paths meander beneath tunnels of flowering vines and fairy lights. It is a small property, but Angela and her crew put a great deal of thought and effort into making it a serene paradise. When I first arrived at Blissful, I learned that the guesthouse was doubling as a pepper processing facility for the trio's second business venture: reviving the market for Kampot's once-famous pepper. Angela had spearheaded the creation of a 70-farm organic pepper cooperative, providing farmers with irrigation and other production capital. This year marked the first harvest with a projected final production of six tones. All of this took place above the restaurant and adjacent the guesthouse rooms. I would step out of my room every day to the smiling eyes of ten Khmer women wearing gloves and face masks sorting through tray after tray of pepper with tweezers. I got involved in the action on two occasions, hauling sacks of unsorted pepper and boxes of vacuum-sealed two kilograms bags between storage and the guesthouse.

This wasn't the only time I offered my labor to Angela and Ezza. The rains came early to the coast of Cambodia, and they came in full force. At the worst point, the back of Blissful Guesthouse had waves lapping against the foundation. To relieve this flooding, a trench had to be dug from the back about 30 yards to the front to connect with the sewer system. I had free time and a desire to get my hands into some real labor, so I offered to help. Much to the amazement of Angela and Ezza, I happily swung my pickax through mud, root, and rock for the better part of an afternoon. At the end of the day, my muscles were sore, I was exhausted, but I felt great. In return, my accommodation was free for my entire stay.

I mentioned in the previous post that my first few days in Kampot were spent on a tropical island. Fact: Tonsay (or Rabbit) Island was the most remote island scene I have enjoyed on this trip. Home to only a few scattered bungalows run by families who seem to view tourists as a lucrative novelty, this island cuts power at 9pm. This little getaway was shared with Jessica, one of the Australians I had met during that memorable night in Phnom Phen with the Brotherhood of Cheap Watches. She and her group made the trip down to Kampot and Rabbit Island, influenced to some degree by my positive review of each. Jessica and I found Rabbit Island the perfect place to while away two days reading, sunbathing, and hammock swinging. Unexpectedly one night, we found ourselves in the company of a Khmer Christian group. They were the most gracious hosts, insisting that we dive into heaps of fresh grilled crab, prawns, and squid. Which we did happily. Rabbit Island continued to amaze us with its sunsets and incredible storms. Situated on the windward side of the island, the full brunt of each night's thunderstorm shook the thatch-roofed bungalow. I found myself drawn to such natural power and spent nearly half an hour just standing in awe. Our departure from Rabbit Island was comically delayed as we had to wait for the incoming tide to release our boat from the shore. We grew impatient, and with the help of Tegan (one of Jessica's Aussie friends) and a Frenchman named Luc, we pushed our vessel to deeper water and took off.

Back in Kampot, Jessica, Tegan, and I spent a few more days enjoying the small town charm. On a whim, we accepted a tour guide's offer to take us on a hike to a waterfall. Together with Tikor the Guide, and two Danish girls, the Aussies and I spent several hours on a moderately vigorous hike through banana plantations and jungle. We were rewarded with the sighting of a green tree snake and a swim at a remote waterfall with a great jumping cliff. We learned later that Tikor had taken us along a hidden path to avoid the fees imposed by a corrupt Khmer businessman who gated off the access road and added a tollbooth. The highlight of the hike for me was a lesson from Tikor on the harvesting of bananas. Using nothing more than a pocket knife, I felled a stalk of a banana tree five inches in diameter and cut free a 45 pound bunch of green bananas. This was all quite fun as I hefted my harvest to my shoulder and marched back to the group. It wasn't as much fun an hour later once I had hiked about two miles down the slippery steep jungle path. The villagers at the base of the trail were wildly amused at the sight of an exhausted, sweaty, shirtless white guy with a beard hiking out of the jungle with a big bunch of bananas. We all had a laugh over some rice and veggies and shots of home brew rice wine. Jessica and Tegan just thought I was crazy.

Once Jessica and Tegan moved on to bigger and better beaches in the west, I gave my full attention to Epic Arts Cafe and the Sugar Palm Project. Joint operations run by Katie and Hallam Goad, respectively, these were my contacts for volunteering. Epic Arts Cafe is a community center for the deaf and disabled of Kampot. It's also the home of the best carrot cake in SE Asia. Really. Each time I visited the cafe, for work or a delicious meal and carrot cake, it was bustling with activity. Katie Goad and her assistants taught dance routines to the disabled in the upstairs room. On several occasions, the thunder of dance steps and wheelchairs held its own against the thunder from the clouds above. I felt privileged to be surrounded by such happy, delightful people. They enthusiastically taught me a little bit of Khmer sign language, which I enthusiastically practiced. In their company I also learned how to make a sock puppet...well..kind of. (It starting falling apart a month later in Vietnam and now resides atop a hotel roof in Danang. I couldn't just throw it away, so I made it the guardian of Danang).

My primary goal with Epic Arts Cafe was to renovate the walls and give the place a sprucing up. The marigold paint was peeling badly from what I soon determined to be salt efflorescence. The sand used in the mortar was dredged from a nearby estuary (yeah, ecological disaster as well) and thus entrained with salt. This salt causes water to bleed from the mortar, destroying the paint in its path. I wanted to fix this. I soon learned it couldn't be fixed without tearing down the entire wall and replacing it with clean materials (a near impossibility in Kampot on a small budget). A french couple had already initiated the application of a coat of cream colored paint. Applying the second coat, it soon looked worse than when we started.

I learned from discussions with business owners across Kampot that adaptation is essential. "If you can't fix it, learn to work with it," seems to be how ex-pats live in Cambodia. Ideas were tossed around during impromptu meetings over carrot cake and coffee. It was soon decided that hanging dark, solid color tapestry would cover the blemished walls while providing adequate ventilation. This phase would have to be completed after my departure, but the ball was rolling. Discussing the project outcomes with Hallam and Katie, I was surprised to hear how pleased they were at what had been accomplished. Apparently, when one lives in a place like Kampot it is easy to let tasks stagnate. According to the two, I had infused more people than I knew with new energy and a fresh perspective.

With the Sugar Palm Project, my first assignment was to promote and assist with the Football 4 Peace (soccer) Tournament. This was a great job. All I had to do was run around town talking with locals and handing out fliers announcing the tournament and reminding them the government doesn't have the right to confiscate their property. Once my bananas from the mountain had ripened, I handed those out, too. Kampot is a small town, and after a while I got the impression I'd made myself known more than I was aware. I guess the place doesn't get many talkative bearded white guys running around for a month at time. Anyway, the football tourney was a joy. It took place on a grey, rainy Friday and saw eight teams of 10 battle out 10-minutes games on a concrete court. Hallam had provided each team with brightly colored t-shirts, creating a mishmash rainbow against a concrete grey day. The kids were enthusiastic and noisy till the end and then dispersed into town sporting their t-shirts with the message "Stop Unfair Housing Evictions." It's a hard reality of Cambodia that the government is crooked and the poor suffer greatly as a result.

Also in an effort to help the poor, Hallam spearheaded a project to fund the replacement of a dilapidated village house. Little more than thatch over a raised platform, it was easily demolished with the assistance of a traveling philanthropic group. The village was then provided the funds for new materials and project completion was expected to take a mere three days. All of the work was carried out with hand saws, hammers, and other basics tools. The project manager only had one leg. Throughout it all, a little boy of 3 or 4 ran around naked with a bicycle tire. I liked that village.

To avoid loafing, I helped teach English at the Chum Kreal school for a week. Chum Kreal means "heron rookery" and is appropriately situated adjacent tall trees laden with active heron nests. The site is also shared by a temple and prior to each class a number of saffron-robed monks would make their way through the trees seeking to improve their English. From 5pm-7pm each night, I would give lessons on the four seasons, the verb "to be," the benefits of environmental consciousness (this had to be approached lightly as it was beyond most), and an assortment of vocabulary and pronunciations. The students ranged in age from 12 to 25 and varied even more in their language abilities. The experience was at once rewarding and discouraging. I could see the massive gap in ability that was not being addressed by the resident teacher. As respected as he was, he had a difficult time getting through to every student. The most important lesson I repeated, and I learned to say it in Khmer, was to "practice a little every day." They are the generation that can carry out the revolution. I pray they do.

Overall, my experience in Kampot was more enjoyable than I could have expected. I met many interesting and inspirational people. I learned the benefits and risks of being an ex-pat. I can safely say, it's not a life for me! Great places to visit or live for a while...but unless one is on the run, it's best to set a return date. It should be noted that, while in Kampot, I rescheduled my own return date four months after the original. I picked September 17th because it makes exactly nine months and puts me back in time for election fever.

Cambodia as a Traveler: Footloose and on the Move

Here's the latest scoop: These are my finals days in Hanoi, Vietnam. China is up next. My batteries recharged after nearly a month in this city, I'm armed with a Chinese visa, a care package of random nick-knacks sent by my room mates back in Corvallis, and an eagerness to get back into the adventure. Good thing, too, as the budget is fast-approaching the yellow zone and it's time to shoestring it.

This episode is a long one. Altered a bit from the preview, it leaves Kampot for the next round.


Toward the end of April, and having established my intention to return to Kampot, I missioned north toward Battambang (some 300 km away). Delays are a way of life in Cambodia and I found myself back at Phnom Phen's familiar Okay Guesthouse for the night. I was told the dorms were full but insisted on seeing them anyway. Only one of four beds looked occupied and the enterprising employee said "sometimes people put their bags away during the day." Yeah, sometimes they do, but not three travelers who also leave their beds untouched. Refusing to consider an overpriced and unnecessary single room, I slept in the dorm for $2 per night. My only company was a mild-mannered guy from Philly and a couple of mosquitoes.

Waking up way too early, I caught the bus north to Battambang. I had heard Battambang is a good place to settle in for the long haul. I understand why. Though it is Cambodia's second-largest city, it's a lot like a big, sleepy village. Read: not much going on. I ate a cookie at a frumpy little bakery and it was bland. I drank some coffee that couldn't hold its own against my place in Kampot. I meandered through the market, accompanied by the familiar fragrance of dead and dying dinner animals. I had an advanced lesson in the virtue of patience as I spent several fruitless hours attempting to post photos to my online facebook identity. But there is always a silver lining. I met and enjoyed several lively hours of conversation with an inspirational woman who has dedicated her life to travel and helping others through health care management. She visited Angkor Wat in 1993, shortly after the Khmer Rouge had been (mostly) flushed from the area. She also ventured into Russia in 1982 as a young woman and against her mother's will "just to see what was over there." (See, Mom, I'm not the only one with what you might call a reckless sense of adventure!) Her account of the temples untouched by tourism whetted my appetite to see what all the fuss was about.

The next morning, I boarded a 20-foot boat just wide enough to cram in two long rows of passengers bound for Siem Reap. The journey was long and the benches hard. Snaking our way up a narrow river we were flanked on both sides by trash-strewn banks and villagers carrying out their daily toil. Not exactly a glimpse into pristine village life. I felt more a voyeur than I would have liked and it was disheartening to see what had become of a once vibrant, healthy river. On the up side, we all had a good laugh as the boat ran aground twice in low water.

At lunch, I hopped aboard the floating snack shop cum restaurant and cheerfully chirped out greetings in my rudimentary Khmer. Pointing to a pot, I asked how much a bowl of its contents might cost a hungry wayfarer. The answer was cheaper than the stale packaged chips offered as an alternative. Soon I was looking down at a steaming bowl of dark green leaves and some sort of meat with scales. While I can only venture to guess what animal it may have been (maybe snake?), I can definitively say it was the worst meal I've had in southeast Asia, and there have been some bad ones. It tasted acidic and sour with a foul aftertaste. Some insects share this characteristic in order to fend off predators. They might have made a preferable substitute but I ate this soup anyway. Visiting the toilet before departure, I stood staring through the hole in the boards at the murky waters below. Up to that point, I had chosen to ignore the obvious fact that the soup water I had just consumed was the same as the sewer water I had just polluted. I am happy to have a strong stomach and a healthy immune system.

Arriving in Siem Reap, I found myself accommodation for $1 per night in an attic dorm. My shower facility doubled as the bar toilet, but I shared this humble abode with several friendly young women. I knew I would enjoy my time in Siem Reap. Two of these women, Erin and Zennor, invited me to join them and their British friend, Susie, in wandering the temples the next day. Briefly considering my options, I agreed and we all went out for drinks. Thus began a cycle of socializing and archaeological exploration that gained momentum and intensity over the next four days.

On the Temples of Angkor:

1) I rode a bicycle to and around the grounds each of my three days ($2/day = total freedom)
2) The ruins were always fascinating, every nook and cranny offered something to ponder
3) I wore a two-dollar straw fedora

While the above three were constant, my three days at Angkor varied in company, the time of day, and the weather. Joining Erin, Zennor, and Susie (from my guesthouse), my first visit began in the mid-morning heat. The sun was relentless as we wandered the sites the girls had missed on their previous visit. Taking this as my temple preview, I enjoyed the company as we meandered through the Jungle Temple Ta Prohm, stared back at the faces of Bayon, posed among armies of asura demons, and fed fruit to monkeys.

The second day, I was rousted at 4:30am after an hour's slumber (a consequence of Siem Reap's exquisite night scene). Together with a vivacious young blond Brit named Zoe and a quiet, easy-going Irish guy I made the pilgrimage to witness the Angkor Wat Sunrise. Determined to catch this reportedly breathtaking experience, our winded and bleary-eyed crew pedaled fast against a brightening sky. We arrived when it was still fairly dark, drank coffee for a short while, and then it was light. Not exactly the stunning sunrise we had imagined, but a rewarding experience nonetheless. We then went our separate ways and I made an extensive tour of near-deserted grounds around Angkor Wat.

The third day was tops. Zoe and I teamed up again for a pedal around the small circuit. After a full day of templing under grey clouds, we were rewarded a brief window of blue sky toward sunset. The ancient stones and twisted trees of Ta Prohm were splashed with gold as the day's final light fought through encroaching storm clouds. We could have pedaled back to the shelter of Siem Reap but opted instead to catch the faces of Bayon before they were veiled by night. The black clouds overhead, ripped through by thunder, unleashed rain so heavy our voices were drowned by the sound alone. We stopped at Baphuon with hardly a soul in sight. Lying with our backs against the warm, 1000-year-old stonework and our faces to the fresh tropical rain, we agreed there is no better way to experience such a mystical place. Drenched to the core, we laughed at the crowds who had fled the temple grounds at the first signs of the coming storm. Undeniably, this was my best experience in Siem Reap. Bicycling back to the city in the dark rainy night, however, was a terrifying adventure but we made it.

On the Siem Reap social scene: the best travel exercise is dancing. Siem Reap is a strange city with some dark underpinnings. However, it boasts a great nightlife concentrated along the appropriately named Bar Street. Two pinnacles of nighttime revelry are the Temple Club and the Angkor What? Bar. Between these two establishments, I burned through several nights' witching hours and loads of calories.

On the expiry date of my visa, I pulled away from Siem Reap fully satisfied with my visit. I had experienced the temples across a full spectrum of conditions. I had also formed a number of strong traveler relationships, a few of which would resurface down the road.

Returning to Phnom Phen, I immediately set about extending my visa. Unfortunately, the process provides the corrupt Cambodian immigration office the opportunity for unarguable extortion. While the first visa costs $20, the one-month renewal is $45. You'd think a government would be delighted to keep western wallets within its borders as long as possible. No doubt they are, they just take their cut first. Unlike the legitimately-priced visa the space marked "fee" on my extension was left blank. To the angry protests of the immigration clerk, I filled it in with "$45," said "you have a lovely country," and walked out.

Free time in Phnom Phen: A friend from Corvallis connected me to an Australian named Emma who was working with the NGO, AusAide. She had been in Phnom Phen for over a month and had established herself well. Stepping into Emma's extensive social circle, I was allowed a glimpse into the lives of Phnom Phen's western residents. (I also learned that these residents are predominately women, a fact that makes for lively and enjoyable dinners). With this group, I attended a traditional Khmer "circus" performance at the Chenla cultural arts theater. The highlight of the show, which also featured contortionists, jugglers, and magic, was the colorful storytelling dance. Here's a quick rundown:

The Monkey King (wearing a sparkly white outfit) commands his monkey army (donning blue and gold) to build a stone bridge across an ocean. No sooner do they commission the bridge does the Mermaid Queen (also sparkly white) send her mermaids (red and gold) to dismantle it. Monkey King does some aerial acrobatics, catches on to the Mermaid's mischief, and sends his army in to clean house. Everyone dances, some lobsters show up, and the Monkey King and Mermaid Queen fall in love after some aspara-style contortionist acts. Everyone is happy and I'm sure a few months later the place is swarming with mermonkeys. The end.

I also had the pleasure of running into two good men from Siem Reap. Nick of Yorkshire, built like a brick house and sporting wild curly blonde hair, had ceaseless energy and a youthful smile. Leigh, a high school physics teacher from Wales, captured attention like the best of teachers with his eloquent delivery of quirky anecdotes paired with thoughtful conversation. I had the pleasure of guiding these two around the city with which I'd become comfortably familiar. We toured markets, climbed tall buildings, ate fast food, and talked about man stuff.

The formation of the Brotherhood of Cheap Watches: Leigh and I had each been searching for our perfect watch. At the central market--Phnom Phen's knockoff watch megamall--our respective quests came to an end. Leigh found his nostalgic black-banded Casio digital of his youth. I found the bold, white-banded Casio that fit my criteria for functional fashion. Nick just jumped on the bandwagon with the purchase of a flashy off-brand loaded with bells and whistles. Over our rooftop fast food lunch, we assigned superpowers to each watch like schoolboys at recess. Leigh had the brilliant idea to synchronize our timepieces so that each hourly beep would remind us of that day and each other. Leigh's watch failed within a month and Nick's was stolen by a prostitute. Mine, even after an accidental dip in Ha Long Bay, beeps on to this day.

That evening was a unique one. The Brotherhood took to the town looking for trouble. We found it when I sparked up conversation with Jessica and her three Australian travel mates at a local hot spot. The group of us stormed tuk-tuks, dance floors, and the streets with riotous laughter and merrymaking. The shenanigans didn't stop till the next morning at the Australians' posh hotel, where Nick and I enjoyed a fine buffet breakfast on the house.

I parted ways with the guys and set coordinates for Kampot. Eager to return to that quiet little city, I was looking forward to settling in to one place for a while. Several months on the travel road with the essentials crammed into a backpack and one begins to miss the simplicity of having books on a bookshelf, clothing on a different shelf, and toiletries in the bathroom.

Up Next: Cambodia as a Local, prefaced with a tropical island getaway.

Summer Line Up: Coming Attractions

I'd like to say I have been saving the blog for a rainy day. Well...it rains just about every day in Hanoi and most of the time in Sapa (Vietnam). I have let the dust gather on this crystal ball into my world. I've been busy, I promise. Exploring temples of doom, sweating from grunt labor, lounging on white powdery beaches, custom tailoring suits, playing pirate, and motobiking the topography of the Tonkinese Alps are all very distracting activities. I have time to burn in Vietnam as I sort out a Chinese visa (hopefully) and await a care package from my former roommates at Oregon State. Here's my general plan for blog entries over the next week or so:

One > Cambodia as a Traveler: Footloose and On the Move

Picking up from my first experience in Kampot, this story heads north to Battambang and Siem Reap, including a bold culinary experiment in river life. Siem Reap burns days and nights in a blur of temple exploration and full-on partying. Phnom Phen revisited and revamped sees the formation of the International Brotherhood of Cheap Watches and a free breakfast. Returning to Kampot with a fresh visa, a little R&R is enjoyed on nearby Rabbit Island.

Two > Cambodia as a Local: Putting Down Roots

This is a chance to reflect on my several week experience in Kampot. Sometimes life tosses a wet blanket on the fire of ambition, but creative adaptation is a strong tinder. Arriving with the simple intention of offering a hand wherever I could, I have my share of successes and shortcomings, but the experience is positive overall. Lessons plan: salt efflorescence, Cambodian construction standards, the Khmer language, emergency flood drainage, pepper production, Khmer sign language, teaching English, government corruption, and the pros and cons of being a local in a place like Cambodia.

Three > Good Night, Vietnam: Phu Quoc and the Kingdom of Dogs

Here's a wild one. This particular story may have to wait for a live telling. I give myself a new country to explore for my birthday. Specifically, the tropical island paradise of Phu Quoc. Several days on Phu Quoc leaves me with a profound respect for dogs and renewed curiosity in the mysteries of the universe.

Four > Cantho to Hue: Tourist Trapped!

Two nights in the Mekong Delta city of Cantho provides me with a foundation in the Vietnamese language. Teamed up with an Aussie I'd met in Cambodia, we begin the migration north through Saigon, Nha Trang, and Hoi An. I have a few words on custom-tailored clothing and on Vietnamese tourism. Solo again, I follow my father's footsteps in Danang and wander the classic city of Hue.

Five > Hanoi and Ha Long Bay: A Holiday for My Inner Pirate.

I love Hanoi. Sure, it boasts a dodgy past, an exalted embalmed body, and an overabundance of gun-toting men in olive uniform, but it's got character spilling from rooftops (monsoon rain, too). Even more, I love Ha Long Bay. Under cover of darkness, my pirate crew and I politely storm a dinghy and a ship.

So there it is. For all the world to see...I'm getting back onto the blog train. No apologies for the delay, though, I've just been too busy making stories. Grandma, I promise I'll keep the posts coming!