Watch Us Bounce Bounce Bounce Around The World

Turkey (under construction)

2007-06-24T08:28:00.000-07:00

Bahrain (under construction)

2007-06-24T07:50:00.000-07:00

Nepal (under construction)

2007-04-23T21:18:00.000-07:00

Days 189 - 235: Nepal

To put it sımply, after visiting 15 countries, Nepal was (and is) our favorite . . . . Ahhh, Nepal. From the moment we crossed the border (following a most infuriating 2-day busride from India, crammed into a seat fit for a small child . . . tricked again by those wily Indians! Damn!), we fell in love with this country: bus-bleary eyes awakened by massive peaks; terraced rice paddies that ascend 1000's of feet from the valley floor; churning, massive rivers aglow with silvery glacial runoff; tiny villages perched way, way up, amongst rocky slopes and distant glaciers. Soon we would be trekking for weeks at a time amongst these glaciers, past these most remote villages, to holy lakes and peaktops.

Nepal has it all: smiling, welcoming people; wonderful food (ok, after weeks on end of dal baht--the Nepali staple of rice, lentils and a curried vegetable--most travelers to Nepal may not agree with us, but we loved it!); Buddhist temples dotting the countryside; ancient, crumbling Newari architecture; and, of course, the gnarliest, most stunning mountains in the world - the mighty Himalayas.

Forget the Alps, Rockies, Sierras, Cascades (big mountains that we know and love); the Himalayas are in a different league. They are just HUGE and jagged and FRESH, as though they just popped out of the Earth's crust. Our first up-close glimpse came while journeying to the village of Seyabrubesi, the jump-off point for our first trek, 7 days into the Langtang Valley, home to 7500 meter peaks, just a few miles from Tibet. A good warm-up before we started on a 18-day trek to Mt. Everest base camp and the holy lakes of Gokyo. Clinging to the roof of a rickety, public bus blaring fast, high-pitched folk music ("shwingy-dingy" music), seated next to farmers and chicken cages, we gawked at the 4,000 feet of AIR (!) beneath our feet (and gawking at the fact that it took us 9 hours to travel just 85 miles!!). This was the absolute scariest road we've ever seen, 10-feet of dirt cut into the mountainsıde, half way up a 8,000 vertical foot valley! The valleys just kept going up and up and up.

Walking down the streets of Thamel (Nepal's version of Khao San Road ın Bangkok) amid restaurants that would fit right in in San Francisco (Who would have thought you could have a good burrıto for breakfast, sushi for lunch, a huge steak for dinner ın Nepal) and vendors sellıng any outdoor gear you could possibly want (knock-offs, of course, but pretty remarkable ones at that), ıt was hard to believe that we were actually ın Nepal. But once we escaped the madness that ıs Kathmandu and hopped on the bus, heading for our first hike in the mighty Himalayas, we started to see what is, in essence, the 'real Nepal'. Where small houses and villages cling to jaw-droppingly steep hillsides. People eke out an existence on narrow strips of land that look more like a staircases down the mountainside than crops. Yaks, not cars, carry supplies to villages that are days away from the nearest road.

As we were told that it is imperative to get to the airport two hours before your domestic flight, we made sure to get there on time, only to be told that the check-in desk did not open for another 30 minutes. Great. So we waited at the desk for the thirty minutes watching the airlıne personnel behind the desk chatting and laughing and casually sipping their tea while we stood there. When the thirty minutes were up, the woman steps up to the desk and tells us that we have been 'switched to another airline', that our flight will be leaving two hours later than the one we were originally on, and that we must now go stand in line at the new airline's counter. Umm, what?? We have been switched to a completely different airline?? And thanks for the no heads up when we first arrived.

The flight to Lukla was an adventure in its own right. The 12-seater plane flew along side the Himalayas for the entire 45 minute flight. When we reached Lukla, we saw that the landing strip. . . .

Holy, Urban Cow!!!

2007-04-23T21:16:00.000-07:00

Days 159-189: Rajasthan and Uttar Pradesh, Northern India

India. We had heard the rumors; warnings from other travelers about the trains, con men, etc. We expected some dirt, some noise, some shady haggling. But man, India dropped on us HARD. Masochistic busdrivers, constant "hullo!, where you from? Holland?!!? Deutsch?!!," trash and cowshit, carhorns. AH! The HORNS! WHY DO THEY HONK AT EVERYTHING ALL THE TIME?!?!? DON'T THEY REALIZE THAT BY HONKING AT EVERYTHING ALL THE TIME THAT THE HORN NO LONGER MEANS ANYTHING!?!?! . . . deep breath . . . ok now . . . . . Within a week, we stopped applying our rules of logic and just sat back. The ride had some bumps. Some days, we HATED India (like when we got robbed on an overnight train). But, most of the time, we LOVED it, for it is a land of deep, colorful beauty and crazy cultural quirks (most of them lovable), set amidst layers of history, religion, culture, and ethnicity and all jumbled together into a crowded, frenetic mix of 1.2 billion people (predicted to surpass China within 25 years).

A fitting symbol of the travel "experience" that is INDIA, is the rightly infamous Indian "head bobble," something that takes most Westerners a bit getting used to. Say, you are walking through the crowded, churning madness of Old Delhi, not a perpendicular intersection in sight, and, desperate to find the way to the Red Fort, you decide to ask a local Indian man for guidance: "Pardon me, is this the way to the Red Fort?" And here it comes: the man's head, centered on his trimmed black mustache (a required badge of Indian manhood), begins to gyrate: first, a 30-degree tilt to the left, an equal but opposite tilt to the right, a shoulder pops up, next the other shoulder, followed by a chin raise, a chin dip, and perhaps, for good measure, a few more right-left tilts, finished with a side-to-side neck rotation, AND, if he's really feeling spicy, a sort of in-and-out head pump very much like a casual hip hopster just chilling in his '64. WHAT?!?! Meanwhile, (this strangely being the one (and only) time an Indian keeps silent) his lips stay sealed, his face blank. The Indian Head Bobble. About as clear as discerning the correct rickshaw price in Jaipur or swimming through tar with your eyes open. Does it mean Yes? No? Maybe? Step into my shop? Watch out for the taxi that is about to run you over? What do they ever mean?!?!! And there it is. The beginning of a long list of inexplicable wonders that we experienced while traveling in northern India. Take something simple, like a head shake for "No," and the energetic Indian will turn into (from our point of view) a perplexing, game-like puzzle.

Another example: going to the train station to buy a train ticket. Sounds sımple enough, rıght? Guess again. We arrive, and 10 Indians, all just standing around of course (there are so many people in this country, there are always dozens standing around), instantly surround us, wanting to know where we are from, how old we are, what our professions are, if we are married, if we have children (no children! WHAT!?!), where we have been in India, if we play cricket, if we want to buy a "marble" chess set, where we are going, and, of course, if we can please come to my house for chai tea RIGHT NOW. . . and all with a lot of laughing, yelling, perhaps some touching (but only men touching men, which is very standard practice in public, while the women are rarely in sight, except, of course, when doing back-breaking manual labor) . . . and this is just after we have crossed the street! Once inside the ticket office, though, it's alllll business, and I do mean full-contact WWF business. To Indians, even more than Laotians, Thais and Cambodians, waiting in an orderly line (or any sort of line) is a completely alien concept. Rather, the train ticket "line" is a throbbing moshpit of Indian men, in a smelly, heated fit that they are not closer to the ticket window. So, with Al watching the packs (women are relegated to the sidelines in India), I dive in, with elbows sharp and money belt safely stashed beneath the drawers. Men try to out maneuver from the side - BAM! - taste the sting of my whitey forearm. Two start squeezing from behind (at this moment, I am loathing the acceptability of public male touching), but, as they are all 2-feet shorter than I am, a quick knee swipe sends a firm warning shot to their privates. More yelling. The BO becomes overwhelming - why didn't we just pay the travel agent commission!?!. Another side-swipe. I might have to crowdsurf it . . . but then, thank God, thank you Ganesh and all Hindu deities . . . I am at the window. "Two AC 3rd-class sleepers for Jaisalmer, kind sir." Tragedy strikes. He points to a blank form, which I was meant to fill out before appearing at the window. Indian bureacracy. If the masses don't get you, the forms will. The mob shows no remorse; I am tossed out. Everyone is elated to have one less person in line. 1.2 billion people will do it, I guess. Once again, the chaos of India crushes our souls.

And so, it is simply like traveling no where else. But the frustrations are off-set. We look out from our train window, and in 2 seconds, we see 5 AMAZING things: a kaleidascope of women ın sari's re-paving a highway (women do most of the hard work, from our observations); a dog eating cow shit falling from a cow eating from a trash heap from which a starving family scavenges for food; well-dressed business men huddled in low stools sipping chai teas; children skipping through a carved palace wall; monkeys fighting on an electric wire. People, cows, buses, chickens, rickshaws, colors, patterns, spices, Bollywood posters, cell phone covers with bright Hindu representations . . . EVERYTHING . . . constant, fast, chaos, everywhere, people all the time, thıs is INDIA.

Arriving in Delhi, within an hour, we see an elephant walking down one of the main highways in the city, a cow walk INTO a restaurant (and, let it be known, that no one even batted an eye, except the one tourist who looked like she had just seen an alien. Fair enough.), and nearly got ran over by a horse-cart, a bicycle taxi, a jeep, a fruit peddler, AND a herd of urban cows! Avoiding our despicably dingy 2-dollar-a-night hole of a room, we bounced between the city's amazing monuments, grand promenades and squares, and tasty tandoori and curry shops. The chapatis and spiced dahl flowed and flowed. Yes!

We got a glimpse of Indian ex-pat life with a great night of booze and food with Althea's old college mate, Virginia (internatıonal extraordinaire - Buenos Aires to Delhi, and traveling everywhere in between) and her French boyfriend, Christophe. When you see that colored-glass and silver hanging candle lantern at Anthropologie for $59.99, think of Christophe; he bought in Delhi for much much less (you don't want to know) and figured out how to get it to your shopping basket ın Chicago. Smart guy.

An insanely crowded train ride later, we arrive in filthy Agra, home to the Taj Mahal. It requires no introduction, which of course worried us. Something so hyped and photographed might easily disappoint. But no, the Taj is all that and more. With the sun setting, we walked around its marbled walls and round minarets - everything perfectly placed and balanced. Intricate inlaid stone patterns. Gorgeous Islamic calligraphy. The marble changing colors as the sun dipped lower through the polluted sky. We will never forget it.

We then train-hopped on a whirlwind tour of Rajasthan, starting in Jaipur, the supposed "pink city" of former Maharajah glory and now home to about 3 million people (a "medium"-sized cıty). Despite a glorious meal and a lovely hilltop fort enjoyed at sunset, we struggled to see much of the "pink" beauty that the guidebook promised. It was mostly noise, dirt and, strangely (sad for Al), INDIAN PUKE. Day 1, walking down a crowded street, I am trailing Al as we pass a chai shop with a mix of men standing around. I am a few feet behind her and, all of a sudden, a short, normally-dressed Indian man walks quickly in front of me with a milky chai in his hand. Before I can even mentally process the event, he squeezes up close to Al's back and proceeds to BARF UP a sizeable amount of his chai on her t-shirt, like a baby turning down dinner. He darts off before I can calm my shock enough to, say, shake and/or punch his tiny frame, and am left to break the news to Al that a random Indian man just puked all over her new t-shirt and skirt. Even stranger, at least some of the men standing around had to notice the incident (Al enjoys a 1-KM radius of staring Indian men wherever she walks), and yet, everyone was silent and unbothered. The stealthiest crowd-barf in history. I am still ashamed for failing to catch him. We left Jaipur shortly after that.

Udaipur, however, definitely did not disappoint--a lakeside village, with beautiful havelis (old Rajput mansions), narrow cobbled streets, a palace on the lake, and a wonderful old palace that allowed for hours of exploration. Tre romantic for sure. Oh, and one must not forget that much of Octopussy (you know, the one where Bond flies a jet through a pair of closing hangar doors and machine gun fire) was filmed there. (Hotels made sure that you did not forget, as many offered a free Octopussy screening at 7:00PM). So, Al became "Money Penny" and I became a dangerous but sexy killing machine. Like Bond, we got custom clothes made from fıne Indian fabrics as we sipped chai. When not role-playing, we drank more chai by the lake, taking in the mysterious floating palace, watched traditional Rajput dance (women twirling quite impressively, some even with 9 pots stacked on their head), and took a few days to just relax from the Indian hustle. And we had an incredible day of architecture and countryside, visiting an intricately-carved Jain (pre-Hindu) temple of massive marble columns followed by a mind-blowing hilltop Rajput fort ith the second-longest wall in the world, after China's Great Wall.

We then headed west to the Thar desert, where Rajisthan's landscape becomes even more barren and villages become much more sparse. We landed ın Jaisalmer, a golden, sandstone fort town rising from the Thar just mıles from the Pakistani border. It is a remarkable city, particualrly because the fort is still a village, making it a living museum of sorts. Within the fort walls, merchants sell goods to tourists and locals alike, living in small houses above their shops, connected by narrow streets dotted with cows and children on bicycles.

A trip to Jaiselmer is not complete without a camel safari into the Thar Desert, and, despite warnings of sore sore bums, we saddled up on top of Charlie (Jacob's ornery camel) and Moira and headed out into the desert. We were joined by Carl and Stephy, two French travelers, and our camel driver Osman. And of course, the camels. Having never seen a camel so up close and personal, we soon learned that they are incredibly smelly (both theır burps and farts smell like cooked cauliflower), and they eat by devourıng a large amount of food at once, store it in their stomachs, only to throw it back up into their mouths to chew on it all day long. No wonder their burps were nasty. Nasty. But despite their smelly ways and the fact that sittıng on a camel for three days definitely left our bums so sore it was difficult to walk, camels are nonetheless loveable creatures. They have a constant sheepish grin, friendly eyes, tons of personality. Plus, they lower you to the ground by folding their legs in seemingly impossible and bizarre ways, Transformer-style.

Riding on top of a camel with nothing ahead of you but desert is a pretty incredible experience. We would set up camp in the dunes under the desert sky, with absolutely no one around. One night, sitting in dunes to watch the sunset, we see a blue speck in the distance, soon recognızeable as a local. Indeed, as the man grew closer, we saw that he was walking towards us, and was carrying something in his arms. When he approached, I kid you not, this man was carrying beer (we had, in fact, just said that this sunset would only be more perfect with a cold beer). Well, his beer wasn't exactly cold. After all, he had walked for hours from his village to sell it to us. But that's India for you. They will find a way to sell you something, even in the middle of the desert, miles away from the nearest village. But to top it off, after we were set up with our beers, the dunes, and the magnificent sunset, two other men seemingly "beam up" like Star Trek, with huge grins and turbans, plus a flute and, for lack of a better word, a small metal mouth 'boinger' (you know, those instruments that go boi oi oi oi oi oi oing). So not only did we now have the wonderful sunset over the dunes, and somewhat cool (ok, kind of warm) beers, we now were being seranaded by a man in a turban and his sıde-kick boinger. Does it get any better (and more surreal) than this?

Our last major stop is Varanasi, one of India's most ancient and holiest cities, as it is built along the Ganges River. Most Indians quite devoutly believe that by both bathing in the Ganges and being cremated in its waters at one of Varansi's "ghats" (giant riverside steps and pavilions), a direct trip to their version of "heaven" and a prosperous after-life is guaranteed. The city lives and dies along the Ganges, making Varanasi one of the most incredible stops on our trip and our favorite for all of India. We walked through the city . . . under construction (!)

I Love S.A.

2007-02-28T22:21:00.000-08:00

Days 136 - 158: Cape Town to Johannesburg, South Africa

Back in the driver's seat, baby. Except the steering wheel's on the right, the stick shift's on the left, and, oh yeah, South Africans happen to be the WORST drivers in the world. Luckily, our rental is a 2-door, 200-pound Fiat hatchback (model name: "GO!"; yes, with the exclamation mark on it), and that is exactly what we were up to here in the natural splendor of South Africa. Free to roam where we want, back on an independent path . . .

We've already well documented our reactions to Africa: stunning natural beauty of all varieties; social and political contradictions; adventurous days on the road; wild, boozy nights with our crew on the big yellow truck. Perhaps even more than elsewhere, South Africa presented more of Africa's beauty and mystery; it is a remarkable land of seaside cliffs, dramatic peaks, rolling vineyards, massive gorges, beautiful forests, on and on.

We began in Cape Town; a naturally stunning city (wondering, should we move here?), surrounded by mountains and ocean, much like San Francisco, but even prettier. With small, narrow streets running up to the base of near vertical cliff-walled mountains jutting out towards the Cape of Good Hope, with that end of the world feeling (after all, the next land mass is Antarctica!).

And then there is Table Mountain, Cape Town's most distinctive landmark and a spectacular backdrop towering over the city - just awesome. Clouds roll over it in the evening, which, for obvious reasons, is referred to as "Table Cloth." Just incredible; as though a majestic peak from Glacier NP was dropped in the middle of San Francisco. (Again, should we move here?!?) We (brilliantly) decided to climb Table Mountain on one of the hottest days of the season, and, of course, we opted to take "the long route." But the views from the top were well worth the effort, although a bit gratuitous when a pod of Italian male models in weenie bikinis joined us at the summit (they took the short, cable car-aided route; so typical). Descending through the "fynbos" (that's Afrikaans for "really cool, small-leaved shrubby guys"), we returned to the stylish world below of cafes and Mini Coopers, wondering if we were still in Africa.

Fortunately, Adam, as in Forste, an old friend from Dartmouth, had already moved here, working for the past year on issues of black enterprise and micro-finance; just what the post-Aparthied country needs most. Forste, bless him, picked us up in a buuuurly Defender 90 like a bat out of Desert Storm, except with a surf rack on top. For those that know him, we were not at all surprised to learn that he had the town dialed: from rooftop bars, to hidden beaches where topless models sunbathe (Al loved it), to an art exhibition/local booze fest in a renovated flour mill, to our first ever cricket match (what a silly sport!), and, of course, the always scrumptious South African braai (that's 'cook-out' for the folks back home), on his sea-side patio. Forste had even taken to drinking Campari limes . . . Yes, it was a quick transition, from game parks to models and martinis. Naturally, we made the adjustment, and the three of us had a blast.

We were sad to say goodbye to Adam (and his arse-kicking Defender 90) and hop (or, really, squeeze) into our Go! and hit the road. From Cape Town, we explored the Cape of Good Hope, checking out the colony of penguins along the way, and hiked along the continent's most southern point. Once again, stunning, desolate . . . hiking alone on hidden beaches to one of many shipwrecks ravaged by the Cape's infamous storms, to be joined by a herd of steenboks (type of antelope), checking out the surf. Next, we cruised through gorgeous wine country, reminding us of Napa and Sonoma valleys back home. A few free tastings and a roadside river-dip later, we pulled into a super-quaint village of white-washed Cape Dutch homesteads, more vineyards and shrubby canyons.

Of course, we still hadn't really seen much of "black" South Africa; the Cape area is the last true stronghold of Afrikaaner settlement and its legacy of Aparthied. And this was made all the more troubling by the visibility of the "townships": racially-segregated settlements created by the Aparthied regime's forcible relocation of black South Africans. The contrast was shocking - in many areas, particularly in the Cape province, (nearly) all black citizens live in the townships. So, we drove by gorgeous, sprawling white settlements, on the most fertile land with the best views, golf courses and seaside resorts . . . first world by all standards. And then, literally, across the highway, we saw black residents spilling out of densely-packed, fenced-in, decrepid settlements of tin-roofed shacks and dirt roads . . . serious, third world poverty. Of course, the townships are bustling with life and energy; but also obviously suffering from poor infrastructure, insufficient resources, and other social ills, particularly, the rampant spread of AIDS. This made for some strange moments on the road. The divide was so crisp - black and white - that, at times, we could feel the resentment steaming off of black faces we passed by. It certainly offered at least one major explanation for the rising levels of crime in the country. Race permeated many conversations, and many white citizens seemed ill-equipped for coping with post-Aparthied reality. On one occasion, with a satisfied grin, an old crusty Afrikaaner man lectured us (upon hearing that we were American), that the U.S. had employed its own version of aparthied before the civil rights era. But, we just couldn't compare the two situations as they stand today. Nor could we fully understand how a minority of 20% of the population (the white Afrikaaners) could subjugate such a dominant majority. The answer, as we learned later at Johannesburg's Aparthied Museum, was through severe violence and repression. Needless to say, the country has a tough road ahead . . .

Leaving the Cape region, we headed for the Storms River mouth in the Tsitsikama National Park, where the Storms River thunders through a mighty gorge into the Indian Ocean (and site of the world's biggest bungy jump, 220 meters. What!) . Hiking along the coast, we passed caves and waterfalls, all the while being sprayed by huge, explosive waves crashing into the jagged coastal rocks. Walking across the swinging bridge over the river where the river meets the ocean, it was raw ocean power, right in our face. We thought we might be swallowed by the icy waves!

Our next stop was Port St. Johns, a small fishing village where locals sell freshly caught seafood and hippie ex-pats have converted their homes into "lodges." We stayed in a little hippy cabin (lots of bright cloth things and seashell decoraions), drank a healthy dose of South African wine, listened to the rain drum on the tin roof, and treated ourselves to a feast of fresh oysters.

In a country of such astounding natural beauty, it is tough to pick a favorite place. But we both were simply BLOWN AWAY by the Drakensberg Mountains (Afrikaans for "Dragon Mountains") in KwaZulu-Natal, the heart of the Zulu Nation . . . We decided to stay at a place a little off the beaten path, 30 minutes down a rutted-out dirt road--a little slice of heaven called The Homestead, run by Bernice and Phil and their 7 huge dogs. Upon arriving, we realized that all the other guests were octogenarians . . . the vibe was "very early bird." But a nice twist to the usual "backpacker" scene of tattoos and lonely planet guides. Plus, we learned loads about the Margaret Thatcher years, the joy of grandkids and the advantages of being a Scotsman. We spent nearly a week exploring "the Berg"'s craggy spires and deep river gorges: climbing to the top of the 200-kilometer "Berg," shocking some other hikers who caught us skinny dipping a little too near the trail (oops!), scrambling down a series of cliffs via very exposed chain-linked ladders during a hail storm (again, oops!), and ending the day back at the Homestead to a homecooked meal of meat pie, stewed veggies, and mashed potatoes, finished with an aperitif in the lounge decorated with deep, reclining love seats, wood panelling and faded oil landscapes of the Scottish highlands. Even the bathroom was carpeted . . . Genius! With few other tourists, we enjoyed a truly best-kept hiking secret.

We ended our time in South Africa in Johannesburg, which was a little bit of a shock after our peaceful time in the mountains. With discriminatory laws being lifted only after the 1994 elections, the racial divide permeates everything. White South Africans' homes are hidden behind large gates, electrical fences and huge walls, not far from the townships. We visited the Apartheid Museum, as well as Soweto, the largest township in South Africa, which was previously the epicenter of the anti-Aparthied movement. We checked out Nelson Mandela's house, and walked by his neighbor's house, Archbishop Desmon Tutu; the only street in the world with homes of TWO Nobel Prize winners (how cool is that?!). Jo'burg seemed raw, messy and alive, with Africans of all tribes and colors jostling for a brighter future; the "rainbow" city in what Nelson Mandela has dubbed the "Rainbow Nation." We put South Africa on the list as one of the countries we MUST come back to, as it is Africa all balled up into one gorgeous package.

But, just as we were figuring it all out, a whole new can of worms was about to hit us . . . India.

It Began In Africa

2007-01-29T05:27:00.000-08:00

Days 84-134: Nairobi, Kenya to Cape Town, South Africa via Tanzania, Malawi, Zambia, Zimbabwe, Botswana and Namibia

Although we arrived in Africa with a wealth of myths, half-truths, and high-school-era lessons (you know the usual: the origin place of humans; the slave trade; funky drum music; man-eating lions; corrupt dictators; civil war, disease and famine), the continent was still pretty much a mystery to us. The once-a-month CNN blip (er, "coverage") on the most recent African tragedy was about all we were getting in the U.S. Which is not to say that, after 70 days here, we have figured the place out. Far from it. I doubt 70 years would be long enough. But our time so far has been an incredible awakening to a magical land. Africa has enthralled us, touched us, frustrated us, saddened us, and, most importantly, intrigued us. . . it is like no where else we have ever been - how could we have ignored it for so long? Complex, vibrant, timeless, challenging, savage, warm. As you can imagine, we are still processing it . . .

We landed in Nairobi in the dark hours of 4:00 a.m to a reassuring taxi cab driver with a big smile. We had heard and read the rumors: "Nairobbery." Supposedly, this was a place to watch your back, front and sides. Our hostel was fenced off with electric fencing (ouch); going out after dark was considered mad; and our white skin equalled easy money to the urban poor of Kenya. Or, at least, this is what we were told.

And so it began. The confusion of Africa. As we learned, this is a place where myth and fact go hand in hand; each reinforcing the other. In fact, we enjoyed Nairobi, as a bustling, incredibly clean city of tall, lean Kenyans, glowing with energy and optimism. We saw the new Bond flick, ate popcorn, and exited the theatre in a minor shock that we were not back at Berkeley. But the myth of savagery lived on as proven fact as well, when we met other travelers with stories of robbery and muggings - a traveler from Seattle (Chase) whose throat was slashed with a sharp rock; young Mozambique teenagers jumping out of the shadows of gritty Vilanculos. They took about $40, and almost killed him.

But this ethical exploration soon took a backseat to - start your engines folks - THE ROAD. For our African experience was about to pick up pace. We jumped aboard THE TRUCK- a 22-person off-roading, self-sustainable cruise ship of sorts, which was to be our home for the next 50 days and eight countries. WHOA!! A definite change of pace from independent-style travel throughout Southeast Asia. It was our first organized "tour," and we were a little skeptical but also excited and optimistic.

We met our fellow truckmates - Kiwis, Aussies, Brits, and for the firt leg at least, Natsumi, our Japanese representative. As the only Americans (now commonly referred to as "Team America", followed up by, for those who have seen the movie, "F@!# YEAH!"), we quickly adjusted to the new terminology ("jumper" = sweater?), and talk of cricket (little did we know that, by the end of it all, we would be playing cricket and actually attending a pro match - very fun, but still, I think it's a silly game). But, especially once we joined ship with Romy - our Florentine leader and mother-figure (Mama Mia!) - and Robert - our Kenyan driver (Good Good!) - the truck became home and family. Quickly, a regular camping and driving routine took over: break down the tents to the glow of a rising African sun; instant coffee and wood-charred toast with PB in the morning (and, on occasion, the ole tin of spaghetti, which we never quite got used to: spaghetti in the morning? What! Crazy Brits again . . .); ticking away the kilometers and borders on the road, with the poverty and beauty of Africa whizzing by; chewing over books, yatzee and chess in the truck; cooking dinner for 22 people over an open flame (but we managed to bang out stuffed peppers, pork with steak and cheese baked in phylo pastry, and even lasagna, thanks to Romy!) and, most importantly, becoming part of a group and group dynamic, with all the positives and negatives a group creates. Yes, it was a comfortable change of pace after the trials and joys of southern Asia: we were drinking more beer, playing more games, cracking more jokes, and, as the pictures attest, dancing our asses off. Sure, it was with "tourists," not Africans, but it was fun to have some other traveling companions. And yes, trapped on a truck for 50 days, there were times when we wanted to hit someone's eject button - you know, "vote them off the island" and such - but, in the end, we were able to share our time in Africa with a great, albeit strange-talking, group of individuals: Jen, Vic, Tom, Rae, Bex, Iain, Paula, Yok, Alex, Phil, Natalie, the Bonnies (Black and Blonde), Rachel, Sarah, Paul, Ed, Nicolle, Blaire, plus Kate and Natsumi (for 10 days), Alex #2 for a few days, and, our indispensible, fearless, lovely leader and driver: Romy and Robert. One big family: mostly happy, sometimes not, but always family. Sure, it was isolating at times, where the ins and outs of independent travel were eliminated, removing some contact with the locals. But this was made up for by the fact that we were able to safely, cheaply and efficiently see so so MUCH!

Seriously. We are still flabergasted by all of the awe-inspiring places we covered: the Maasai villages of Kenya; the Serengetti plains and its annual migration of ONE MILLION wildebeeste; Ngorogoro Crater (the world's largest crater, and home to an incredible variety of large mammals); Zanzibar Island (incredible beaches, and over 2000 years of history as a trade port and slave market . . . simply amazing!); sunsets, villages, beach olympics and rhastafarian brothers on Lake Malawi; a houseboat Christmas on Lake Kariba (and fishing with crocodiles and hippos); giant boulders and walking with white rhinos in Matopos National Park, Zimbabwe; spectacular Victoria Falls (indeed, lives up to its reputation; just stunning and wild, particularly when you bungy-jump 111 meters into its gorge! SCARY!!! but rad!!: check the photos, Althea in orange, Jacob in yellow ); traveling by human-poled mokoros (dug-out canoe) through the grassy waters of the Okavango Delta, Botswana (think "Venice meets the Everglades", and then add some chomping HIPPOS!); the sand dunes of Namibia; the list goes on and on.

It is simply too much to recount day by day, so we will share some highlights. It is pretty tough to pick out "the best of" because the whole trip would make the cut, but we tried hard to pick out some of our "bests" (and "worsts"), so here it goes:

Best animal bonding: Fondling a "quasi-wild" lion provided some serious emotional bonding; you know, one of those fiery relationships where stress breeds even more intense love. As a disclaimer, yes, this was a "wild" lion, in the sense that he hunts wild antelope in the savannah (chasing down big old wildebeestes, zebras, springboks and the like). And yes, to confirm your city-slicker inclinations, lions kill people. They are, after all, "the king of the African savannah" (although, on multiple occasions, we saw "the king" bolt like a little pussy cat upon the arrival of a marching herd of elephants. The elephant IS the definitive king). But, the big fella we are petting here has been bred in captivity, soon to be released into the wild, in an effort to keep the African lion species going. Their numbers are dwindling, thanks to Western hunting safari tourists who will pay $20,000 to track, see and then kill this magnificent animal so that he can have a stuffed, dead lion's head over the mantle. So, conservation breeding and training efforts have been in swing for over a decade. Thus, we had the privilege to visit one of these conservation programs, and stroke the mane of a "soon to be fully wild" African lion. We certainly were not as calm as we look in the photo, as this "bonding" session was quite imbalanced. The lion could have ripped one of our arms off without much effort. Plus, these guys have been known to snap at little tourists like us from time to time, drawing blood. But that's what bonding is all about! The potential sting breeds deeper love. He could have ripped Al's lovely head off, yet chose not to. Bonding to the extreme.

Funniest animal to watch: It would have to be either the warthog or the springbok. The warthog is definitely the redneck of the African animals, and we wouldn't have been surprised to see one rock up to a watering hole in jorts (jean shorts) and a mullet. The springbok is also pretty entertaining to watch as it starts and jumps like it is having some sort of fit for no apparent reason. Think teeny, tiny deer on a pogo stick.

Most spectacular scenery: IMPOSSIBLE! Africa is just too beautiful for such a short list. Okay, we'll try, but we get to vote a "top 2" . . . Number One: the sand dunes of Soussevlei, Namibia . . . an absolute dreamland of perfect orange arcs and parabolas set crisp against a bright azure sky. Magical, peaceful, and, yes, very sandy . . . where your sense of scale is absolutely warped . . . is that ridge one km away? 5km away? Made all the more surreal when you think about the San bushmen, whose cave paintings we saw. They are some of the last remaining nomadic hunter-gatherers on the planet. They keep their direction in the desert by knowing the revailing wind directions and "reading" the parabolic lines of the sand dunes like a compass arrow. They have my profound respect. I just looked for the big yellow truck in the distance . . . . Number Two: the Serengetti plains-Ngorogoro Crater transition, where the mighty Massai still live. Picture a massive plain of grasses and acacia trees, dotted with roaming lions, leopards, giraffes, filled in with various antelopes herds, zebras and wildebeestes. These plains rise up into a green, volcanic landscape into the Ngorogoro massif, the largest crater in the world. Next, giving the view a real sense of scale, off in the distance, and seen through the open roof of our safari Land Rover, we catch a bright red dot in the far distance . . . a Massai herder/warrior. Against the green and blue backdrop of the land and sky, the bright red clothing and dark skin of the Massai warrior herding his goats was nothing short of breathtaking. These men have many wives, living in a circular village of small thatched hut and surrounded by a gnarled-fence. The Massai will walk 50 or 60 kilometres a day for weeks on end, through absolute uncivilized raw nature where the lion and elephant dominate. They wear red and purple because they believe it scares off the big predators. They walk to make their cattle fatter so they can acquire more wealth and then buy more wives. And yet, making it all the more surreal, many have cell phones, with ample "cow wealth" to upgrade to a plan that allows text messaging. WHAT?!?! Once again, this is Africa.

Best way to pass the time on the truck: Truck air guitar. Once the Yok-man, our resident Kiwi party animal, owner of the most durable liver we have ever seen, and unofficial DJ of the truck (more on him later) . . . once he cranks on some monsters of rock tunes, air guitar and karaoke gets in full effect. Although Guns and Roses proved too much for Jacob. The first riff in Sweet Child of Mine led to a massive headBANG (literally) into the truck ceiling. Painful. Funny. Very funny.

Best lush: Yup. You guessed it. Yok. That's him pictured with all the ladies in a Zimbabwean cowboy hat. He was simply unstoppable, achieving high levels of drunkenness and happiness everyday on the truck, day in, day out. 50 days straight. And always, no matter how heavy the drinks fell, the next morning he was up bright and early - NO HANGOVER! - chipper and smiling, usually with a full English breakfast in front of him. Small man. Big liver. We are convinced that he is the next generation of homo sapiens. Evolution towards a hangover-free species. Yok was an inspiration.

Friendliest people: Because we didn't have the opportunity to interact with locals to a great extent on this trip, it is difficult to say. This is perhaps the toughest part about traveling in Africa. Plus, we found it generally difficult to connect with the culture as an independent traveler (made more difficult by the massive yellow truck we were in). History, slavery, war, racism . . . all of these legacies felt very real and alive to us in our (limited) interactions. Thus, even despite the truck and the distance it created, we perceived a significant divide between tourist and local, much more so than in other places we have visited. Africa has a certain rawness to it; people are, for the most part, just trying to survive. Tourists, with our seemingly infinite wealth, are something to take advantage of. We are an opportunity. Plain and simple. This is not to sound jaded. Far from it. We connected with some wonderful Africans. The warmth and vibrance that is so much a part of this place. And so well represented by the Malawians we connected with. The four brothers. They shared their reggae, art and good vibes with us, on the banks of beautiful Lake Malawi. And we loved them for it. But still, we would have liked more connections like this one. Perhaps when we return . . .

Scariest camping experience: After holding the first ever Lake Malawi Olympics (including the long jump, shot put, and the "holy bottle," an excellent relay race involving a big jug, a water bottle with holes in it, and a water source (here, Lake Malawi)), we settled into our tents for a long slumber. However, we all awoke to howling winds and driving rain some hours later. As Jacob and I are holding up our tent against the raging winds, nature REALLY calls, and Jacob informs me that he can't hold it any longer. Not two seconds after he steps outside the tent, a huge gust of wind knocks our tent and ME over. Jacob turns back around to see the legs of the tent up in the air in the wind and rain, and, not to mention, LIGHTNING! Of course, our tent poles are METAL, so while trying to set our tent upright, we have to grab onto the metal poles during a lightning storm. Safety first, was it?

Worst meal cooked while camping: Definitely the morning can of spaghetti. Apparently this is a common breakfast in the Commonwealth, but we could not get used to having spaghettios before 8 a.m. (We'd even prefer Wheetabix over spaghettios!). Brits are crazy.

Best extreme sport: We got pretty extreme on this trip (part of the Africa tourist experience, I guess), so we will have to list a couple on this one. Bungy jumping 111 meters into the gorge at Victoria Falls is number one. Terrifying. And can you believe that Al did it?! A classic moment was memorialized in her video. As the guides are attaching the bungy to her feet . . . she looks just plain old sad with fear, just sad. And then, she asks them "if they have done this before?", "have you checked my weight?" and "is the rope the right length?" Poor thing. So terrified. And yet, she leaped. I still cannot believe it. Other adrenaline rushes included flying over the Okavango Delta in a 6-seater plane, with the pilot attempting stomach-churning acrobatic feats. But the extreme sport you would most likely catch us doing again was four-wheeling in the sand dunes in Namibia. Imagine racing 30 meters up a 45-degree sand slope, approaching the crest, then turning your wheels to absolutely CRUSH a massive downslope drop - YEEE-HAAAAW! - quad-biking RULES! We are now official African rednecks.

Best campsite: Etosha National Park. Although the campsite itself wasn't anything to write home about (well, it did have three pools and a tower that allowed you to see for miles), camping in Etosha is incredible because campsites are set up near watering holes where animals are definitely going to make an appearance. Floodlights shining down on the watering hole allow you to watch the animals drink at night--an incredible experience and totally different than viewing them during the day. Add a little merlot, and voila!: a LIVE Animal Planet show.

Best holiday: We celebrated Christmas in style on a houseboat on Lake Kariba, Zimbabwe. Our little cabins looked out onto the lake, and the top deck had a bar, a hot tub, plenty of room to relax in the sun or, as it turned out, hold a raging dance party. Also, the boat had a cage off the back that we learned was for swimming--to protect us from the crocs and hippos. Sweet.

Best national anthem: In the Okavango Delta, we sat around the campfire with the locals who had poled us to our island camp for the night. After the Botswanans sang some of their traditional songs, they asked us to sing our national anthems. Um, the Star Spangled Banner is NOT a pretty song to sing, particularly if you are singing it as a duet with one person singing in baritone and the other is slightly tone deaf.

Best holiday on the truck: Definitely Christmas. Romy decorated the boat for Christmas (complete with a tree) and prepared a 5-course feast that included tiramisu for dessert! While Robert, er, Santa Claus, handed out presents to each of us (Jacob got an "American football," as it is known throughout the world, and I got a book of Sudoku puzzles. Apparently we were pretty nice this year.). On Christmas Eve we donned our Christmas suits: lovely little treasures hand-picked by Romy and Robert from clothing markets in Africa. Jacob, therefore, spent the evening dancing around in a tuquoise and purple speedo (a.k.a. weeny bikini, banana hammock) and a red and white teddy. I got off fairly easy with a hot pink leotard and brown "poo pants." (As a side note: Jacob has worn his purple and turquoise speedo on numerous occasions since Christmas Eve, and I have a feeling that it will make it back to the U.S. of A. with us). After having a huge dance party (see pics), we all ended up jumping naked into the cage. Let it be known that the "Naked Cage" was instigated by none other than Jacob (surprise, surprise), but nobody seemed to think twice about stripping down to his or her birthday suit and plunge into the cage. Thus, X-mas in Africa amounted to diving naked into a cage of naked people over and over and over again. Naughty or nice, folks? You guessed it . . . . Naughty.

We ended our Absolute Africa safari in Cape Town, once again dancing our tushes off--this time at a local bar with a one-man band singing American tunes after feasting on African game and drinking lots of wine with the truck crew. It was a wild finish to a wild tour. Whatever independence or cultural explorations we gave up, we gained a great group experience and had a hell of good time. Now, we are back on our own, cruising through South Africa, thinking about the folks we said goodbye to and the good times we shared on that big, yellow truck. See you all again next time . . . in the NAKED CAGE!

Honeymoon Paradise, Part 2

2006-12-05T05:54:00.000-08:00

Days 75-83: Ko Chang and Ko Wai, Thailand

After weeks on the dusty backpacker road - early morning starts, bumpy taxi rides, thousands of temple stairs, long days on our feet (rough life, we know) - well, it was time for a bit of "aaaaahhhhhh." It was time for some beach paradise - Thailand style. Just a boat hop away, we happily entered a lazy land where the sky to ocean to beach makes that perfect, continuous transition from blue to turquoise to green to gold. Aaaahhhhhhh. Soon, the toughest part of the day became deciding what type of fruit I wanted my morning shake to consist of, or, in Al's case, whether to execute yet another handstand in the ocean. Seriously. I became further conviced that I married a fish, oh wait, I mean, a mermaid, honey.

Our first few days were on "Lonely Beach," Ko Chang, where we found just a bit of activity, centered around an ewok-like, wooden deck-structure hostel aptly named the "Treehouse." Tattoos, silk pillows, funky lamps, reggae, and best of all, the "Thai rasta-man,"
came at no extra charge. Plus the food was lovely - big red snapper and giant squid barbecued on the beach. Best of all, Al showed her prowess for lotteries. Our first night was party night at the Treehouse (we later learned that every night is party night.) But this night was particularly special in that they were giving out free loot, by drawing out of a hat. Al, god bless her, reached into the nappy rasta hat of prizes, and innocently pulled out the the grand prize: a romantic, candle light dinner for two! Plus, lo and behold, the next night was Thanksgiving! She won a free, and massive, Thanksgiving feast. . . . So after watching an amazing sunset while swimming in the crystal clear and incredibly warm waters off of Koh Chang, we feasted on strawberry daiqueries, steamed whole red snapper, calamari, indian curries, BBQ beef skewers, and a bucket (yes, a bucket) of L.I.T (always a nice night cap after a satisfying meal, yes?). Just like back home, the Thanksiving feast was finished with some very solid fire dancing on the beach a la circue du soleil, but, once again, Thai rasta style. It was a night fit for the pilgrims. Gobble, gobble.

We eventually got rastaed and fire-danced out, and wanted things to get even quieter. So, we left Koh Chang for a small island further out in the Gulf of Thailand. Koh Wai had only a few bungalows on it, no electricty and incredibly clear water perfect for handstands, or, in my case, floating on my back and patting my smoothie-filled belly. Beyond a short walk here, or a chess game there, plus a day of diving, we did absolutely noooothing.

Our little hut was set in the trees, with a a balcony that over looked the ocean. We spent the days lying on the beach, drinking mango shakes, and scrambling up the steep path to watch the sunsets from the rocky cliffs on the other side of the island. We went diving for a day and saw blue-spotted sting rays, moray eels, and enormous schools of fish that wrapped around us like bending, moving walls. Just awesome. At night, we held an international round table of sorts with our new friends Ole (Belgium), Willow (Canada), Joe (New Zealand), Jasna and Andraz (Slovenia), and Charlie(Canada) and Mona (Germany)-- marveling at Joe's funny Kiwi words, Ole's circus tricks, and Andraz' wonderful quality of laughing at all of my jokes. Now I must visit Slovenia.

The days melted away. Laziness became our profession. And our minds and bodies were settled deep into the sandy beach. We were relaxed and rejuvenated. And ready for Africa . . .

A Sticky Mix: Good, Evil, Friends and Temples

2006-12-01T18:13:00.000-08:00

Days 68-74: Phnom Penh and Ankgor Wat, Cambodia

A bumpy, butt-numbing ride through steamy monsoon forests. A long, seemingly forgotten road to a few rotting shacks with a ragtag posse of armed, uniformed men who claimed to be border guard/immigration agents/con men. Do you see our obligatory border flag? That will cost a little bribe, amigo. A few dollars exchanged, another stamp in the passport and a "seamless" entrance into Cambodia, with Laos in the rearview. Humidity is free of charge.

But soon, as we entered the towns and cities, the history of the place became all too real. As with Myanmar, we sensed the echoes of tragedy. But the darkness and evil that occurred at the hands of the Khmer Rouge is unparalleled, and we shuddered at its remnants. Beggars left limbless by a landmine. Museums displaying Khmer Rouge torture chambers. Billboards with cartoon-like messages that encourage villagers to hand over their AK-47's. We were walking a tourist trail on the heels of death, famine and genocide. However, whereas Myanmar is in the throes of repression, much of which is hidden from the outside world (and from visitors like us), Cambodia is in the process of rebuilding and reconciliation, displaying its wounds to the world in hopes of speeding up the healing. A conversation with a cabbie summed it up: a big smile of teeth (and grime) related stories of suffering.

We began in Phnom Penh, the capital. At times, it felt like Paris a la sauna: baguette vendors, grand waterfront promenades, colonial buildings; plus extra sweat and spice . . . And all the people have such beautiful faces; a distinctively Cambodian beauty of round, kind eyes, soft skin, big smiles. Simply beautiful people. We strolled by cafes, museums, dining at non-profit restaurants dedicated to a cause, say, teaching street children how to succeed in the hospitality business (and avoid destitution, crime, drugs). Before the war, it must have been a remarkable place.

But our wanderings always came with a sobering dose of the history; evidence of the past genocide and war, still so recent, was overwhelming at times. Particualrly at S-21, a former high school turned torture headquarters by the Khmer Rouge. It is now a museum, filled with empty rooms - floors still stained with blood - and other rooms, filled with black-and-white photos of individuals "liquidated" by the Khmer. Shocking. Disturbing. So much killing, all for the sake of a few individuals' ideology. Not even over gold, oil or something tangible. We just couldn't understand it. Then, as we left the museum, standing outside we encountered a limbless, disfigured Cambodian man, begging, and we wondered - was he tortured like this as well? Nevertheless, he smiled on.

It was not all so intense. The Mekong glows at sunset; jacaranda trees embrace the street; nightlife pumps onto the promenades, sweaty and sticky in the night heat; children playing; Cambodian teenagers party away, with no memory of the war; old Western men clutch their young Cambodian escorts, laughing their guilt away (we gagged) . . . we took in cocktails from the elevated balcony of a romantic cafe, watching, oh yes, an elephant crossing a major highway, with his "driver." We roamed through lively markets with some very random food choices (hairy tarantuals, anyone?), took in the buddha carving workshops (the Khmer Rouge destroyed all Buddhist imagery, so now they are remaking them), yummy bubble iced teas over chess. Again, a magical city. Pumping out history: spicy, bloody, sticky. We loved Phnom Penh.

Next, off to the mighty temples of Ankgor. One of the seven wonders of the world, and - with the arrival of our beautiful friends Beau, Kitty and Jed - a welcome change of pace: our first visitors from home! At first, it was almost shocking to have them, across the table, in Cambodia of all places. Sort of a reality check on how small the world is, and also how far away from home we were. Yet, here they were, right in our world. Airplanes are so cool.

After a night of drinks and spicy food, Beau having pummeled through a few plates of spring rolls (man, that kid can eat), we were all up bright and early, zooming in tuk-tuks off to the Angkor kingdom's arhictectural and spiritual gift: hundreds of intricately carved temples spread throughout the Cambodian jungle. Just incredible. A maze of passageways, carved spires, friezes, collonades. Plus, with the exception of a few fully-restored temples, many of them are crumbling and/or overgrown with giant ficus trees and other crawlers. So, we had to step over and under debris, climb past massive, twisting roots, and reconstruct in our heads what the original may have looked like. It was a unique playground, fueling the imagination.

And of course, for those who know him, give Beau some temples in a foreign land, and he is back to his usual goofiness, with Kitty smiling the whole time. They are a precious combo. Kitty was so in-tuned with the kids; she does indeed have the biggest heart in the world, which was a good example after Al and I had become more than jaded by months of saying no to begging children. Beau was usually fondling some precious artefact, about to break a frieze or take out a monk with his large squash butt. And Jed, quite admirably, feigned sanity as he fought off some ridiculous jetlag. Beer certinaly aided him.

So we cruised the town of Siem Reap with a crew. Our time together was short, as plans to continue together in Vietnam could not materialize. But we had a beautiful few days together, taking in one of the most spectacular sites in Asia. As the photos show . . .

Eaaaazzy Rider

2006-12-01T17:41:00.000-08:00

Days 62-67: Southern Laos

Vroom vroom folks. And welcome to the open country roads of southern Laos. Our "hog" was no Harley; in fact, it was a toy-like Chinese motor-scooter that maxed out at speeds of 80 km/hr (no worries, mom, we never went over 60 km/hr), and better yet, the faux leather seat had an embroidered Mickey Mouse face on it. It was the "Mickey Mouse model." Nevertheless, zooming through the sleepy rural coffee plantation roads of Laos, where an eventful day for the locals might be a dog-on-pig tustle, we were a head-turner indeed. Two white folks on a scooter? Big news around here. And so, for a few days, we tasted our own Motorcycle Diaries in one of the more remote and rural parts of an already remote and rural country: the Bolaven Plateau of southern Laos. It is an enchanting and quiet area, where the lowlands of the giant Mekong River valley rise up in a series of steps, creating perfectly cool conditions for growing what the snooty Parisians consider to be the world's best coffee (most of the coffee grown in this area winds up in the cafes of France). And yes, the coffee was scrumptuous. Particularly when enjoyed beside this area's other big feature: massive waterfalls!! (That's a 400-footer behind Al's mug.) And so, having filled up the Mickey at the local wooden shack, aka gas station (see below . . . uuhhh, where's the ATM?), we spent our days selecting a waterfall on the map and cruising along with goofy helmets (particularly Al's; hers looked like a Stormtrooper helmet . . . endearing but definitely not sexy). Best of all was when we rolled through the coffee plantation villages. Once the children saw our white skin, they typically gave chase, unprepared for the powerful growl of Mickey's afterburners.

We broke up the pavement with dips in lovely swimming holes, a rainforest hike, and, best of all, and quite obligatory in this part of the world: an elephant ride. Check out Al teetering on that lovely beast! Best of all was watching him eat. The trunk is a glorious appendage. I have serious trunk envy.

Another, more subtle, layer to our explorations of the area was a historical one. This is the land of the Ho Chi Minh trail, and the site of America's "secret war" during the Vietnam conflict, when plain-clothes CIA agents and Air Force pilots bombed this major supply pipeline of the Viet Cong and North Vietnamese armies. Compliments of Nixon and Kissinger, and unbeknownst to Congress and the rest of America, the U.S. dropped millions of tons of bombs on this part of Laos in an unsuccessful effort to shut down movement along this infamous jungle dirt road. Quite a shock, but we learnt that, on a per capita basis, Laos is the most heavily bombed country in history, and much of that bombing took place in the southern regions we were happily scooting through. Strangely, except for the occasional earth depression which we guessed as a bomb crater, we saw little visible evidence of this history. Nevertheless, we could not help but shudder at the thought of distant B-52 bombers dropping 250-lb bombs all across what we experienced as a sublime, rolling rural landscape of waterfalls and coffee beans. Quite surreal, especially when juxtaposed against the simple smiles and energetic waves of the villagers. They seemed unconcerned that just 25 years ago, our country's leaders decimated their entire way of life.

After cruising around on Mickey Mouse, we went down to the "4000 Islands," the very southern tip of Laos, just on the Cambodian border, where the Mekong fans out to create a web of small islands and water channels. We stayed on a small island called Don Det, where time all but stops. Laos in general is a very laidback place, but Don Det takes it to a whole new level. The island has nothing on it but a few backpacker bungalows (bungalow = hut with a mattress in it and a mosquito net, but for $1 each a night, you can't complain!) among the rice paddies and small farms, no electricity, a few paths for walking and biking (no cars) and a few small cafes (no more than huts overlooking the very slow moving Mekong waters). On our first morning we went out for a "quick" breakfast, which ended up taking about three hours! So, we soon learned to predict when we would be hungry, and to arrive at the restaurant at least 2 hours before. Sidenote: on the menu were "happy shakes," "happy pizzas", and even "happy garlic bread." Hmmmm. You could essentially order anything "happy," just be sure to let the cook know how "happy" you want to get . . . Later that day, Jacob, following some locals, jumped off a make-shift diving board (checkout the pic) into the Mekong. He was obviously too happy for his own good, having learned later that this section of the Mekong is the one place on Earth that you can contract RIVER FLUKES through your skin. Yummy. This was further confirmed when I later witnessed Mr. Water Buffalo dropping some serious poo in the same waters. . . but he seems to be doing ok. And he is still "happy."

But, when meals were not stretching into days, we did manage to get out of the hammock and onto a bicycle seat. In the colonial days of yore, the Frenchies managed to build some cool old bridges, allowing us to explore multiple islands, including some truly remarkable waterfalls, which were really more like a continous wall of cataracts descending down into the Cambodian stretch of the Mekong.

The laziness of Don Det was further punctuated by a riverside feast. One of the backpackers staying at our place arranged with the locals that ran our place to have a pig roast to celebrate his birthday. A bunch of us decided to pitch in for it, and were really excited about it. . .until we learned that the pig that was going to "get it" was the one we had just taken a bunch of pictures of because he was so cute . . . Although it definitely gave Jacob pause, he showed no hesitation in piling on a second helping of pig meat.

Laos came full circle for us. Fast and furious on Mickey to slow and slooooooow amongst thousands of islands. A healthy balance that prepared us for the intensity of visiting Cambodia . . .

Rock The Ping!!

2006-11-06T19:51:00.000-08:00

Days 55-61: Chiang Mai, Thailand

It was a night-time paratrooper mission that we were surprisingly prepared for: Loi Kraton in Chiang Mai, Thailand . . . someone HAD to do it. Mission accepted. Pass the 22 oz. Singha, por favor. Quite unbeknownst to us, and even more shocking as we were coming from the Buddhist timewarp of Myanmar, we dropped into a week-long riverside party so riotous that it looks, feels, smells, and definitely sounds more like a warzone. This is Thailand's biggest celebration (perhaps tied with April's water festival, so we heard, where absolutely everyone gets shot with water guns, 24/7, naked children to full business attire, all targets are clean), and Chiang Mai is the Times Square for it, minus the cops, laws, and fear of charred flesh. At its core, Loi Kraton is a festival of floating lanterns to celebrate the end of the monsoon season, culminating in a momentous full-moon festival. For purists, this involves literally THOUSANDS of 3-foot tall, 1-foot diameter paper condom-shaped lanterns, with a burning flame at its base. The lantern captures the rising heat of the flame and MAGIC is created, as the entire city participates in a collective doubling of the night sky's star count. If you can imagine, standing on the foot bridge of the Ping River, looking at the city street and skyline - ablaze with fireworks, apartment parties, and sheer street madness - and then, slowly shift your eyes up towards the moon, which is completely full, and surrounded by hundreds, perhaps thousands, of glowing orange paper lanterns floating slowly into the atmosphere. Absolutely incredible. Chaos below, floating nirvana above. Plus, the river turns to light as the purest and oldest of traditions is carried forward, the floating of the Kraton lanterns, which are 8-12-inch, round candle lanterns, made from banana tree trunk, leaf, various orange and purple flowers, incense and candles. Following the tradition, Al and I made some ourselves, made our way down to the Ping, and set our lanterns out to sail after making a wish, as is also the tradition.

But, if you think Loi Kraton is all floating wishes and riverside romance, think again . . . it is a WAR ZONE lubricated with beer, fireworks, and jam-packed street action. Fireworks absolutely EVERYWHERE, shot without abandon as though an M-80 was the equivalent of a spitball; the noise, at first, was shocking. Loud blasts would often go off right by our side, as the local kids loved shooting their stockpile at the feet of "farang" (Thai for "gringo"). After 3 days, we got (sort of) used to the explosion noises, although we gained a new fear for the quite agitated, sometimes snarling street dog population: we all know that deserted, mangy street dogs do not mix well with a week of loud explosion noise. No worries. Beer made us brave. Amongst the Thai teenagers, we saw the most ridiculous acts of irresponsibility: street fires into which children threw explosives; explosive-rigged coconuts tossed into major traffic intersections by skinny Thai boys on motor scooters, zipping away just before smoke and noise shattered normal traffic flow; a girl swinging a bottle rocket like a lasso, but not letting go in time, exploding it INTO HER OWN FACE (WHAT!?!!??!); floating lanterns that dripped flaming fuel down to whatever was below.

Fortunately, a grand stroke of luck occured on our first morning, when we met Johann, who, like me, grew up in Encino, CA; just graduated rom Berkeley (undergrad, making him way more fun than a lame-O grad student like me), and here we were, in an internet cafe in northern Thailand watching a You Tube clip of his college buddy winning $25,000 playing everyone's favorite: PLINKO! on the Price Is Right. Even better, Johann had been teaching English in Chiang Mai for many months, knew the city inside out, lived in a riverside penthouse with incredible views (and a little safe distance) of the war zone/lantern sky, and best of all, is totally awesome and had a crew of also totally awesome friends: Ramen, Ben, Ainsley, Paul, Tessa, Pong (sp?), and Erica. It was a good ol' California-Virginia-Georgia-Quebec-Thai alliance, and we all got just a little crazy on the Ping River: shooting fireworks off the apartment balcony, Al eating crunchy worms offered by Johann's teenage Thai students, Johann's landlord absolutely losing it and kicking everone out of the place (which was really undeserved. seriously.) . . . and, most strange, a little shocking, and VERY claustrophobic: 10 of us maxing out the weight limit in the apartment tower elevator (and this is an elevator sized for the Thai, 5-feet by 5-feet square), so that we were all absolutely packed in for about 20 minutes . . . some breathing shallower and shallower, some reacting with rowdy drunken jokes, some uncontrollable hysteric laughing, some plain old FREAKING OUT . . . seriously, getting stuck in a Thai elevator with 10 drunkards is a new one on us. I would not recommend it, unless, of course, everyone in there behaves like our friend Ben (he had the rowdy drunk joke reaction, which was my MO as well, except that I had a guy losing it next to me, demanding that we all SHUT UP, particularly me).

The days did bring a touch of sobriety and culture: a wonderfully hungover Thai cooking class (soups, curry, sticky mango rice, vegetable carving . . . what a glorious cuisine they have); amazing markets (including the famous Night Bazaar in which you can buy anything from a pirated Season 1 of the Sopranos to a glutinous rice steamer, to knock--off Deisel jeans) ; and, dare I say, a shocking amounting of street-stand grazing in what is most definitely the most delicious country on earth: barbequed squid for $.10 (Al's favorite, no doubt); fresh coconut milk (one coconut please, just add straw); eggplant minced pork curry; squares of fried spring onions (sounds unexciting but was one of the favorites); spicy octopus salad; whole grilled fish wrapped in banana leaf; and mangoes in sweet sticky rice (Jacob's favorite). We finished off our time in Chaing Mai sharing a meal, of course, with our new found friends at a restaurant/bar with a Thai band whose lead singer crooned Stevie Nicks and Beatle ditties while we once again plowed through some amazing food.

"Monkalicious"

2006-11-03T20:15:00.000-08:00

Days 31 - 54: Myanmar (Burma)

As Al would say, we "got a wild hair" and decided to jump ship - leave the more beaten tourist path of Thailand, Vietnam, Cambodia - and head to Myanmar (formerly Burma). And what a glorious decision, as Myanmar has no doubt changed our lives. At its core, Myanmar displays the extremes of humanity: on the one hand, our strongest impression of the country was that it is populated by the absolute most gentle, sweetest people on earth. Wherever we walked, we were greeted with huge smiles, hellos, impromptu conversations about Myanmar or America, offers to see a monastery, children holding our hands . . . people genuinely happy to meet us and show us their country. Thus, a new friend at incredible Shwedagon Pagoda (the golden temple pictured below) intercepts us to discuss the Buddhist importance of the day of week we were each born on (making me a "guinea pig" and Al a "dragon"; yes, she pointed out the "who wears the pants" factor on that comparison). Amongst the temples of Bagan, a teenage boy proudly escorts us through the tunnels of an underground monastery, as his monk friends widely smile as they wash out their burgundy robes. Later, sitting amongst hundreds of brightly headwrapped Pa-O tribespeople in their hilltop temple, offering us tea and narcotics, we brought the village chief to near tears because we were not able to accept his offer of pork curry breakfast. Or when a hotel employee chases down our horse-drawn carriage for 3 miles on his bicycle, in the pre-dawn darkness, as we are about to set off by river boat so that he can give us a small zip pouch we left behind in our room (plus GINORMOUS smile - how does he DO that at 4 a.m.?!) . . . and then, would not accept any tip (amazing, considering he is living on perhaps $300 a YEAR!) So, the people of Myanmar blew our minds; given the repression they live under (more on this below), they exude openness, charity, warmth, which stems from their deep Buddhist faith and spirituality, on display in every town and village, where even the poor shopkeer will always come outside to fill the bowl of the ambling monk looking for his daily alms of rice . . . we felt this spirit everywhere, and saw a helluvalot of monks, thus inspiring a new word: MONKALICIOUS, occassionally, MONKALICIOUSNESS. Yes, after just 8 weeks on the road, our list of strange inside jokes is getting pretty long.

And then, in stark contrast and making the country's monkaliciousness even more striking, was our more indirect contact with the brutal, selfish, repressive military regime that bears down on the people of Myanmar everyday. Of course, our exposure was limited because foreigners can only travel to about 20% of the country, and our movements were being constantly tracked by the government. Furthermore, undercover spies are (supposedly) common, listening for illicit conversations, which could end in arrest (for the locals, not us). We heard of the house arrest of their duly-elected leader, and Nobel Peace prize winner, Aung San Suu Kyi, but of course, were forbidden from discussing or visiting her location; of universities shut down for years following peaceful protests-turned-bloody clashes, leaving thousands of students dead; of towns completely uprooted and displaced, with no compensation, so that military officers could set up their gated communities; we saw the displacement of thousands by the worst flooding in 40 years (which we luckily did not get caught in), and yet the complete absence of government support to ease the suffering of those who lost their homes and perhaps loved ones; we saw illegal video footage taken by a Spanish tourist documenting dozens of village people (including many children) forced into labor to move thousands of pounds of mud, rocks and water that had flooded a roadway, under the watchful eye of military officers; evidence of information control, in that news of the floods was repressed, so that locals could not know whether their loved ones were hit; significant internet censorship; propoganda papers; and on and on and on. Perhaps most sobering was the conversations with our trekking guide who could speak freely out in the rural mountains: when discussing the political situation, his tone was one of sadness, disappointment, and even shame (perhaps a sense that all Burmese were to blame for not fighting harder against the current status quo . . . but, how can they fight without more support from the outside world?, I wonder) . . . . he loved his country yet hated his government . . . and it was apparent that this juxtaposition unsettled his individual core . . . forty years old yet soul-searching like a teenager (but also rescued by his Buddhist beliefs, which we discussed over many glasses of rum). Needless to say, this display of social and emotional extremes changed our own perspectives on what it means to live in America, to have the freedom to travel the world, write a blog, etc. . . . now, we wonder, what more can we do to help the people of Myanmar? And why does the international community not do more?

Needless to say, our eyes widened as we moved through the country. Our Burmese journey began in the capital, Yangon, a city that LIVES on the sidewalk - eats, drinks, sells, watches Manchester United football, honks, yells, sings - beneath the shadow of decrepit colonial buildings and narrow Parisian-like streets leftover from the previous era of British control. Simply the most and intriguing bustling street life we have ever seen. After a couple of days in Yangon, we hopped on a night bus for the 12-hour journey to Bagan, a town with "more temples than tourists," so they say. Little did we know that this ride would be much more "eventful" tahn we expected . . .first, around midnight, (just as we had managed to fall asleep, despite the very loud and spirited Burmese karaoke videos that blasted through the night) a bus broke down on the side of the road--a road too narrow for us to pass--so, to avoid suffocating on the hot bus, we all filed out and sat on the side of the road for two hours in darkness. Relieved when we started rolling again, we managed to fall asleep again, only to be woken up in the wee hours of the early morning because, this time, OUR bus had broken down. Once again, we all filed out, and sat on the side of the road, to wait while one of our fellow travelers took off to the nearest town to get the spare part we needed. Seven, yes, seven hours later, he arrived. The bus was fixed, and we made it a whopping 10 miles before breaking down again. We all realized that this bus ain't moving (and we were so close--just four hours away!). The driver flagged down a huge pickup (well, it looked more like a dump truck), and we all piled in the back and almost made it to our destination--now we were just an hour and one more short bus-ride away. And, so, 34 hours (just 300 miles!) and a bus-load of new-found Burmese friends later, we arrived in Bagan.

A sidenote to the bus ride: cleanliness, health and health care is abysmal in Myanmar; a situation exacerbated by their love of narcotic betelnut chew, which they constantly spit, forming dark red pools and stains absolutely EVERYWHERE (including most people's teeth). . . a health situation made worse by their love of the snot rocket, YES, EVEN ON A PUBLIC BUS - so that we were riding in a serious Burmese germ-infested vessel which led to - HUGE BUMMER - 5 days of Jacob bed-ridden with a high, high fever (peaking frequently at 103-104). I think the photo says it all. Al was a true sport, monitoring my progress and bringing me samosas and pizza in bed. Just as the tiny room and bamboo wall covering became unbearable - not to mention our concern about my health - the fever broke, and I was back in the saddle. On a positive note, the days without bathing allowed me to experiment a bit with facial hair growth, and I can say that, now 3 weeks later, I still have the fledgling soul patch that took root in that hot, sickly period in Bagan.

Bagan is like nothing we have ever seen before. A landscape of thousands of temples, sprawled out across rolling green fields down towards the banks of the mighty Ayeyarwaddy River. It is Myanmar's mecca, and yet almost moon-like as we stared out at sunset from the top tier of an empty red brick temple and gazed across a landscape of thousands of temple spires, most of which were empty as well. But just when we felt alone and things unreal, a lone rice farmer down below - wheeling in the day's load by ox cart - reminded us that this is no "otherworld"; this is where they live. Just incredible.

Traveling by slow river boat to Mandalay, the seat of Myanmar's "ancient cities," and the home of more than half of the country`s monks, continued to amaze us. But soon it became apparent that this is just the way things are: shifting rice fields, ox carts, massive sunsets, golden or white pagoda temples perched alone on hilltops, monks walking quietly on ancient teak bridges . . . and yet, what was most incredible at times was what was LACKING: no cell phones, much fewer cars (but plenty of horse carts), no outdoor ads, darker streets at night . . . like we had traveled back in time (with a few modern nicetites here and there, of course). Again, a contrast: despite our awe, things felt more real. Soccer with kids in a temple? OF COURSE this makes sense! Shooting the shit with a monk about Stephen King books (he, not I, is a huge fan) on the 600-year-old, 2-km-long, all-teak U Bein foot bridge? YES! Is that a "truck" or a MicroMachine (prompting Al to sing "fat guy in a little truck" constantly)? Who cares?! It's Myanmar and WE LOVE IT!!

And yet, things had still not peaked. We found even deeper admiration up high in Myanmar's mountains. From the mountain town of Kalaw, we decided to hike the 50 kilometers to Inle Lake, our next destination in Myanmar (and no, the decision to hike was not based on the fact that it was likely to be as fast as a bus ride). Our guide, Ko Shwe, was an experienced hiker, and donned in bright purple sweatpants, he set off with us in tow. We passed bright yellow fields of sesame flowers, tea plantations, and the occassional hilltop monastery. After lunch at a Nepalese hill top restaurant (in the middle of absolutely nowhere!!!), we ran into a torrential downpour, and arrived at the village where we were to stay the night pretty damp and definitely muddy. Our hosts for the night were a family of four (mother and father about our age, and two incredibly cute daughters who were 4 and 5),who lived in a two-room thatched roof hut. The girls were quite proud to have visitors staying in THEIR house, and seemed to enjoy leading us around the village by hand in front of all of their friends (the older girl seemed to be quite keen on Jacob, the little tart!). As we played soccer with some teenagers, our cook (unbeknownst to us, the trek we had arranged came with not only a guide, but a cook as well!!) worked his magic over an openflame INSIDE the hut we were sleeping in that night. We feasted that night on all sorts of yummy Burmese dishes and tried Myanmar whiskey at our guide's request (twist our arms!). Just before bed the two little girls gave me a "traditional" leg massage, which really consisted of more poking and prodding than massaging. Laughing at their poor attempt to take away the day's hiking pains, Ko Shwe said that they were definitely still "learning" the techniques from their mother. After sleeping remarkably soundly on the floor of the hut, we woke the next morning to discover that the mother of my two massueses had left at one a.m. to hike the five hours to the nearest town to sell flowers in the market, as she did every week, and would hike back that night.

During Day 2 of the hike, we ran into a man who invited us to join him on his way to a nearby monastery for a celebration that day. Not ones to miss out on a party, we were definitely up for going a bit out of our way to check it out. So we joined our new friend and a long line of monks--all heading to the monastery. Everyone gathered--women, wearing their traditional black clothes, with bright orange wraps on their heads, while men wore bright greens and yellows on their heads--together on the floor of the monastery, drinking tea, eating local snacks, and giving offerings to the monks of the monastery.

We finished the hike with a boat ride on Inle Lake, and ended at the Venice of Myanmar--a village built on stilts completely over the water. Getting sucked into a bar that advertised mojitos (I mean, who'd have thought you could get a mojito in Myanmar, much less a stilt village on a remote lake?), we ran into a couple from Amersterdam that we had met on the hike, so we had more than one of the surprisingly good mojitos. Jamela and Harold were heading to a nearby town the next night, where a full moon balloon festival was being held and invited us to join them. We had heard that during the festival, each village in the area launches a hot air balloon that they had spent SIX months and thousands of dollars (an incredible sum for this country!) making and decorating--one village to be chosen as the winner for the best balloon.
So the next night (after yet another round of mojitos), we all piled into a car (the 4 of us, plus their driver, plus the driver's friend), and set off for the festival. On the way, however, we ran into a torrential downpour--which was made worse by the fact that the windshield wipers stopped working, and the road conditions were abominable. After waiting out the storm in a cafe/bar in a random roadside industrial town (by the attention we got, it was clear that we were the only tourists who had ever set foot in that place), we made it to the festival.
People from all over the country had traveled to this town for the festival--it was packed. The streets were lined with vendors selling everything from purple gelatinous goo (some sort of dessert) to baseball hats to fried bugs. We made our way to where the balloons were being
launched. When a village was to set off their balloon, they paraded through the crowd carrying a large banner and singing and chanting as the balloon was being prepared to launch. One village hung hundreds of small lanterns in different colors off the sides of the balloon (in the pic here!).
Another village decided to have fireworks shoot out of the bottom of it once it got in the air. After all the fireworks were lit, the balloon was supposed to begin ascending--only this village didnt get the physics quite right. The fireworks were apparently too heavy for the balloon to float, so it just hovered a few feet above the ground. And that's when the fireworks starts shooting at the crowd. At first people were kind of cheering and laughing, but we knew we were in trouble when we saw the Burmese man behind us crouching in a bunker with a look of utter terror in his eyes. As we were turning to run or crouch or do whatever it took to not get hit, a firework nailed Jacob in the chest. Luckily, it bounced right off of him, no harm done. I, however, fared a little worse, as a firework shot right into my neck, where I didnt have a layer to protect my skin. With my neck a little singed (dont worry Mom and Dad, its only a nickle-sized burn--and is healing quite nicely), we decided that maybe we should head on back to "Venice." A little bit of water was sounding quite good right then.

Another Helping In The Lion City

2006-10-10T18:18:00.000-07:00

Days 24-30: Singapore

More noodles please. Another sambal prawn. Duck rice? Why not? Sugar cane tea? Hell yes! After 3 weeks of rough Indonesian buses, that same old Nasi Goreng, and the tried-and-true "give me more money or hit the curb" trick, well, Singapore--the "Lion City," of corporate towers, colonial arcades, NikeTowns, subways, and glorious, glorious hawker centers (like a mall food court, except with AMAZING food, from all around the world)--was a welcome dose of choice and modernity. First impressions were that this place is squeaky clean, and no one tries to rip you off (after all, they might lose a hand or arm if they do). But, as we spent more time in the city's various cultural centers, particularly Little India, which was bumping to a huge festival; sampling the variety of food ("sampling" is a polite term for the bona fide grazing we did); talking with various residents (who rave about the city); and then admiring the efficient transportation and the carefully planned balancing between historic districts, containing pink, purple, and green roof-tiled, turn-of-the-century Chinese shophouses preserved at the foot of high-value corporate towers, plus the British colonial legacy, now filled with interesting museums . . . well, soon we were thinking, maybe it would be fun to live here a bit? We'd certainly be well fed.

Of course, there were some odd moments. For one, we continuously found ourselves in a MASSIVE, air-conditioned shopping malls, with Chinese-style Abercrombie in our faces and Hoobastank blaring in the background. Wide-eyed from the simplicities of Indonesia, we succumbed to the temperature-controlled, mall culture (although not buying much, given our budget) . . . I knew it was out of control when I had a 4-foot, mohawked sales-kid telling me I looked hot in some over-priced, hip-hop urban safari shirt with way too many tears and stitches in it . . . his "good for clubs" pitch just wasn't gonna make me take the fashion plunge (although, admittedly, it almost did).

On a more real level, we met up with a friend of a friend who are now our friends: Justin and Jessica. They absolutely spoiled us by treating us to a glorious brunch--apparently brunch is a big thing in Singapore, and boy was it! The spread at the buffet-style brunch at the Fullerton Hotel overlooking the river was a sight to be seen (particularly after rice and vegetables in Indonesia): we had sushi, lobster tails, prime rib (well, Jacob had that), an assortment of nearly 30 amazing cheeses, dim sum, raw oysters, curries, omellettes, made-to-order pasta, and over 20 different kinds of cakes, tarts, and pastries for dessert! Not to mention the all-you-can-drink champagne! And yes, we definitely had about as much as we could drink! We had a great time meeting Justin and Jessica, and learning more about life in Singapore. Again we thought: could we live here?? I could definitely get used to brunching!

Later that day, we went to the Long Bar at the Raffles Hotel and had the singature Singapore Sling there, while eating peanuts (and throwing the shells on the floor), singing along to the Chuck Berry tunes, and picturing colonial bar brawls complete with elephant guns.

Our last few days in Singapore were spent taking in a few more sites (in particular, the Asian Civilizations Museum, which was awesome), having another wonderful meal with Justin and Jessica at their apartment, and getting ready for our next step: Myanmar!

Re-discovernig Java Man

2006-10-09T20:07:00.000-07:00

Days 16-18: Gunung Bromo, Java, Indonesia

Java - where one half of the world's fourth most populous nation lives; where everyone has a backyard view of a giant, smoking volcano; where recent earthquakes and tsunamis have added to the chaos of Indonesia's hodge-podge of Muslims, Hindus, Buddhists, Christians, and other tribal associations trying to hold on to (and, for some, break apart) nationhood . . . and, of course, the homeland of Java man, our post-ape predecessor. We quickly felt the complexity of this island nation, as the peace and cultural unity of Lombok and Bali faded as soon as we stepped off the smelly, rusting ferry . . . the May earthquake, 2001 tsunami and 2001 and 2005 Bali terrorist bombings have driven away most tourists and the Javanese, in particular, are desperate . . . immediately the scam attempts began, but with a much sharper edge than Bali, and although we (thought we) were prepared for some shifty eyes and broken promises in southeast Asia, we quickly discovered that, for us, we could never be prepared for it. Because, when you travel half way across the globe to meet a new people - to connect - it is hard to not take it personal upon discovering that the ONLY reason this person is talking to us is to (a) get money out of us and/or (b) get more money than we agreed upon and/or (c) leave us in the dust if necessary to get even more money . . . the first 24 hours were disheartening. All sense of trust was lost . . . first it was the busdriver who tried to charge us 100,000 Rp for a ride that should have cost about 4,000 Rp. Then it was the guy who tried to charge us double for the bus ride that we knew cost half as much as he quoted. Then it was--and this was the worst--the guy who promised us a ride to Ceromo Lewang, a very remote mountain town and our destination for the night, who stopped in the middle of nowhere, claiming that he was not going to go any farther, but that his "friend" would take us to where we wanted to go for 500 times the price. We were stuck, he knew it and he had us by the proverbial balls. So what could we do? We paid the money.

On the drive, we saw some smoke and fire in the distance, and only once we got closer did we realize that, yep, that was the volcano burning in the night. We woke up the next morning on the rim of the Tengger crater massif, in the middle of which stood multiple volcanic cones, inlcuding Mt Bromo, an indeed still active volcano. We decided to hike the 2.5km to the rim of Bromo's cone, passing an incredibly remote temple at Bromo's base. The only other people there were the occasional horse men ("are you tired? do you want horse ride for $50,000 RP?" . . . and us thinking: "do you really think, after traveling thousands of miles by plane, bus, taxi, and foot, that we are ready to bust out our wallet for a 400-meter ride on your starving horse?!),wrapped from head to toe with only his eyes showing to protect himself from the incredible sandstorms.
As we walked in what might as well have ben a Martian crater, we watched smoke continuously pour from the crater (yep, the crater we were about to climb). Don't worry mom, we made a game-plan in case it blew. Safety first, right? At the base of Bromo is a staircase--253 steps to be exact--to the rim ofthe crater. We were nearly (literally) blown away at the top of the crater, by the winds, and by the smoke and gases coming out of the crater. Unbelievable. We marveled at the volcano until the sulfuric smell of the gases was just too much, and then headed back, this time passing the same horse-ride entrepreneur, but now laying face down in the sand with his horse tied to his leg. Business was slow. The next morning, we woke up early to catch the sunrise over Bromo. Our timing was, yet again, a little off to catch the sunrise. Only this time, we were late, not early. So we didnt make it up to the top of the ridge for sunrise, but we did get to see the area in the early morning light,which was a pretty spectacular sight. We'll get it right eventually.

Days 19-23: Yogyakarta, Java, Indonesia

Eleven bus hours and three rip-offs later, we arrived in Yogyakarta, a major urban and cultural center with loads of historical remnants from the city's past as the former spiritual and political capital of Java (under the Hindu Mataram kingdom and earlier Buddhist chiefdoms). Centered on the sultan's palace (the kraton) with major boulevards and a maze of fascinating back alleys radiating outward. Indeed, wandering these back alleys was our favorite activity, where crowded food stalls, mopeds, craft worshops, teenie boppers on their Nokias . . . all slid in and out, and only slightly taken aback by the seemingly giant, whiter northern couple passing through. Also, prepared for the worst of tourist scams, we found instead a rather mixed bag of both friendship and scheming: this time the scams came with smiles and a dose of wit, improving our perceptions of the Javanese. Our guard came down, and we actually ENJOYED getting duped - over and over again - with what has got to be the most ridiculous scam - the "extra special, last day only, government-sponsored student art exhibit . . . oh yes, ladies and gentlemen, this is your very last HOUR to come into our 'gallery' and view - even PURCHASE, you are so lucky - these rare, special 'batik' prints" And of what? Oh yes, another image of a woman with cow, coconut or rice paddie, created in just about every color in the Crayola box and mixed together like the first Hypercolor line . And yet, the true artists - not the batik craftsmen, but the schemers - they came up with the most ingenious conversation ploys to lure us in ("you look just like the actor from X-Men") . . . and next thing you know, we are back in some "extra special" art exhibit, looking at, no offense to the long-standing batik tradition, but, in my view, some seriously kitchy-looking crap. The process of making batik is pretty amazing, but this looks like the stuff that NEVER sells at Pier 1.

But batik aside, we delved into some seriously tasty food stalls - succulent, spicy, red chili eggplant; super-fresh, ginger-infused greens; grilled fish; shiny satays; and yes, sweet, delicious super-firm tofu just like mom used to make. Unfortunately, the eggplant toppled Al's tummy a day or two later, but, a little Cipro and TLC knocked that out just in time for the GORGING we did in Singapore. We also discovered a new activity, greatly enhanced by a few large Bintang beers, where we jump into a rickshaw and drive through bustling streets, roundabouts, etc., waving like Brangelina at the paparazzi minus the cameras. Plus, our "driver" (biker, rather) was a total riot . . . check out his tongue!

The sites around Yogya offered a remarkable glimpse into the spiritual past. Arriving for sunrise, we were both amazed by Borobudur - the largest Buddhist structure in the world - a temple built in 900 AD, with 9 different levels wrapping around a mountain side and surrounded by gorgeous temperate monsoon forest. The top two levels (symbolizing the final stages of the eight-fold path to enlightenment) contained 73 giant, bell-shaped stuppas, each one containing a statute of Buddha. The final stage, where no one ever enters, contains a giant stuppa, empty inside, symbolizing that ethereal "nothingness" one must achieve to arrive at enlightenment (yet, begging the question, although I did not ask our guide this, that if no one has ever been inside, how do you know it is empty? . . . i know, asshole Westerner). As the sun rose through the giant stuppas, and we walked downward, taking in the wonderfully crafted friezes depicting stories from the life of Buddha, we could not help but feel a deeper sense of wonder and history. It is a truly special place. Later that day, we headed to Prambanan, a huge Hindu temple, where we got to hangout with our new friend Charlie, a Brit travel addict who has been absolutely everywhere. So of course, we picked her brain for tips over a few beers, made casual plans to meet next summer in the Himalayas, and then took in a traditional Javanese ballet performance with the Prambanan temples lit in the background. A fantastic day.

An Indonesian Honeymoon

2006-10-07T20:28:00.000-07:00

Days 0 - 8: Gili Trawangan, Lombok, Indonesia

Our first time setting foot on the grand continent of Asia, and its immediate wide-eyed OHMYGOD! - we are whizzing through Mataram, the small yet undeniably mad capital of Lombok, an island just east of better-known Bali, and immediately in a "cab" screaming through a type of traffic we've never seen. Motorbikes and mopeds, taxis, semi-trucks, horse-drawn carriages (doing a solid 25mph . . . just picture a horse-drawn carriage and a semi- sharing the same lane on a major U.S. highway, and then picture the horse-drawn carraige actually passing the semi when the latter gets bogged down in traffic. WHAT!?!), rickshaws, wheelbarrows, children everywhere, a cow or two . . . and all of this flowing in and out of two pot-holed lanes in a constant game of chicken (and yes, a moped will take on a semi-truck head-on here in Indonesia) . . . plus, to make it even more exciting, small, gray monkeys jump out into the road every few hundred feet, like they are exepcting to catch a ride or something. All of this with a sunset-lit reel of urban-meets-rural, pastoral street life passing by: pristine rice paddies; openair, Javanese and bamboo furniture workshops; smoking satay skewer stands.

From wild cab to peaceful boat taxi and we arrive just after dark in Gili Trawangan, about 20km off the Lombok coast, a true paradise island of white sand, green water, coral reefs, bungalows, a few backpacker bars (some offering "bloody fresh magic mushroom cocktail" with a rasta vibe to prove it), more horse-drawn carriages, thousands and thousands of inter-bred cats, and, best of all, no cars . . . just quiet peace, world-class diving, and the giant volcanoes of Lombok and Bali in the distant background. On the Gilis (Trawangan is one of three of these tiny islands), we quickly shifted into honeymoon mode at the wonderful Desa Dunia Resort, a collection of 7 traditional Javanese joglo huts facing the Java Sea. Activities included floating in our infinity pool, papaya and pancake breakfast on the beach, backgammon and Bintang beers, fresh seafood in a private beachside hut which the lovely caretakers decorated in fresh flowers and candles, snorkeling with turtles, biking through sandy trails around the island's perimeter (only about 6 km), and, of course, sleeping in. Ahhhhhhh. The stress of planning the trip, the wedding, years in graduate school, moving . . . it is starting to disappear.

Breathe in, breathe out, in, out, squeeze nostrils, equalize, clear mask - but, don't forget to LOOK AROUND - since a giant turtle is floating by and he looks like a DINOSAUR. And then, look up. Yup, that's 60-feet of dark ocean water above me. And there is a forest of purple and pink coral sliding by. It visibly breathes and moves - like swimming past the alvioli of a giant's lungs - plus, thousands of fish from the size of a quarter to a boogie board, and they seem seem completely unamused by my awkward appearance. Me, the SCUBA dork, with bulky tank, dangling hoses, bubbles bursting upwards, inefficient fin maneuavering, and then look over there . . . compare the mighty lion fish (see photo), with bold stripe patterns extending into long whiskers just like a lion's mane (obviously) . . . and I know what he is thinking about me: "you're ugly." But I am OK with that because I am breathing underwater. I'd like to see how he does on land.

Well, after four days of diving, including classroom work, four open water dives and a multiple choice final exam that rivalled the Bar, led by our trusty instructor Simon, and calmed by the goofiness of his assistant, Ben, plus accompanied by a lovely mix of Brits and a Swede, we are truly new fish in the sea - but with a PADI license. We are already planning more dive trips, and I (Jacob) am trying (failing) to convince Al that we should blow the travel budget on a live-aboard multi-day boat dive somewhere in the South China Sea. It really is that cool. Luckily, though, Al controls the budget. So hopefully we can make it for croissants in Paris in July.

Days 9 to 15: Ubud and the North Coast, Bali, Indonesia

After soaking up the sun in the Gilis, we decided to head to Ubud, Bali--Bali's "art and culture" center, which is in the hills of south-central Bali, surrounded by rice fields. We scored a bungalow overlooking a canopy (for about 3 bucks each, breakfast included!). By far the most memorable part of our stay in Ubud was the cremation ceremony we attended. We happened to be in town during the cremation of a very wealthy and important woman in Bali (supposedly the daughter-in-law of one of the kings), and people came from all over Bali for it.

We ultimately did not see the body actually being cremated, as much of the festivities centered around the preparation (which we saw): a traditional funeral pyre was built, but becasue of the woman's high caste, it was at least 60 feet tall! The body was carried inside of this tower on polls carried by one hundred men. Then the body was transferred into an enormous black bull, and men danced to the gamelan orchestra (traditional indonesian music comprised of percussion instruments made of wood, iron, bronze, or bamboo bars, bronze or iron gongs, cymbals, drums, and bells), while women presented numerous offerings of food, crafts and flowers that they had carried on their heads. While in Ubud, we wanted to take in some of the nearby sites. Not having the courage to hop on one of the motorbikes that all of the Balinese zoomed around on with no apparent traffic laws to give some order to the driving choas, we hired a driver to pick us up at 2:00AM for a 12-hour tour. The first stop was the base of Gunung Batur, the second largest volcano in Bali for a hike to the top for sunrise. Unfortunately, we were over-cautious in how long the drive and hike would take, and we reached the summit with about 2 hours before sunrise. . .but when the sun started coming up, it was worth the wait! The driver then took us to Pura Besakih (one of the temples on the site, but they are all referred to as Besakih, the largest). Bali, unlike the rest of Indonesia, is primarily Hindu, so every town has tons of small temples on every street, and women make little offerings made of flowers, palm fronds and rice to be placed in front of temples, houses, and shops every single morning! Many people were at Besakih for one ceremony or another the day we were there. We also went to the kecak dance, which is a traditional dance performed by men, who chant and dance while a traditional Hindu story is acted out. And, of course, we couldnt leave Bali without a traditional balinese massage. Since Jacob felt he needed a full body scrub down as well as the massage, we opted--for a whopping 11 bucks each--for the 2 hour full body massage, scrub and rose petal bath. Ask Jacob about the happy ending. . .

Hitched!

2006-09-10T14:21:00.001-07:00

On Sunday, September 3rd, 2006, on the shores of Convict Lake, CA, at nearly 8,000 feet above sea level and a temperature of 79-degrees farhenheit, but with a cooling mountain breeze in the background, by the graceful words of Mr. Burt Smiley . . . Althea and Jacob got HITCHED!

The Plan (Our "itinerary")

2006-09-10T13:49:00.000-07:00

Here it is: "The Plan." To keep our parents happy, we will do our best to stick to it. But it is a big big world out there, so things could change. As changes occur, we will update this itinerary. So stay tuned.

Arrive in Bali, Indonesia on Sep. 14th, 2006.
Sep. 14-21: Chiiiiill on the beach and learn how to dive in the Gili Islands, just off Lombok, next to Bali.
Sep. 22 - Oct. 6: Travel throughout Bali and Java
Oct. 7: Fly from Jogjakarta to Jakarta to Singapore
Oct. 7-9: Singapore
Oct. 10-Dec. 2: Overland travel through Malaysia, Thailand, Vietnam, Cambodia and Laos
Dec. 3: Fly from Bangkok, Thailand to Nairobi, Kenya
Dec. 6 to Jan. 23: 50-day overland truck safari through Kenya, Tanzania, Malawi, Zambia, Zimbabwe, Botswana, Namibia and South Africa (finishin in Cape Town)
Jan. 23- late Feb.: travel through South Africa and Mozambique
March - late April: Fly into New Delhi, travel throughout northern India, including the Himalayas and Tibet
May: Fly to Istanbul and travel throughout Turkey
Late May - June: Eastern Europe (Croatia, Bulgaria, Ukraine, Czech Republic, Hungary) and the Alps (Austria and Switzerland)
July-August: Italy to Tunisia to Morocco to Spain
August: Fly from Spain to Denmark, see our Danish family, travel throughout Scandanavia
Sep.: come back home! (and sleep in)