Pens and Palms

 Phnom Penh is a much reviled place. This statement is not of my heart, which bears it a curious affection, but from the hearts of other travelers. For much of the trip, the news of Cambodia has been to avoid the capital and stick to rural life. Allowing even for bad experience, only one other traveler has secured their support for the Khmer capital. That being said, I trust her implicitly, so it would seem I judge character well to suit my own. Phnom Penh IS in fact all the negative things spewed about it. Dirty, populous to a failing, seemingly overrun by foreigners in much of it's downtown, hectic and dangerous. These things are swept aside by the tide of chaotic spontaneity that seems to encompass the city once inside. Motos scream past, tuk-tuks scream at you, prostitutes and their geriatric john's go about the pathetic and purposeless show of walking together, hands clasped, down the street. (I'm sorry, does ANYONE think that 20 something gorgeous Khmer girl actually likes that 90-year old bag of bones?) But in some way, these things are not to Phnom Penh's detriment, in fact, they add a certain devil-may-care sheen to the city in a way Bangkok desperately failed at. More obviously positive are the spontaneous aerobic sessions by the river, where as many as a hundred people can be seen gyrating to music spewing from a tiny amplifier older than most of the participants in the exercise. Soccer games with miniature balls break out every evening at seemingly random locations, though upon closer inspection, the areas are the only few big enough to accomodate a six on six match with any pace. The city sits lazily on the river, with a massive boardwalk facing all types of businesses, including but not limited to fancy bistros, laid back cafes, "happy pizza" sales stalls, cinemas, hotels, and of course the single incongrous and very worrying coffin shop on the main strip.

Outside of the falang laden riverfront is also a unique and exciting city worthy of more than a brief look. Though reportedly dangerous, the back alleys of Phnom Penh teem even at night with markets, shops and people selling all manner of legal or illicit goods. Jewelery stores abound, staffed by old women so weighed down by gold and boredom many simply sleep on the counters awaiting customers. Bakeries and restaurants line every street, crammed between motorbike repair shops and cell phone stores, peddling chocolate muffins of surprising quality as well as the more obscure local baked goods. Its fucking awesome. It's also difficult to describe the feeling of wandering, sampling random food that could or could not put you on the ceramic throne for three days open at both ends. It hasn't happened yet, and I'm not sure it will (If I believed in such things, I would cross my fingers or knock on some innocent wooden table at this point in the monologue). Massive omelets, served fresh, filled with pork, shrimp paste, basil, sprouts and other magical tastes were a find particularly worthy of mention, but there are many others. Fried egg noodles are a classic, and a stall conviently located next to one "horny bar"(read whorehouse) satisfies late night cravings for chicken fried rice or noodles. The "handsome man" compliments don't hurt either, but I'm aware they come with a certain connatation I'm not entirely comfortable dealing with, so smile and nod, act like you don't understand, and leave quickly.

Now that the feeling of the city is out of the way, space is allowed for a description of the common activities undertaken by the foreign visitors to this wonderful metropolis. They aren't all pleasant, and opting for the shooting range first is a good way to start the day with an emotionally clean slate. Expensive is probably the first term that will come to mind most in the future when I picture myself shooting an M-16 or an AK. Surprisingly safely run, military men abound, ensuring no witless foreigner blasts off their own foot or worse. A wall of weapons welcomes visitors upon entry. The age of the machinery dates them to less stable times in Cambodia, when the US, the Khmer Rouge, and the Vietnamese were dashing in and out of the countryside  and cities, mass murdering, bombing, and generally arming the populace so well most midwestern towns in the USA would be embarassed by the comparison. The kickback on the weapons is impressive, but none too memorable in the face of the noise. It's a proper shooting range, rock walls and targets on downrange, backed by sandbags and more rock. Ear protection is worn by everyone at all times, and safeties are checked anytime a person even puts down a weapon.

Upon our departure from said range, a few rowdy Aussies pull up, and decide upon shooting the rocket launcher(at a whopping 350 US$). We have a date set, but some of our company parts ways to go observe this debaucle. Almost ends up killing everyone on a misfire, as it happens.

From the shooting range we head into town to see the infamous S-21, or security facility 21, used in the dark years by the Khmer Rouge as a massive torture facility and cellblock for dissenters and other inconvienient people(which eventually including most of the movement's founders). Recent Cambodian history is like an extremely slow explosion, which kills everyone in the room. After a US backed "democratic" military government takes over, sympathy for the communist party flies through the roof, eventually causing a complete rout of the US backed leaders by the Chinese backed Khmer Rouge. The main issue with the KR is that their leader is a fucking paranoid lunatic intent on restoring Cambodia to an agrarian paradise replete with contented laborers. He reasoned that the only way to do so was to drive everyone out of cities into forced labor camps, kill every educated person (you have glasses?speak two languages?university degree? Say goodnight.) And blow up the cities, leaving behind only massive prisons. After some years of this, Cambodia is so empty of people that it is reported the Vietnamese armies who "freed" them from Khmer rule basically walked in, shot some armed but untrained kids who attacked them,
and declared victory. This sounds like a bit of a blasee account of a period of time which killed 7 million people and is one of the most brutal atrocities ever commited by a dictator on his own people.

Since that time, not so long ago, another short revolution against the Vietnamese later and Cambodia is an independant nation running with the big boys. Phnom Penh comes out a little worse for wear, but has undergone a massive modernization and is now a frenetic city worthy of more than a surface scratching.

You'll either love it or hate it, and if you hate it (like anywhere) you probably aren't in the right place.

Banning Lungs

Can barely use words. Cambodia is amazing. Entering from the north near the four thousand islands of Laos, wandering around the northeast on motorbikes, keeping good company and eating everything in sight is basically the M.O. of any food loving traveler in Cambodia. Motorbikes to waterfalls, stitch removal, random bakeries, alcohol fuelled 5 a.m. adventures, fighting packs of feral dogs and feral children is all part of the appeal of Cambodia. The pancake trail is as prevalent here as elsewhere, but seemingly easier to avoid with any kind of seriousness. The collected anecdotes of Cambodia at this juncture far outstrip the quick journey we had through Thailand and infringe upon the territory of actual ridiculous travel worthy of writing about.

Even getting to the first stop in the country was a trial, with warnings from bus drivers about it being empty during the celebrations for Khmer new year cementing the need to visit it's relatively seldomly travelled roads. However, getting dropped off at intersections seems somewhat along the lines of a trend, and after almost jumping in the flatbed of a passing cambodian/american owned flatbed truck, a decision is reached that waiting for the bus we paid for might actually result in a more comfortable ride. As the sky split open to pour water in quantities sufficient to turn local streets into little more than muddy rivers, the decision was lauded as a positive development. Whittle away time playing cards with locals before finally getting the bus. Arrival in Ban Lung is a typical assault of drivers jumping on the farang, but a quick question to a local headed into town lends a less comfortable but extremely affordably free ride into town in a pickup bed with a small child. Hostels are arranged, prices are decided upon, and a new city prepares to withstand the wrath of our travelling band, which has grown by one thanks to a San Franciscan coffee fanatic/neuroscientist.

you see that chicken head? Yeah I ate that chicken head.

The new year is still effective here, and other travelers are mostly in Siem Reap by now to spray each other with water pistols. That being said, some nice Vietnamese gentlemen come to our aid by waving us over to join their beer drinking festival on the side of the road. Communication is tantamount to nil, but it eventually becomes clear that we are going to eat dinner at a local house, which is sweet. Post dinner, we politely take our leave and wander through the streets in search of more revelrous places. After a quick ride on a local ferriss wheel(sketch), we come across another band of miscreants, who we have now seen in three cities and witnessed the silly faces of each other far too many times. Sharing moto crashes, waterfalls and far too much beer to be healthy with people is part of the joy of travel. Especially during new years, fit for revelry.

Ban Lung offers few things but a massive market and the surrounding countryside, which is a massive pleasure to putter around and goof about in. Climbing waterfalls where local kids monkey around and jump into shallow water or just catching vistas of the sun climbing over farmland is an experience of freedom not always felt on the regular trail. After a hot day in the sun, massive recommendations from yours truly for getting your water early. A 2 A.M. wander for cold water on a sunday in rural Cambodia includes roaming packs of wild dogs, intent on terrifying wandering lone whiteboys. No jests involved, this was the first time I was seriously worried for my personal wellbeing. Squaring off against single monstrous black dogs or ensuring a pack can't circle around you with a stick is no pleasant experience. Procuring water from the single open shop in town is the most relieving experience possible, but packs of dogs are still an issue for me in this area of the world.

Gestational Eggs

These are fertilized chicken eggs, full of little baby chickens. They taste like differently textured egg yolks, so don't let it freak you too much. Add lime and black pepper and yous got you a meal.

Done Detting

From the caves south to a mystical place called the four thousand islands. Though relatively close looking on a map, this area is quite far from Kong Lo, and rendered further feeling by the hellish sauna of a busride. To make matters slightly less tolerable, a four hour stop at a unbearably bad concert ensues. After arrival on Don Khong, the largest of the islands, eat rice soup filled with ants(bonus protein) and get a boat to Don Khon, a very similarly named yet smaller island. The attitude is relaxed in the extreme, and joint toking hippies covered in dreads wander the streets barefoot, sabaidee-ing each other and cooking pizza in homemade barrel stoves.

Apart from the dope, the islands are beautiful, and lounging in the sun feels like being hit with hot sticks. After a ten minute session, a slick of sweat worthy of the pastiest northern traveler adorns most people. Street vendor samosas satiate hunger, and a kayaking trip rounds out the experience of southern Laos by showing  some of the Irrawady freshwater dolphins. Also included are some waterfalls, one of which is the "Niagara" of Southeast Asia, meaning that it has more water flow over it than any other. A return to the isle and a penchant for wanting to help leads to aiding the carrying of a three and a half ton electricity transformer strapped to a bunch of bamboo. Sore shoulders ensue, but a midnight dip in a moonlit Mekong helps to soothe any pain felt and a couple beer lao later sleep embraces us all.

In Praise of Egg Noodles.

Just a quick thought before I lose the train of thought precariously perched at the station currently being paid attention to in my head. Egg noodles. These noodles are the kings of noodles. More bite than Chinese white noodles, thicker and more voluminous than the Viet vermicelli, and more sauce absorbent than any dry package noodles. These noodles reign. Competition in thought is welcome, with the restrictions set at pastas, which have their own competition.

Back to surreality. A river runs through it.

After somewhere like VV, a return to normalcy can be shocking, jarring even. Typically, said shock comes with a heavy pillow of relief from the fact that a return to normalcy is desired. The bus to Vientiane was short and uneventful, as was our time there in general. Heard from a friend in VV that the Kong Lo caves were the highlight of Laos, and weren't foolish enough to miss such a golden opportunity. Though starkly removed from any semblance of a beaten path, the route to Kong Lo was precisely what the doctor ordered. After a ride out in a bus, eating sticky rice by hand with soy sauce and being dropped at an intersection in the middle of the night with no real idea of it's location, sometimes lady luck lends a gorgeous hand. Whilst sitting on a bench roadside, chatting with a gentleman who bicycled here from Poland, a family moving van pulled up to get gas. Providence presides, and a ride is secured to the small town closest to the caves, where guesthouses are available. Stress should be put on the "moving"aspect of this van. Literally so chock full of farm equipment, women and children that entering through the windows was the only method of getting a seat. There was a small child dormant on a refrigerator next to me. Rugged.

Arrival yeilds a cheap and cheerful guesthouse, which, after a roach murder, is quite comfortable and free of other pests. Also, it turns out roaches fly. News to end all news.

The following day strike out early to achieve the desired goal of a 7 km journey through pitch black limestone caves. Eat some chicking with feathers on it. Feel not good about it. Get a tuktuk to the caves with some folk we met in VV. Hilarity ensues.

The caves are truly beyond description. I may throw that around, but the feeling of floating through a mountain on a boat in the most truly enveloping darkness is one that must be felt to be believed. The guide's headlamps stab fruitlessly at making sense of the scale and scope of the cave complex. Hundred meter vaulting ceilings blast skyward seeming to make no sense that sky doesn't show at their apex. Indoor waterfalls speckle the water with drops falling from crevices that rise straight to the mountaintop. At some points, exiting the boat is a necessity to portage over rapids. Instead of repeating the same on the way back, a slightly different route is taken to avoid becoming bored as if it was a possibility when sitting in a state of shock and awe. Guides seem to be good company, and as a result eschew the traditional portage in favour of pulling in the boat engine and sledding down the rapids like lunatics. Awesome.

Vang Vieng

So many terms can describe Vang Vieng. Its a wild and crazy place dropped into the middle of beautiful obscurity between the Laos capital of Vientiane and the Laos tourist area of Luang Prabang. The beauty is only to be found outside town, where limestone caves and cliffs rise triumphantly out of the ground and create stunning backdrops for the relative debauchery occuring within city limits. Laws don't apply. Rules are bent and broken, lying splintered on the floors covered in sweat and booze and some other unidentifiable but questionable substances. All the bars have menus for drugs here, without exception. A massive mafia keeps the police well paid and out of the way, lending room for such delectable delights as mushroom pizza, and we ain't talking shittakes. Others still are replete with opium, marijuana and an intoxicating cocktail of other substances designed to scramble your insides enough that you'll actually partake in the stupid shit people are demanding you do. Alcohol is a happy substance, but the available options and free booze also encourage a level of poor judgement usually reserved for the mentally ill. That being said, jumping in with two feet is the only option. Happily, provided a couple screws in the head stay tight, it can be an enjoyable place. Leaving town leads to lovely areas and lagoons, which, combined with a heady dose of the alcoholic substance known as "swamp juice", can lead you to try dangerous things on rope swings and earn you a shin full of stitches. The most enjoyable part of the entire debaucle will likely be haggling the hospital workers down in price for your health. Really helps the individual put a price on well being.

After that, you might ignore warnings on your antibiotics and head down to the bars to "be a trooper" and continue the party. This might lead to slow healing abilities, but it certainly won't hurt your feeling of having embraced the experience. Nearly everyone is injured in Vang Vieng, though most don't bother to run the proper course of cleanliness, which results in massive infection and a tendancy to juice heavily from obscure wounds. Delight.

No food worth talking about.

One thing that does bear mention in VV is the reps. After a four day stay, leaving was the single most important possibility and after leaving was treating the massive hangover associated with having bent time and space to provide more room for alcohol over the past four days. The "reps", are the falang people who work at the bars and clubs in VV, spending months or even years living a lifestyle best described by reading Hunter S. Thompson's "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas". Yellow, jaundiced eyes, soulless and devoid of any emotion except a will to party are common. At the river for 11 A.M., drunk before twelve, and usually pushed to party until 3A.M. or later, these people are truly testing the borders of human partying potential. Jokes abound about photo studies in which you take a good looking and strong individual , subject them to a daily dose of VV, and take a picture of them every day for their entire stay as a rep. The rapid degeneration would be evident.

Other than partying, nothing gets done, especially in light of the shin-hole.The only other mentionables are that we manage to meet up with the great Scot again, which adds considerably to the fun had. That is all, there are no pictures, because noone was dumb enough to bring their camera out.

By Road and River

Apologies forwarded for the hurried post of northern Thailand. Slight neglect of the blog as a result of overwhelming options in the department marked "things to do". Laos is a country slightly fabled around the region, and a quick read through "Villa Incognito"(a gift from a friend and traveller) left much anticipation for it's sense of calm and strange magic. Laos is a land lying in contrast and comparison with many of the surrounding regions. Cross from northern Thailand at the northern border by boat, and the changes are slight but plentiful. Madly underpopulated and overbombed, Laos contains the traditions of something like 45 ethnic groups and is fundamentally a creation of the Thai and the French. It's history spans a relatively short time comparative to it's neighbours, but does credit to the Lao people in how rocky and difficult it has been. Read about it.

The border town of Huay Xia used to be the opium smuggling wild west of Asia. Unlike most places which have snatched legitimacy from the hands of criminals and lunatics, there is no monument celebrating this fact or any real indicators of it's seedy history. The mighty Mekong river splits Thailand and Laos like somebody very shakily cut a a wedge from the world. Meandering back and forth, straying from it's path every year during rainy season, during which time it may rise as much as 10 meters(personal estimate, do not quote). Laos contributes more water than any other country to the Mekong. Where once water was precious and conserved, the Northern Thai and Lao people are relatively free with water, which flows wildly all year round. During rainy season, the Northern Mekong can flow at 112 m per minute(not personal estimate, do quote). Most of this rainfall comes from sleepy Laos and it's massive limestone cliffs.

Eschewing the standard method of travel(bus), and opting for a slow boat, two day trip into Luang Prabang results in a much deeper appreciation for the river and it's strong effect on the local economy and style of survival. Caves and hills abound, but also riverside farms, which are enveloped during the wet season, show their use as green scrubs grow from what once was and will soon be a riverbed. The main source of hydration is BeerLao, and groups quickly form at the back of the boat to accommodate the more social travelers. Speckled with naps, photo opportunities and games built to encourage alcoholism, the trip is an enjoyable segue into a beautiful country as yet mostly un-trampled by the hordes of the West. The food takes a quick turn from pad thai into a ubiquitous baguette sandwich, filled with either tuna, chicken or bacon, and a remnant of the french colonial era. The first unprocessed cheese sighting sets hearts beating at an accelerated pace. "La Vache qui rit? Oui, S'il vous plait".

The boat docks for the first evening in the quiet city of Pakbeng. Rumours of a massive Thai tour group are floated about by the conductors of the bus to encourage booking rooms through them instead of by yourself. Gullible travelers oblige and get ripped off. A quick wander yeilds cheap and cheerful accomodation for what has become a dozen person group, leading to good discounts. Restaurant owners haggle with free bottles of Lao-Lao(the peoples whisky), a rice spirit distilled from the local variety of sticky rice. Though less than delicious, the offer of cheap food and free whiskey before bed is not to be ignored. After seeing the relish with which the group consumes food and whiskey, waiters are quick to offer up opium cigarettes. Disconcerting, but the region is world famous for it's opium, and as such, it's to be expected.

The next day's boatride is much of the same, but takes slightly longer and the views are slightly better. Arrival in Laung Prabang yeilds a city of preserved french buildings, river view restaurants, and a very European air. Not cheap, those things. The city is the least touched by America's "secret war", and as such, contains some of the oldest buildings in Laos. European charm only goes so far, and a taste of Southeast Asia is promised by a nearby waterfall, or collection of waterfalls. All told, the waterfalls go 300 meters down river, with plentiful swimming holes, climbing falls, rope swings and adventure. A trek from bottom to top, self guided in bare feet, is not necessarily intelligent, but is a very good way to see the falls from a different perspective than the well worn jungle path. The upper falls are huge, and the steep climb up doesn't have much in the way of reward. However, a fork in the path, explored while coming down, shows a much nicer, less used swimming hole, complete with a high waterfall chuting over the entrance of a small cave. This is unbelievably gorgeous, and many minutes can be spent pandering to that most animal instinct of relaxing in a place of natural beauty.

The region is still highly touristed, however, and those who endeavor to avoid paths crushed by so many flip-flop laden feet might crave an out to somewhere less populated by people of  a non-Lao complexion. A plan is hatched to go to the Pathet Lao caves and Phonsavon. Initially, motorcycles are the preferred route, but increasingly get more expensive as areas get less populous. In the end, minibuses and vans are taken to Xam Neau, and on to Vieng Xai, which is the local jump off point for the Pathet Lao caves. The Pathet Lao were and are the peoples party of Lao. Thanks to America's odd and entirely ineffective method of warring against Lao, they now rule the country known as Laos PDR. Not very commonly known in the west is that during the Vietnam war, the American government ran massive bombing operations in Northern Laos, under the guise that it was an arms route for weapons from China, Burma, and Russia. It was both this and a few other reasons, including a rising communist tide in northern Laos, and the burgeoning availability of cheap opium, that the CIA ran a covert war here for many years. Since no official American soldiers could be in Lao in a warring capacity, bombing and training local tribes-people were the most effective weapons against the Lao People's party. The Hmong people, highlanders traditionally marginalized by Monarchical Lao society, were armed and trained to fight on behalf of the monarchy by American operatives. In exchange, the CIA bought their opium and bombed their enemies. More bombs were dropped on Lao in this "secret war" than were dropped in the entirety of the second world war by both sides. The reason this is pertinent is due to the Pathet Lao caves, the hiding places of all the leaders of the rebellion against western dominance and the ancient Lao society. The caves are a monstrous network, honeycombing under mountains and had the ability to house thousands of soldiers, doctors and common people. The leaders had their own caves, complete with oxygen chambers(donated by the Russians) to avoid gas attacks. Bedrooms, bathrooms and libraries were carved out of rock, and busts of Lenin and books decorate the offices. The final cave has an amphitheater, able to house some one thousand people to watch movies, see plays or dance performances, and host party rallies. People lived in these caves for nine years, so the experience of visiting is deepened by the knowledge of the time spent among the rock warrens and pools. It's a humbling place.

 A visit here is not complete, however, without the brutality of the bus ride, give perhaps some insight into what being in a bomb-rocked cave must be like, swinging wildly around mountain turns and launching passengers on trips across the aisle to meet their neighbouring sufferers. The biggest issue is the amount of small animals, including rodents of questionable lineage and chickens wrapped in blankets. Their scent and noise, combined with the ever present stench of the vomit being belched forth on all sides, turns what may have been a pleasant ride through the mountains into a rocking, smelly hell filled with expectoration and sadness. Never to be forgotten.

Following the caves, a more ancient piece of history is to be observed outside Phonsavon. The "plain of jars" is at once interesting and slightly disappointing. Though impressive and curious, little is known about the jars besides where they are and where they were mined from. Their purpose remains a subject for speculation, from burial jars to ancient alcohol containers.  These massive one piece stone containers have a mystery about them, but are trumped by the bomb craters and unexploded ordinance in the area(one Lao person is killed or injured every day by UXO).

After so much serious history, a bit of levity is added by a visit to a local Lao-lao maker. Though production of rice whiskey is technically illegal in Laos, there is barely a police force in the small villages, and they turn a blind eye when they know of it. The government brand in stores is horrible compared to the spirit being produced in this backwater hut, replete with bags of rice, containers of half fermented spirit, and the most rudimentary still. The owner is a hilariously tiny old Lao man with a smile bereft of tooth and a chain smoking habit. No english is spoken, but reverence for his craft is understood, and after some choppy translation by our guide and a couple shots, a good laugh is produced by calculating how much whiskey he produces in a year. It's alot. Like 43,500 litres alot. In a ten by ten hut.

rice whiskey in process

The surrounding town has taken to it's relative bomb saturation by incorporating shells into architecture, stabilizing radio antennae with hundred pound bombs and even using them as housing support. Others still have turned a tragedy into a cottage industry, crafting spoons, pendants, chopsticks and small trinkets out of melted bomb aluminum. This dedication to making the best out a bad situation is brought under question by a charred peice of aluminum siding nearby. It is finally admitted that the spoons and such are a combination of bombs and others to stabilize the metal.

As one last stop on our tour of the area, we visit a very intriguing place: a silk weaving factory. In 2005, the owner of this particular facility was nominated for a nobel peace prize for helping women in Laos. The weaving facility employs 80% women, and many of them just come to learn the craft before leaving to open businesses back in their hometowns. The mulberry farm atttached feeds the silkworms in longhouses, who pupate and extrude cocoons of silk. These cocoons are then unravelled and re-shaped into garments suitable for someone with severely sensitive skin. The whole process is intriguing, our guide was engaging, and we even ate a silkworm(tastes like dried beans). I ended up buying mulberry wine, due to everything else costing a weeks budget. The wine sucked, but supporting the facility in even a small way was quite nice.

Finally we leave Phonsavon to return to the beaten tourist track and enter the intensity that is Vang Vieng, party capital of Laos and front runner for the olympic category "Sodom and Gomorrah impersonations". Also next episode, Oliver get's stitches! Stay tuned.

My Chang

Chang Mai is a strange and interesting place, walled by ancient brick in centertown, and most active in the evening during it's fabled night bazaar. Most folk use it as a jump off place for Pai and the surrounding area, but in itself it's a nice town. Winding alleys replete with small, intimate guesthouses, framed by beer gardens and restaurants. The ubiquitous effect of western society is still very present, tuktuk drivers cluck and whistle at every passing falang, and even local restaurants serve spaghetti and meatballs, pizza and burgers on top of the cheaper and more delicious Thai fare. In short, Chang Mai was likely a more amazing place ten years or more before yesterday.

Wandering the night bazaar is pleasant, but Chang Mai offers more of a feeling than any real attractions. Nearby wats are common for visitation, but the fact that they stand lit up at night is more gratifying than standing too close to understand their effect on the surrounding era. Favorite features of the city itself are the small markets around, and the available street food, which is much different and less common than the common hawkers in the south. Other vegetables grow here, including brassicas along the lines of cauliflower and cabbages. This means the regional cuisine is much different as well. Hilariously, the spice present in the much hotter south is non existent here.

Off to Pai, 6 hours of winding busride later behind a small boy holding a chicken. Whatever atmosphere Chang Mai has, it is most assuredly trumped by the laid back feeling of sleepy Pai. It's like a hippy paradise that has been subtly exploited and is now also filled with places trying to glean a few dollars for the crowds that pass through. Happily, Pai is the place where you'll least likely perceive this to be happening, and are even less likely to be offended by it. Locals are still happy with falang, not weary and exhausted byconstant use and abuse of their culture and country. Nothing like Bangkok for a show of that. Pai is also the most common point to take a 5 days motorcycle loop called the Mae Hong Song Loop. No sooner had the decision been made to partake in said trip than the realization dawned that the Thai visas were short(annoyingly so) and it was time to leave to Lao. Many may wonder at the decision to leave Thailand so shortly after our arrival, but the feeling that Laos would be less trampled down than Thailand is not only correct, but also enough to encourage us to embrace Laos in it's entirety.

Bangkok Baby

A first trip to Bangkok is a bit like nothing else so there's no point comparing it. The combination of revulsion, attraction, interest, disgust, anticipation and plain excitement is a heady cocktail best not drunk straight. Like Ottawa does to it's homeless, the Thai in Bangkok do to Backpackers. The western ghetto which is Khao San road is a palace to the negative effects backpacking has had on  this small corner of the world. Though Bangkok itself is a sprawling city resplendant with all the glories of any first world metropolis, it also has the more perturbing parts of the seediest third world shanty towns, and bang in the middle is Khao San. It's worth the experience.

Basically a massive monument to anti-buddhist principles in the middle of a massively buddhist city, Khao San stands like nothing before or hopefully after. Bars upon bars upon bars lay the base layers for seedy hostels and boutique hotels, whose facades wear a make-up job of random clothing vendors and touts pushing a host of toys, lights gadgets or the ubiquitous ping pong show on clueless foreigners. One night in Khao San is enough for the veneer to wear off, leaving a bare beast, intent on feeding on you wallet. Everything is overpriced, everyone is a flashpacker, and every local there is trying to get your money somehow. It scrapes just over the barrier of being fully an experience where description can fully paint a picture. Best put like this: The "traditional" traveler's woven bracelets have been so bent here that the locals are convinced the way to sell them is to weave "hairy cunt" or any other such overtly inappropriate two word expletive into them. The traditional Tuk-Tuk motorbike is used almost entirely for trips to and from Ping-pong shows (where women shoot the audience with ping pong balls from their vaginas, as well and smoke cigarettes and peel bananas). If it's not to a Ping Pong show, it's a "10 baht" tour, which is inevitably a scam of some kind. It's captivating and depressing, but thus is the allure of non-southern thailand.

We visit the red light district, famously called "Soi cowboy", in the company of a few Dutch girls, lending us the necessary look of legitimacy we need in order to avoid being constantly harassed by prostitutes. We even go into a ladyboy bar to have a drink. There is another fascinating aspect of Thai culture pornogrified by too much western influence. Katoeys are boys who are decidedly women. Due to their petite frames and quite effeminate features, Thai boys are natural contenders for most womanly men of the world. The culture is cloudy to me, and it's roots go back aways into territory I would need a translator to navigate, but there are plenty of both pre-op and post-op "ladyboys" on display at the bar, some much better looking than their female counterparts across the road. It's a more than vaguely alien experience. No pictures, but if you take off your google safesearch and just type in soi cowboy, you'll get the idea.

In a totally unrelated note and not at all in the same neighbourhood, Trouble tazed himself in the hand.

In the same inane vein as that last sentence, our second day in Bangkok was also Trouble's birthday, meaning bottles of the cheapest 8% beer we could find (big bottles), slowly moving into buckets of local whisky and coke(one mickey per bucket) and finally degenerating into a trip to 7-eleven(of which there are like 30 on every street) for a triple threat of Thai red bull(illegal in Canada), more local whisky, and a 2 litre bottle of Thai coca-cola(also probably illegal in canada). These were liberally mixed(the liberalism applies mainly to the red bull and whisky) and then carried down the street to be passed in between the three of us while looking for a bar. Needless to say the rest of the evening gets slightly hazy. Well, I suppose the endearing side to Bangkok is that we arrived home in the late morning from a windowless club, resplendent with stains on our newly purchased quintessential bangkok douchebag shirts, and we were relatively safe(from everyone but outselves). We even found our scotsman, fast asleep on a hallway matress in the hostel, because I had the key.

After that madhouse of an evening and a half day of sleep and recovery, the decision is made to actually see bangkok, shed our outfits of the eve before, showered and hit the town anew. Found a hostel slightly removed from KhaoSan, and went about the business of figuring out what the few tourists who don't JUST party actually do here. The city is monumentally large, and cabs try and scam you everytime. Insisting on meters is like talking to walls. Walking away will yeild better odds than haggling for a meter, everytime. Off the main strips the driver's are generally more honest, though never rely on anything you hear from any one person. The old saying is "Everyone is on the take in Thailand". Cabs get generous bonuses just for dropping people off in certain locations in front of bars, clubs or pubs. Tuk-tuks will lower their prices if you "stop somewhere, 10 minute", its all bullshit, it all costs more. Quotes for what an honest meter cab will charge 50 baht for run in the range of 300 baht. Long story short, there is a 10000 stall market spanning the size of most neighbourhoods. There is a Muay Thai stadium free on sundays where contenders slug it out and then have a strange fifth round where nothing happens. Crowds form and bet, people get knocked out, and money changes hands. More will come to memory later I'm sure, for now, Bangkok is a hectic, crowded party with weird culture and a dark and seedy side best left to the geriatric white guys you see crawling all over it. Catch you on the flipside.

No Dinner Invite?

Some temple jewellery

So the right honorable governor of Penang forgot to invite us to dinner. No big deal, only slightly put off. After gazing at his not so humble abode in admiration, the inhabitant thereof wheeled past in a slightly less than presedential motorcade, offering a simple wave. I wanted a dinner invitation, it was not to be.



The Penang Team



Rewind a few days and a few hours and Penang is slowly crawling into view on a night bus from the islands. The Scotsman aforementioned has been enlisted as a temporary member of team Canada, and will prove a rigorous ally in the near future. Upon arrival a neon city leaps up seemingly in the middle of the sea, framed into reality by a few large mounds of earth cloaked in darkness behind it. Seemingly every skyscraper is lit, and the second largest city in Malaysia slowly dawns on our bus. The bus driver gleans a few extra Ringgit by ferrying a trio of travelers to Chinatown, where accomodation is most likely to be found at 5:30 AM. End up in some guesthouse reminiscient of an elongated tropical fruit with a vaguely penicyllin like taste. Banana house sounds right.

Snooze a bit upon wake up the following day and commit to a wander, in search of "penang food", alledgedly some of the best in the entire country. Greeted with largely the same old fare. Ubiquitous in southeast asia are restaurants somehow managing to serve not only indigineous cuisine but also a hodge-podge of western style dishes, mostly pastas, sandwiches, steaks, and the worst attempts at English breakfasts. Happily Penang has a decent variety of cuisine that isn't catering directly to bloated foreigners who seem to have misplaced their interest in other cultures. Little India is a bit of a jewel, directly connected to chinatown and boasting authentic tandoori food done directly before your eyes, as well as dozens of different sorts of curries and lassis to keep your palate kicking. Pick well, some places  just leave their curries out all day in metal trays and microwave to order. When it's good, it's very good, but you need to make sure to give a miss to anywhere without obvious effort.

Chinatown itself has a pretty great hawker's market directly outside the backpacker's area. Sweaty, trash-filled streets alive with stray dogs accomodate everything from fruit stands to random noodle vendors hurling piles of hot oil around. The added bonus on our second evening on revelry is the addition of the lovely and ebullient S.Z. to our mix of chaos. She is a personal favorite of mine from as far back as high school and has been scooting around Asia with a sort of enthusiasm enjoyable to any traveler. A couple drinks and a quick catch-up later, bed calls and the parties at work retire to seperate quarters for a little shut-eye. The following day's wander yeilds a new guesthouse, this time with a four bed room, and quite horrendously comfortable quarters. Almost in the vein of a boutique hotel, yet it's two blocks from the main drag stripping it of any right to charge prices worthy of it's interior. Twenty Ringgit(totals about 6 CDN) gets luxe dorm bed facilities, free breakfast and wireless internet, including a computer, and showers that make it feel like warm summer rain it falling. Uncertain about he usefulness of adding jacuzzi jets in the shower walls, but enjoy the prospect nonetheless.

Penang kind of degenerates into a blur of eating and walking, so mush walking. These activities are punctuated with a trip up Penang hill, sort of the epitome of local tourist attractions and a beautiful viewpoint to see a unique city. A cable reluctantly drags a sort of futuristic cockpit up a steep track, stopping to let off some mountain dwelling locals. At it's apex it breathes out it's passengers onto a hilltop walkabout, where the reality of Penang is drawn into focus. On the way there we get free fried banana from an enthusiastic hawker. The island is really mostly hill, with the city clinging to the flatlands around it's edges, hoping not to slip into the sea. Proximity to the mainland explains the cheap price of the ferry over(like 17 cents).

A final day hurrying around and haggling bus fares before departing from dear S.Z. and moving to the mainland to power through a night buses worth of travel to bangkok. The trains are full, and though buses are cheaper, they promise much less sleep, a promise well kept. Scotsman is now earning the status of "temporary Canadian".

Sand, Surf, Sun and Sausages

Fast forward through a night of vomiting and rickety train rides to arrival at a jetty in central east Malaysia, and you'll find our heroes excited to. relax on a beach after a harrowing trek through the jungle and a horridly cold and uncomfortable night.

Once some of the remnants of the jungle had been left behind and the sordid condition of our clothing and selves had been slightly altered for the positive, a bus to Jerantut was a necessity. The night train was to leave from there later this evening, and though much time was to elapse before it's 2 am departure, food and relaxation were priorities. Arriving well in advance of the next departure is a good idea because it allows time for two ol' fashion favourites: food and drink. Teaming with a few fine folks who were also ambitious enough to grab the night train, the local Chinese bars got a touch of what Canadians can accomplish in a few short hours. Chinese bars are a necessity in Malaysia, due to the penchant of everyone else to be Muslim and therefore not serve alcohol or pork. This is not nearly as troublesome as the price of alcohol, which is exorbitant, therefore we were quite pleasantly surprised when our somewhat dubious company produced a bottle of Thai whisky, seemingly from nowhere. After some food at a local Malay restaurant, quite delicious spicy beef with black pepper and garlic, rice, bok choy, ginger, scallions and spicy fish sauce, it was time to slink to a bar to drink some Jaz(horrible) and Royal Stout(passable).

On time for the trains, split with companions headed divergently to Singapore. Train rumbles into the station, headed directly north into the thicket we just spent a day struggling to escape. After gleaning our lives and limbs in suitable condition for happy existence, it feels almost ironic to board a train headed directly back into it's depths. Alas, thus is life, and happily no derailments take place, though one would have been welcome reprieve from the torturous existence that constituted a night on that train. CIA cold cell treatment is one thing, but when it trundles along awkwardly on rails apparently built to smash passengers up out of their seats at precisely the moment when they are most likely to be asleep, pain takes on new meaning. This was a six and a half hour horror show of wind and misery which due to hearty constitutions and drive to live, we both survived. Trouble fared less well than myself, probably due to the thick fur sweater grafter permanently to my exterior. Upon exiting the train cab, Trouble left his lunch in the local station bathroom and we mounted an illegal cab to the jetty. Much more expensive than expected, always get clarification on prices here, due to the penchant for locals to swiftly change numbers with similar sounds(15 and 50, 18 and 80) into each other. Arrival at the jetty precipitates more projectile from my travelling partner, but a German girl and her Scottish travelling mate are a welcome sight and a spot of conversation ensues, leading to a hostel together after the ferry crossing.

First, a word about the ferry crossing. It could be something to do with the trauma of the train ride the evening previous, or my generally well publicized land blubbery, but this experience is likely one shared by the ill fated passengers of that Italian ferry, albeit on a much smaller scale. Our driver seemed determined to shatter his boat upon the waves, as if the higher he could smash down on them from, the less they would slow him down. He was mistaken.The boat, however, proved heartier than his efforts could dispel, and though Trouble certainly didn't enjoy his ferry experience, all was well upon landing.

As stated before, a hostel is procured with a four person air con room, in which the sick member of our troupe promptly crawls into bed fully clothed and stops motion for a full 8 hours midday. The rest frolic lightly in the warm ocean waves and generally relax. Night leads to more frivolous activity at the one open bar on the entire Island. A small mickey of something called "monkey juice" is bought. People on the island insist it's laced with something, due to it's 25% markings compared to how much it feels like a wet hammer to the brain. Sleep comes almost as swiftly and comfortably as it refused to come the night before, and a second day on the island is under planification by nightfall. Snorkelling it is. Oh yeah, There is also garbage everywhere, adding a sour taste to this otherwise fruity tropical paradise.

Snorkelling, as you might imagine, was amazing, sea turtles, massive fish, a shark, all the cool corals. Not many picutres, however, so I won't bore you with elaborate descriptions of the amazing blue hues of the water, the feel of ocean spray on the boat, or the salt water rushing up your nose when you accidentally breathe incorrectly and you convulsively vomit in the water. The islands were ridiculously nice relaxing places, full of the usual sunburns, overpriced food, attractive women, and general stuff I don't give a shit about. They have been left behind now, and Penang (best food in Malaysia? is the current destination). Look forward to some straight food porn, folks.

Welcome to the Jungle

Teman Negara is a place like few others. Wildly thick vines hang from vines the support a canopy so thick as to be rooflike above the jungle floor. Superfluous adjectives and descriptors come to mind when trying to encapsulate the thicket of jungle that encompasses some of the planet's oldest rainforest. Other adjectives come to mind too. Sweaty, muddy, bloody, uncomfortable and maybe most aptly the three word kicker :"teeming with leeches".

Our route into the national park is via bus then boat. Sadly the bus is late and arrival comes after the boat has already departed on it's three hour journey lazily floating downriver. Compromise and get a minivan with a few Polish geography teachers. Good for a spot of choppy English conversation. Arrive an hour later, still two hours earlier than the fabled boat, though cheated the beautiful views coming in on a waterway winding through the deep jungle. Kuala Tahan is the jump off point for this madhouse. A small town, clinging mercilessly to the river for survival and economic growth. Everything happens on the water here. The town is barely fifty buildings, the economic hub being a mass of floating barges drifting around on the shoreline of the light brown river. Restaurants, tour barges and gear-rental locations abound. Decide to stay at a really basic and cheap hostel which borders the river as well, happily not floating directly on it.

Meet some Brits on the patio, hang out shooting the shit and resolve to make a mission of destroying out bodies and minds at the furthest available hide in the jungle. This is a five and a half hour to seven hour trek through some of the toughest terrain available out here. The kicker is that it's the furthest in the jungle you can wander whilst foregoing the delightfully reassuring company of a guide, which we absolutely intend to forgo. It's now destiny that me, Trouble, and three of our quick witted British friends are going to Bumbun Kumbang, the deepest jungle hut we can stay in.

As epic as this plot seems, it is not to be. The following morning, after extensive packing, repacking, dressing, judging survivability, and re-dressing, the hide is fully booked. This is a massive blow to our five person party, but we send Gill and Andy on to fill the two available spaces. The three straggling remainders of the party manage to book the first beds for tomorrow night, and return our sleeping gear with a promise to come get it the following day. We head back into the jungle to get a practice trek on, see how tough this stuff really gets. We walk a one hundred meter canopy walkway which is surprisingly(and disappointingly) very safe. It affords some views of high up, and some serious army ant swarms, but not much else. Better is the climb up Bukit Teresek, a hill with some sweeping views of the regions size and majesty. Upon descending an Italian couple is enlisted to replace the Brits in an adventure to a murky swimming hole is the fast moving river. After an afternoons trek worthy of a shirt filled with sweat, this watering hole is more than delightful. My passengers resolutely refuse to leave my legs, preferring the warmth of my blood to the relative chill of the river. People constantly point out the vampiric monsters growing fat upon my calves for the rest of the day. People are also constantly confused when receiving the answer that they are a science experiment destined to inform the world of how long a leech will take before naturally leaving a delicious host. Turns out to be a measly three hours or so, in which time they will consume around ten millilitres of blood. All things considered, there are worse animals. Our British companion writes that our party has seen a tiger, and whispers rip through the village, where tiger sightings are rare and exciting. This makes his day.

After the swimming hole, we return sharply to the village and jump on a boat upriver the see the indigenous tribes of the area, first shooting some mediocre rapids and getting rained into a sort of wet oblivion. Shore is reached at the Orang Asli settlement, and depression sets in. These people are basically just in existence as a tourist attraction, and though they have some interesting traditions and features to their culture, it has been heavily destroyed by the advent of a westernised society taking root nearby. Demonstrations of the traditional way to make fire are trumped by the fact that there are empty lighters amongst the garbage which is universally strewn about the village. Demonstrations of the traditional blowpipe and the way to make darts are marred by the all too convenient usage of a swiss army knife (fruit of the rare swiss army tree). Though these put a damper on what was to be a glance into how a people could survive in the jungle, there are highlights. Me and Trouble are the only two foreigners who manage to use the blowpipe accurately, striking the target(helpless teddy bear) directly in the face twice. Even our guide only hit the hand.

We wander the village a little bit, but the inhumanity of wandering into people's homes to photograph the squalor they inhabit is too much for us, and we quickly depart back to the safety of the boat and the promise of a civilization in which we can quietly ignore all the damage we do to those who refuse to partake in our exact method of colonizing the planet. It isn't easy.

Following a short period of dejected showering and some more preparation for the morrow, the mood lightens upon the realization that at this hour the following evening, nothing but the jungle will be around. Resolutions to wake early lead to a reasonably octogenarian hour to retire to bed. Rising alongside the sun glaring in the window and removing the mosquito net, an unreasonable excitement sets in and the trail is begun with vigour after a short breakfast. Outstanding pace through a hellish environment uniquely designed to break human souls is about the only positive to be drawn out of our situation. Around two hours in we meet some fellow travellers heading back the other direction. They inform us of around three and a half more hours of hard trek ahead. This is basically on pace with expectations, though still disappointing to a group of  weary trekkers who thought they had been making amazing time though terrain which could ostensibly be used for military training. Trudging on, the path becomes more laden with hills and wet gullies, mud and leeches, rope climbs and slight slopes long enough to test thigh stamina to it's limits. Gratifying in a strange way. Eventually slogging through the final kilometre of nearly exclusively swampy mud holes to arrive an hour under the projected time, finishing in four and a half hours. We are the first to arrive for this evenings sleep and animal watching.

The hide is a large concrete box set atop six sturdy pillars with a metal roof. Four windows, what could at one point be called a bathroom and an array of wooden bunks are the only real elements to the interior. One end has a long bench in front of a wildlife viewing slot looking onto a clearing and water hole. When we arrive, a group of French doctors are stopping to eat lunch with their guide under the cover of the hide. After a quick chat and some noodle sharing on the doctor's part, they depart for the boat back, a mere thirty minutes walk away. Their guide says he can make it back to Kuala Tahan in three hours via the inland route. Challenge accepted.

Others slowly trickle into the encampment, the first and only lone ranger is Tyler, a fellow Canadian and former Carleton university engineer. Small world, this jungle. Perhaps the least prepared trekker all day, looking vaguely traumatized by what just occurred. The decision to wear white pants, which are now various shades of brown and red from mud and blood, is evidence of poor planning. Though my own legs are war-zones, he looks to be suffering. A quick wash up renders into focus a fellow human being, and everyone gets on quite well.

Beds are selected, others arrive, including a very nice Dutch couple and a few Australians who appear to have every intention of talking very loudly and for some time about absolutely nothing of import. One wonders why they couldn't have stayed in Australia and instead chose such an uncomfortable venue for this conversation, but they respond well to demands that they shut the fuck up so no real harms done.

No animals seen, many animals heard. By the time everyone gets to bed a deluge has begun, and the decibel meters slowly reach the levels commonly associated with placing a metal bowl overs one's head and banging it repeatedly with a spoon. Sleep is fitful at best, and the hard wooden beds are not helpful in this respect. Waking up with numb limbs is a common occurrence. Various makeshift pillows adorn the room, no one seems really happy. The following day a trek back via the inland route yields a much flatter, more reasonable trail, but also includes a red herring path which throws us willy nilly into the jungle, causing a half hour wandering game trails in search of a marker. Worries of lord of the flies scenarios begin to cross my mind before finding the main trail again.

Timing is exactly the same back as it is there, disappointingly. Though legs are more sore and becoming lost adds thirty minutes, the pace is still taxing and the path is much easier. Had jungle disorientation not taken it's toll, the time would have been under four hours, highly acceptable for a bunch of Northern Hemisphere dwelling softies.

The jungle has been conquered. No tigers sighted, but Tiger beer is in order.