A Five-Star Week in a "Sh*thole Country"

Let me start by saying, lest time erode the obviousness of the irony in the title of this post, that there is absolutely NOTHING about Egypt (or any other country, for that matter) that should earn it the classless label: shithole.  Unfortunately, the current President of the United States (a classless lunatic who is, ironically, completely deserving of such a derogatory label) doesn't agree with me on this point, and made his opinion about Egypt (lumped together with the rest of Africa) known to the world while I actually happened to be there. Thanks for that, buddy!

I've been out of the United States for more than a year now, and my accent (which had already devolved from a strong Boston inflection, to a sort-of generic Californian/American, to picking up bits of British slang from friends made on my travels) at the moment, isn't particularly easy to pin down. I've found since living in Chiang Mai and regularly meeting and interacting with people from multiple countries, that it can change drastically, sometimes over the course of one evening, just depending on who I'm talking to. As a result, I'm asked almost more often if I'm from Ireland or England than if I'm American. Since the disaster that was the 2016 election, it's always a little bit tempting to just nod my head in agreement and adopt a new homeland when someone pegs me as a different nationality, but I never have; and to be fair, there's been no real need to. I've found that most people in other countries have insight enough to realize that those of us who actually show up in their countries are likely NOT the ones responsible for voting in the Orange Nightmare, and that we are just as appalled about it as they are. Still, this was notably the first time I'd ever found myself in a country that had just been indirectly slandered by our Commander in Chief.  To their absolute credit, not one local made mention of the comment to me while I was there. In fact, many insisted, upon learning that I was American, that they LOVE Americans and went out of their way to make me feel nothing but welcome in their country.  It was a level of hospitality that left me feeling just a little bit guilty.

Despite very much not being a shithole, Egypt is one of those countries (especially since the 2011 Revolution) that we Americans are cautioned about visiting, especially if you're a woman:  Don't go walking alone! Wear a fake wedding ring! Stay completely covered up! Don't even LOOK at anyone on the street! Complete social lockdown, they would have us believe, is the only way to avoid being assaulted or robbed or killed. Now, I've been to enough countries at this point to realize that most of America's fear-mongering regarding international travel is just that. Of course we should be cautious and mindful of our possessions and our surroundings, but that same advice applies to anywhere in America just as much, if not more than, in another country. Still, I was actually a bit nervous at the prospect of traveling in Egypt (particularly in Cairo) on my own, in a way that I haven't been with any other country.

I had booked the one-week stop on the way back to Thailand from South Africa because a friend of mine from the States had recently relocated to Dahab, and had insisted that since I was already going to be in Africa, I should meet her in Cairo to do the typical sight-seeing rounds of Cairo, Luxor, and Aswan. Visiting the pyramids had been on my bucket list for a while, and I doubted I was going to find anyone else willing and able to jet off to Egypt with me in the near future. Plus, it WAS on the way  (sort of).  Done and done. Unfortunately, my friend in Dahab was forced to fly back to the US for a last-minute work obligation just a week prior to our meeting in Cairo, leaving me to fend for myself.

With less than two weeks between learning I was flying solo and actually arriving in Cairo, I had to think fast. I looked into the prospect of hiring guides to take me on day tours of the various sights, and negotiating all of the food/lodging/inter-city travel aspects on my own. It seemed doable, but there was still this nagging bit of worry... Enter my travel companion in South Africa. She had solo traveled in Egypt just a few years prior and had booked a package tour covering her entire week there that took her through all the major sites and on a multi-night cruise down the Nile river. Food, lodging, attractions, everything, all included and organized for her. Plus, she had her own personal Egyptologist guides to tell her exactly what it was she was looking at and steer her clear of scammers. Typically, I would balk at the idea of a packaged holiday. It just seems too easy. Plus, being locked away in a bubble of chaperones, fancy hotels, and fine restaurants, would you really be seeing anything of the REAL country, or just the façade they put up for tourists? Still, my friend raved about her own experience and insisted it was the ONLY way to see Egypt... and I still couldn't quite shake my worry about being on my own...

And so I had my first all-inclusive experience: personal Egyptologist guides, private cars, four and five star accommodation, and a four-night cruise down the Nile. And it was pretty good.  Having personal guides, alone, was well worth the cost (which was actually pretty economical considering the level of service) as I don't think I'd have learned a quarter of what they told me about the history of the sites I was visiting were I left to my own devices. I also probably would have been sucked into a scam or two before I figured out what was what and who to ignore. The cruise was a perfect way to spend four days of my trip, allowing for plenty of time to relax in my room, watching the world go by and decompressing from the rapid pace of sightseeing.  Meals were all delicious, and I did quite enjoy not having to do my usual routine of wandering aimlessly until I find a restaurant with just the right atmosphere that allows me to blend in without feeling overwhelmed by a crowd or conspicuous for eating alone.  Plus, the very first meal I had, after being picked up at the airport in Cairo at 6am, was at a little roadside stand near the pyramids in Giza that made delicious falafel pitas. So I did get a bit of authentic local atmosphere right off the bat! I don't think I'll ever get used to being catered to in the way that this kind of travel does (I get a strange sort of anxiety about being engaging enough with my guides that they don't think I'm boring, or bored with them... despite the fact that I'm the one paying them and not the other way around) but I'm glad that I chose this route as my introduction to Egypt as it helped to squash the irrational worry I had about being there and focus on enjoying the absolutely mind-blowing sights and all the fascinating history behind them.

The money shot

Another country, another camel

Temple of Horus at Edfu

I kissed a Sphinx (and I liked it)

For my last day, I chose to go it alone, booking my own hotel so I could have some time to do some exploring in my usual way. I booked into the Windsor, located in central Cairo, a short stroll from the Egyptian museum (which I had already visited on day one with my guide). The reviews online all called it a "one of a kind gem" hidden in the heart of the city. A real "blast from the past"; "full of character", that leaves you "feeling like you've just stepped into an Agatha Christie novel". They were not wrong. At the front desk was a working switchboard. Beside that, one of the oldest operating elevators in the world. Everything was just a little bit dark and gloriously creaky. It was one of my favorite hotels that I've ever stayed in, and I wished I'd booked for more than one night.

The front desk manager was one of those locals who extolled the virtues of Americans, and was more than happy to give me walking directions to the famous Khan el-Khalili bazaar. A little bit of lingering anxiety had me double-check with him that it was safe to walk down there on my own. He laughed, "It's perfectly safe! You look Egyptian. No hassle! You tell your friends, Cairo is safe!" I may look somewhat Egyptian with my sunglasses on, but I learned very early in the week that my blue eyes were a dead giveaway that I was definitely not. When walking around without my glasses on I was subjected to no end of comments about my "beautiful eyes". This turned out to be the extent of the infamous "harassment" that women are purported to have to endure in Egypt though, and to my surprise it was far less intrusive than what I would often encounter when walking the streets of Paris. (No one grabbed my ass in Egypt!) Still, I found I was generally more comfortable keeping the baby blues under wraps when out and about.

A stroll through the bazaar, a bit of falafel for dinner and I was back at the Windsor, completely un-hassled/robbed/murdered. I can now declare (as I promised I would) that, apart from the ever-present danger of being mowed down in traffic (a happening that I had the misfortune to witness the very immediate aftermath of) Cairo is, in my own humble opinion, as safe as any other major metropolitan city. It can be overwhelming, with overcrowded sidewalks and non-stop horn honking, but if you've got a little bit of street smarts, a GPS, some sunglasses, and a dash of patience, you can blend right in.

So if you've been dreaming of the pyramids but you've been bested by fear-mongering or name-calling, I say to you, GO! Go all-inclusive if it eases your mind (or if you're the type who loves a bit of luxury), or book into the Windsor for a bit of adventure and plan your own itinerary... but do at least hire proper guides to take you to the major sites, just to get the full history (and the best camels)! Now more than ever, go to this "shithole" and every other "shithole" and show them that we will not be defined by the Neanderthal currently squatting in the Oval Office. We're curious and adventurous and considerate and open-minded... and we really, really love falafel... or maybe that's just me ;)

Business Classy

Okay, new life goal: become fabulously wealthy and never fly coach ever again!

I'm back on the road for the holidays, and thanks to a nearly empty business class on my reserved flight from Bangkok to Dubai, I got the best upgrade I've ever had in my life for a song! Happy birthday month to me!

Seriously, I'm ruined for air travel now. How can you expect me to go back to the riff-raff now that I know what goes on upstairs?? A welcome aboard glass of champagne. A three-course meal with a tablecloth and real cutlery. Red wine. More champagne. My own personal minibar with water and mixers. More champagne. A lie-flat seat long enough to fit my 5'10" frame and then some (we're not in Thailand anymore, Toto) Someone even came by and offered me a mattress! Did I mention the bar/lounge area near the bathrooms? Emirates, you've created a monster!

Don't get me wrong, I've seen the photos and heard the stories of how the ther half lives. (I've even flown on private planes before, which is a whole other ballgame.) I knew all of these things existed, but until you actually experience it, you have no idea just how much of a massive difference it makes. I still had to suppress panic attacks anytime we hit even a little bit of turbulence, but at least I had the luxury of doing so in the privacy of my own little cubicle.

And now I'm in Dubai, a city that feels like Beverly Hills on steroids, where every building looks just fancy enough that I probably can't afford to even step inside. Nonetheless, my celebrity treatment continues. I got fast-tracked through immigration, and I was upgraded again at my hotel to a room with a direct view of the Burj Khalifa by a woman at reception who fawned over me like I was Kim Kardashian, for no other reason than the computers were down when I arrived and I had to wait 10 whole minutes in their comfortable and stylish lounge before checking in. The horror!

Joke as I might about not being able to go back to the riff-raff, the last 24 hours have been the kind of whirlwind of luxury service that always leaves me a little bit squirmy when I happen to stumble into it. I'm a big proponent of equality when it comes to dealing with people in general. I am inherently uncomfortable with being treated as though I were "less-than" or "greater-than" someone else. Whether you're rich or poor, world-famous or completely unknown, we're all human beings at the end of the day; subject to the same basic wants and needs, and equally at the mercy of our own mortality. I try my best to recognize that in everyone I meet, no matter who they are, and to treat everyone with the same level of basic kindness and respect. Particularly with the aforementioned hotel receptionist, who is clearly  a rock-star at her job, my own aversion to being waited on left me almost feeling guilty every time I declined to accept one of her helpful offers: Can I get you a drink from the bar? Dear God, no more booze! Would you like a bottled water? Well, I have one here, but since you brought it over, okay. You can leave your bag there, you don't have to carry it. It's a 10lb backpack... I think I can manage. It's just as well I'm not famous. I'm much more comfortable blending in with the "regular" folks.

Anyway, I'm beyond thankful for the extra privacy, the lie-flat seat, and the complimentary food and drinks that my time in business class afforded me. They will be sorely missed on the next (and longest) leg of my journey, and if I ever get the opportunity to (affordably) join the ranks of the business class again, you bet your ass I'm going to take it. For now, I'm off to do some shopping... cuz, you know, that's kind of my life now. Later, peasants! 😉 

Happy Birth Month to Me!

This is an Unalome.  It’s a symbol familiar to any Thai person, usually associated with Buddhism. I don’t ascribe to any form of organized religion, Buddhism or otherwise, but what I find interesting about this symbol is the fact that what it represents could be interpreted as rather atheistic.  It’s not some sort of mystical incantation that promises protection, guidance, or good fortune. It’s simply an abstract representation of the course of a human life. The dots at the bottom represent the consciousness (or the soul, if you prefer) coming into being. The center of the spiral marks the moment of birth and the beginning of the madness of existence that proceeds to toss us around like rag dolls in all manner of indiscriminate directions. Nothing makes sense. We’re never really sure if we’re moving forward or backward. All we can do is hang on… until we manage, through our gained wisdom and experience, to find that “thing” we’ve been searching for, and the chaos gives way to an inner confidence and peace. Buddhists would call this Nirvana, or Enlightenment. I think it’s anything (a person, a place, a profession) that gives you enough of a sense of belonging and purpose to calm the storms swirling around you. Finally, the dots at the top of the unalome represent the end of our journey, as we fade away back into the same nothingness from whence we came. It’s a simple and beautiful reminder that this existence, chaotic and stressful and confusing though it may be at times, IS the main event. It’s precious and it’s fleeting and it’s all we have, so we should dive in and make the most out of every single second we’re given, even if we’ve not yet found what it is we’re looking for.  

December is my birth month, and traditionally one of my least favorite months of the year. Not only is there the annoyance of having to (nearly) share a birthday with Jesus (who is a real buzzkill closing all the bars and keeping people home with their families when I wanna go out and get my birthday drink on), but the holidays are also not exactly the most singles-friendly time of year, which is a category I find myself in more often than not. As such, my typical December survival strategy is to keep my head down and wait for it to all blow over... but not this year. This year I decided to take back my birth month (that’s right, Jesus, I’m claiming the whole month. Suck on that!) and to kick it off I bought myself a little present, to commemorate Thailand as an official part of my story.

Because sometimes it's good to have a reminder that life is short, and if we spend all our time waiting out the storms, we’ll never know how much fun it could have been to play in the rain.  

Hello? Is this thing on?

Guess who’s back…. Back again…. Yup, after a year and a half of radio silence I’ve decided to give this whole blog thing another shot (and am already off to a cracking start, opening with a dated Eminem reference).  To anyone who doesn’t actually know me in person who may have been following this blog and who had assumed from my unexplained disappearance that I’d probably died in some kind of bizarre elephant/cycling/cliff diving/tuk-tuk related incident, you can officially release that breath you’ve been holding in for the past 17 months. I am alive and well.

The truth is, building and maintaining a successful blog of a personal nature such as this one requires a certain type of personality: one unaverse to the idea of self-promotion and so unwaveringly confident in the objective value of their own thoughts, feelings, and experiences that they’re willing to regurgitate anything and everything that pops into their minds into the public sphere… I’m looking at you, basically all of Twitter.  I’m much more your classic “tortured artist” type: possessive of a nagging, insatiable desire to create while at the same time convinced that at least 95% of the resulting creations have absolutely no societal value whatsoever. (i.e. this is all a bunch of shit!) In fact, I nearly binned this whole blog post after that last sentence, because who really cares what’s going on in the inner workings of my mind, but then thought well, that pretty much illustrates my point, doesn’t it?  Might as well keep going, and now I’m basically just writing out my own internal dialogue as it happens, which isn’t weird at all. This is why I’m so much fun at parties. Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that it’s easy enough to write about all the wild/funny/scary/crazy things that happen to me while I’m out there on the road, but once I settle down into any sort of domesticity and those types of situations give way to a comparatively mundane existence, the demons of self-doubt come out to play and I no longer feel like I have anything meaningful to contribute. As a result, the blog falls by the wayside.

And that’s basically what’s happened over the last year and a half. I’ve settled… sort of. After a few months spent back in the States I took the plunge and relocated to Chiang Mai. For the last 13 months I have been living the good life of cheap rent, cheap food, cheap booze and weekly massages.  While it has been calmer than the previous year and a half on the road, it’s not been completely without blog-worthy incidents. I visited Myanmar, Malaysia, and Singapore; took a three-month winter break to explore Australia and New Zealand (because I’m a New Englander at heart and I miss snow!); and just last month nearly died in a freak floor fan explosion (say that five times fast) in my own condo in Chiang Mai. That last one might be a little bit over dramatic, but I assure you I’ll never own a circular fan again!

Beware the spinning blades of death...

So that’s where I’m at. Adjusting to life in a new culture; trying (and failing miserably) to get a handle on the Thai language; and now, finally, giving in to that voice that’s been keeping me up at night, yearning to create something – anything – even if it’s shit. What that all means for the future of this blog, I can’t say. Maybe this is a turning point, and from here on out it’ll be all regular updates and shameless self-promotion. Maybe I'll even post some photos to Instagram while I'm at it! Or maybe I’ll mysteriously vanish in a few months’ time. I make no promises either way. That’s perhaps not the best marketing strategy in the world, but you know what, screw marketing! I’m an artist and I don’t give a fuck what you think!  Okay, nope. Dial it back, Kanye… How about this: I’m just gonna write whenever and whatever I’m moved to write, and if anyone wants to read it and maybe have a laugh along with me every now and again, I’m happy to have brightened your day. For now, I’m off to play some Eminem cuz that shit is stuck in my head and it’s not going away…

Life Imitates Art

I've been reminded recently of an episode of the sitcom "Everybody Loves Raymond" which is one of those shows that has wound up so heavily in syndication that virtually every American who's ever turned on a TV set in the last decade has probably seen at least one episode, if not the entire series run.  In this episode, an older woman shows up at the door of the Barone house. She speaks no English, but presents a letter, announcing herself as a family member from Italy, come for a visit.  No one in the house was expecting such a visit, but they DO have family in Italy, so this must be a long lost relative who's managed to track them down.  Despite the fact that they speak only a couple words of Italian, they manage to have one of the best weeks of their lives entertaining the sweet older woman, and getting along better with one another as a result. When Ray's parents manage to dig up a box of old family photos, however, the woman doesn't recognize anyone in the pictures, and the family realizes that their new favorite relative isn't actually a relative at all... she's just landed at the wrong house. 

It's a plot that I feel has been done before, though I can't pinpoint which show it may have been; but what probably hasn't been done is to tell this story from the perspective of the unexpected guest who has arrived in a foreign country where she speaks not a bit of the local language, and accidentally finds herself at the wrong home.  I can tell you from personal experience how that would probably go... sort of...

When I first planned this trip to Southeast Asia I knew that I had to include Vietnam in my itinerary. Not only is it meant to be a beautiful and unique country, but my cousin's wife is Vietnamese and she has family still in the country, so there was the possibility of having a local to show me around certain areas, and maybe even a place to stay. When I arrived in country, she put me in touch via Facebook with  her aunt in Florida, who then put me in touch with a large networking group of friends and family scattered all around southern Vietnam.  They were all super nice, and quick to dispense advice in the form of group messaging about where to go and what to see. When I got to Da Nang, I spent a lovely Sunday afternoon motorbiking all over the city with one of the group members who lived in town. She was a lovely host, and it was great to get to see the city from a local's perspective.

My lovely tour guide in Da Nang

Da Nang's Dragon Bridge (it actually spits fire!)

As I was approaching Nha Trang, group messages began to fly back and forth (some in English but mostly in Vietnamese) arranging for me to stay at my cousin's wife's family home while I was in town. I received instructions from the Aunt in Florida giving me an address and two names to ask for when I got there. Okay, sounds easy enough.

I arrived ridiculously early in the morning after a super uncomfortable night spent on a "sleeper bus".  After killing a couple hours at a breakfast café I made my way to the address and presented the hostess of the café that rents the front of the building with the two names I was given.  This woman spoke a few words of English, but not really enough to have any sort of meaningful conversation. She understood that I was looking to stay there for two nights, and then introduced me to another woman who spoke not a word of English, but who I interpreted to belong to one of the two names I had been given.  She seemed to have absolutely no clue who I was or why I was there and I had not a clue who she was or how exactly she might be related to my cousin's wife.  If you've never tried to explain through a language barrier that your cousin is married to.... someone in this family... and you were sent here by... someone else in this family... with nothing to help you along except a list of previously downloaded half English and half Vietnamese Facebook messages because your phone only works when connected to WiFi and the WiFi there isn't working... well, you're missing out. 

Here's where my story differs from the sitcom plot. I KNOW that I am, in fact, at the right house. I had an address, and I was also provided with the name of the café that rents out the front of the house and that checked out.  I know that this woman who's now hosting me is someone connected with my cousin's wife, but I have no way of figuring out how, or explaining who I am and how I came to be here... the WiFi STILL isn't working!  Despite that knowledge, I can't help but feel like I know exactly what that confused old lady from Italy felt like during her week with her phony family in New Jersey.  My hostess went on to prepare me a huge and delicious lunch, and we sat and smiled at one another as I enjoyed it, unable to do much more. I started to feel more than a bit bad that she was going to such trouble to put me up and make me food and she didn't seem to have a clue who I was, or maybe she did...I had no way of finding out. Finally, she picked up her cell phone and made a call.  After a few minutes she handed the phone to me and a voice spoke to me in broken English... she'd found a translator! Hallelujah! The woman on the phone proceeded to tell me that my hostess was going to bring me down to the beach, where she rents an apartment in one of the nicer hotels on the strip, and I could spend the afternoon with her.

We got to the beach and I met my new friend, who spoke pretty decent English but was much more fluent in French, so whenever we hit a stumbling block in our English conversations I would make the jump over to French to clarify... quite the linguistic gymnastics routine after being out of practice in French for so many years, but we made it work. Plus, the hotel had WiFi! Finally I could pull up the Facebook photos of my cousin and his wife, and I had a translator to explain the convoluted connection I had to her. When my hostess nodded in understanding, I felt a million times better! Later that evening I got a message from my cousin's wife, explaining who my hostess was and her connection to the family. Turns out she is one of three children born to my cousin's wife's grandmother's maid and my cousin's wife's grandmother basically raised her and her two siblings after their mother died. I had made a lot of guesses as to how my hostess might have fit into the family, but "grandmother's maid's child" was definitely not one of them.

Al Fresco dining at my homestay

Nha Trang beach

I spent the next day and a half scuttling back and forth between the beach (where I swam in the sea for the first time in years, based on repeated assurances in French that "il n'y a pas des requins" in these crystal blue waters) and my homestay, where I continued to experience incredible hospitality and was offered enough food to feed a small army.  Despite the initial confusion, it turned out to be a really nice stop, and it couldn't have come at a better time.  I had been growing a bit weary of the constant "hustling" that went on between Vietnamese locals and tourists. It was beginning to feel as though every nice or helpful gesture was nothing more than an opening to try and sell you something.. In Thailand, I actually had to learn to let my guard down a bit and accept that the bright smiles and offers of help from the locals were (at least sometimes) genuine.  I felt bad on more than one occasion for initially dismissing or trying to ignore someone who turned out to be actually looking out for my best interest.  In Vietnam, I learned quickly that I had to put the walls back up and I wasn't thrilled about it. I could feel myself becoming more and more jaded and defensive.  My day in Da Nang and this experience in Nha Trang were great respites from the tour agencies and moto drivers and other various touts out to cash in on the American tourist.  It was so nice to be able to let the walls down again and really get to know some locals and experience their way of life, and their incredible hospitality and kindness... even when a foreign stranger shows up at their door unannounced.
 

Gooooood Morning, Vietnam!!

Here's a fun little story for you. It's called: How I nearly died on a mountain in Vietnam... Okay, that might be a slight exaggeration, but I was most definitely in WAY over my head on this one... and here's how I got there...

I spent my first few days in country in the capital city of Hanoi which, while it does have some fascinating architecture and a very unique sort of vibe to it, is mostly a noisy, chaotic mess of a city.  This is particularly true in the Old Quarter, which is where basically all of the city's tourists wind up locating themselves, for one reason or another.   The streets are far narrower here than they ought to be to accommodate the insane amount of motorbike and car traffic that overloads them throughout the day, and with the sidewalks being used as either motorbike parking or dining areas with patrons sat in plastic chairs sized appropriately for a one-year-old child, this leaves pedestrians no choice but to fend for themselves in the street with the automotive riff-raff.  The result is it's nearly impossible to look around at any of the various shops or cafés that line the streets as you're often too busy making sure you're not about to be mowed down. (NOTE: I have no photos of the Old Quarter, because I was too busy trying not to die.) Nonetheless, I followed the herd and wound up at a decent low budget hotel with an admittedly VERY friendly and hospitable host who spoke very good English and remembered all the guests by name.  Unfortunately, the building was plagued with strange, unidentifiable mechanical-sounding noise issues (which only seemed to show up in the ungodly hours of the night) that kept me up all night long on my first night there.  A request to change rooms was accommodated first thing the following morning, where the mechanical noises were reduced to a dull hum beneath the cacophony of sound coming from the busy street below. Not perfect, but the random street noise was much easier for me to sleep through than the maddeningly repetitive mystery buzz/hum/whir that literally shook the walls of my former room.  So already not off to the best start in Hanoi.

I took it in stride, though, and eventually managed to become a little more adept at making my way through the mess that is the Old Quarter, though it was such an exhausting effort I found myself venturing out pretty quickly to other neighborhoods with larger streets, crosswalks, and proper sidewalks designed for pedestrians.  The French Quarter was kind of enchanting with its colonial style buildings and wide avenues reminiscent of Paris.  I found a lovely park with a giant lake that provided a relatively quiet safe haven for a couple of hours, after a full day of walking aimlessly around from neighborhood to neighborhood. I was particularly impressed with the Temple of Literature, which also felt like a welcome bit of calm sanctuary.

A Rare Quiet Street in Hanoi

Motorbikes!

A Bit of Peace and Quiet

Inside the Temple of Literature

Also in the Temple

I also met a German transplant who has been living in Hanoi for the past five years, who was quick to give me all sorts of handy tips not only about the city, but about the surrounding areas, and this is how I decided to book a two-day trekking excursion in Sapa.

I had heard of Sapa before, but had written off the idea of going there as I didn't think I really had enough time to explore it properly.  My new German friend assured me that two days was plenty, and that the scenery was well worth the trip.  Having had just about enough of the chaos in Hanoi, I was ready for a little peace and quiet again.  The package offered by my hotel, which included transfer from the hotel to an overnight sleeper train up to Loi Cao, a bus transfer from there to Sapa, a guide, two full days worth of trekking, a homestay in a local village, two breakfasts, two lunches, two dinners, and the same bus/sleeper train transport back to Hanoi for a mere $80 sealed the deal.  What my new German friend did not tell me, and what I failed to properly research myself, is that when the Vietnamese say "trekking", what they mean is something akin to the Norwegian definition of "hiking".  Our first day was to take us 10km from Sapa to the village of Loi Chai, where we were to have lunch. Okay, sure. 10km. Not a big deal... right?

Wrong! The very first kilometer consisted of making our way down a nearly sheer mountainside.  Sure there was a bit of a "trail" we were following, but mostly it was just loose dirt peppered with the occasional puddle of extremely slippery mud.  Suddenly, we understood why the massive group of local women who had joined in with us seemingly out of nowhere (with huge baskets strapped to their backs and wearing flip flops, like they were out for a Sunday stroll in the park) were there. They were our sherpas, and boy did we need them. They held our hands through the particularly dodgy parts, trying to keep us as safe as possible, but regardless we foreigners toppled like dominoes all the way down that mountain.  I landed on my ass five times, and once nearly took the woman who was trying to keep me upright off the mountain with me. By the time I made it safely to the bottom I knew I was in trouble.  My dodgy knees were already screaming at me, threatening to give way if I put them through any more abuse like that. On top of that, the new sneakers I had purchased the day before in Hanoi (after my own well-traveled and well-loved sneakers finally gave way in Laos) were turning out to be just a TINY bit too small in the toe area, resulting in what I was sure were about to become nasty blisters. Well, too bad, knees.  Too bad, toes.  We've got another 9km to go before lunch!

The scenery WAS beautiful, and we took a great many rest breaks during which I actually had a chance to appreciate some of it, and even snap a few photos, but for the most part, it was two days of torture peppered with moments of sheer panic when faced with particularly steep descents.  By the time we got to the little village cafe that was our end point on the second day (which came at the end of a 1km long steep ascent up a mountain) I was moments away from breaking down into tears.  Tears of frustration with the limitations of my terrible, terrible joints?  Tears of relief?  Tears of mental and physical exhaustion? I don't know, but a welcome sit-down, a wet-wipe "shower", and a Pepsi turned out to be enough to keep them at bay.

Mountains

Mountains

And More Mountains

I hate to make it sound like it was all terrible.  I do feel pretty damned accomplished, in hindsight, for having made it through what everyone in our group unanimously deemed to be an "exceptionally hard trek" with joints as bad as mine without incurring serious injury.  I didn't even have my knee brace! Besides that, I DID also legitimately enjoy all of the non-trekking moments: the quality company of the other tourists, the homestay with an ample supply of homemade "rice wine" that helped to dull some of the pain, the delicious food (which, to my delight is much easier on my system than the local fare in Laos and Thailand was).  I even bought a couple of very lovely hand-made purses from the woman who had helped me through the second day of hiking. I'm sure I paid entirely too much for them, but considering this woman had basically saved my life in the mountains, I thought it was more than fair.  She also threw in a bracelet for free. 

So the lesson here, coupled with what I learned this summer in Norway, seems to be that I do not mix well with hiking in mountains.  Got it. No bikes, no mountains, and most DEFINITELY no mountain bikes! This does put a bit of a damper on my dream to summit Mt. Kilimanjaro... though by all accounts the various paths up that mountain are much more straightforward and level than the ones I encountered here.  I left the ill-fitting shoes in Sapa, where they will hopefully find themselves a good home, and I made a new trip rule: if it can't be done in flip flops, it won't be done!

After a restless night aboard the train, followed by another three hour train ride from Hanoi early this morning, I find myself now in the little paradise of Ninh Binh, at what is easily the best "hotel" I've ever stayed at in my life. It's not a hotel so much as a series of bamboo huts situated along a quiet river tucked inside a semi-circle of rocky mountains.  My hut has four separate hammocks, two inside, and two outside, where I have sat my broken body for the better part of the afternoon, listening to the ducks, the fish, the birds, and maybe even some monkeys singing in the nearby jungle. It's so beautiful and peaceful here that part of me is wondering if I didn't actually die on that mountain in Sapa and somehow managed to blag my way into Heaven.  The searing pain in my quads and my calves every time I move, on the other hand, assures me that I'm still very much alive. Anyway, I couldn't have picked a better spot to recover both physically and mentally from the weekend.  Winning!

Paradise!

It only has three walls!

Best. Bungalow. Ever.

 

Cleaning out the Closet

Having hit my 30 day expiration date in Thailand, I have now jumped ship (literally, aboard a two-day "slow boat") for Laos, the country that I very morbidly joked marks the beginning of what I should call the "apology tour" of Southeast Asia.  Even the least worldly of Americans is aware of the disaster that was the Vietnam War, but I wonder how many are familiar with the Secret War waged on Laos and Cambodia that went on during that same time period.  I was familiar enough to know that we had dropped bombs on both countries that caused massive devastation and helped to set the stage for the takeover of the Khmer Rouge in Cambodia, but with talk of Henry Kissinger back in the news of late thanks to the circus that is our current presidential election, and finding myself actually in Laos, I decided to do a little more reading up on the subject. It was two hours of some of the most depressing reading I've done in a long time. 

To say the US dropped bombs on Laos, in particular, is a massive understatement. From 1964 to 1973 we dropped more than two million tons of bombs on Laos over the course of 580,000 bombing missions. That's equivalent to one planeload of bombs every eight minutes, day and night, for nine years.  For those keeping score, that's more than double the amount of bombs dropped on Germany and Japan in the whole of WWII, and a whopping 210 million more bombs than we dropped on Iraq in 1991, 1998, and 2006 combined! Thanks to us, Laos now has the unfortunate honor of being the most heavily bombed country in the world, per capita, and through it all most of the locals had absolutely no idea what was happening or why. The official excuse, concocted by Nixon and Kissinger (who had dreamt up the whole plan and executed it without consent from Congress), was that we were targeting known Viet Cong bases and supply routes running through the country, despite the fact that the bombs were being dropped from heights that made it physically impossible to target specific sites.  The truth, I think, speaks to a general disregard for human life in the name of preserving a political legacy.  Nixon and Kissinger were heavily invested in preventing a tide of communist takeovers in Southeast Asia during their tenure, and so as much as they may have been targeting Viet Cong bases, they were also "supporting" the Royal Lao Government against the communist Pathet Lao, even if that meant leveling the entire country in the process.  In addition to the bombings, the CIA recruited members of the native Hmong tribes to fight a ground war against the Pathet Lao, acting as agents of the United States. When the bombing ended and the Pathet Lao wound up in power anyway, these Hmong "soldiers" and their families were forced to flee the country to avoid persecution.  Many of them still remain in exile. 

As if all this isn't bad enough, consider the fact that up to a third of the bombs dropped on Lao during that time period didn't explode, leaving the country contaminated with massive amounts of unexploded ordinance (UXO).  Over 20,000 people have been killed or injured by UXO in the years since the bombings stopped.  Farmers out plowing their fields. Builders attempting to clear a site for new development.  Children playing with what looks to be a shiny yellow ball buried in the dirt.  Nearly 40 years later, only 1% of this UXO has been destroyed, with the US contributing a relatively paltry $51million over 16 years toward the effort.  That's as much as we spent in just three days dropping the bombs in the first place. 

To read about the devastation the US caused here is shocking, and it gives me tremendous respect for the Lao people, who have been nothing but kind and hospitable during my time here.  How easy would it be for them, even after so many years, to harbor hostility toward the US for the completely senseless destruction of their country (which has contributed heavily to making them the poorest country in Southeast Asia) and loss of life?  If such hostility exists, I've seen no sign of it.  Even after confirming that I'm American I've been met with warm smiles, polite conversation, and some delicious home cooking! Sure, they rely heavily on tourist dollars to prop up their struggling economy, which means that we wind up paying more for busses, hotels, food, and tour packages than they're probably worth, but considering the havoc we wreaked here for nearly a decade, paying an extra couple dollars for a sandwich seems like more than a fair trade-off. 

I've spent just over a week in Laos now and I've been massively impressed not only with the people, but with the sheer rugged beauty of the place that was far too great to succumb to destruction.  I've trekked through jungles, kayaked rivers, homestayed in tiny villages, and explored the bigger "cities" and through it all one thing is clear:  There's a spirit of peace and happiness here that stands in contrast to the country's dark history, and I think it provides a valuable lesson in forgiveness, tolerance, and understanding.