tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-194904322024-03-06T21:10:41.060-08:00All The DifferenceNorman Henry Pentelovitchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12390155598607641087noreply@blogger.comBlogger54125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19490432.post-35587143491679897072011-05-24T21:20:00.000-07:002011-05-25T15:04:12.778-07:00Ecuador: Travels in South AmericaNote: Dear reader, we are out of sequence here. Though we traveled to Ecuador more than two years ago, the memories are fresh and the experience unique. Please enjoy this interruption of your (ir)regularly scheduled posts about China, Mongolia, Italy, and Croatia, and indulge me the details of our South American sortie.<br /><br /><br />"Taylor...wake up....how about Ecuador?"<br /><br />It was 2 o'clock in the morning, and she was a little confused.<br /><br />"What? Ecuador? Why?"<br /><br />"Because tickets are cheap and I'm buying. Lets go!"<br /><br />Thus began an adventure that would see Taylor (wife extraordinare) and myself traversing mountain-tops, tackling treacherous volcanoes, riding tiny horses, braving raging whitewater, and constantly wondering when...oh when?!...were we going to eat some barbecued guinea pig.<br /><br />First, dear reader, you should be introduced to Taylor, as she has not yet made an appearance in this space:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM0toLOMiC3n2LGqolO_QPrmqhEZwfC0gEMuVEqGTv1l3tVBs1XOZKppL0t2hJvJ1Kyob2wgYBHLRTLmJRgZdup85O4zzcXdAqwxeO0nHJbVDKmLzPDIm92hUYljArDpDUXDFR/s1600/IMG_8482-1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 226px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM0toLOMiC3n2LGqolO_QPrmqhEZwfC0gEMuVEqGTv1l3tVBs1XOZKppL0t2hJvJ1Kyob2wgYBHLRTLmJRgZdup85O4zzcXdAqwxeO0nHJbVDKmLzPDIm92hUYljArDpDUXDFR/s320/IMG_8482-1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5483595661839792370" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Yes. She is really that lovely.<br /><br />So how did we go from this:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcYHkHoBHIczLsV4U2s8lnJzKMKXeI4nnEnl8ZEoqaxgsSA4IixzVxiV9fVhtPFGJRABuny6UvGXI_7cHO61RFpK6c1YI5eq8GdhiWHx0AUddUtChwi5DTVFIw7D5OtByEKSVL/s1600/IMG_0015.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcYHkHoBHIczLsV4U2s8lnJzKMKXeI4nnEnl8ZEoqaxgsSA4IixzVxiV9fVhtPFGJRABuny6UvGXI_7cHO61RFpK6c1YI5eq8GdhiWHx0AUddUtChwi5DTVFIw7D5OtByEKSVL/s320/IMG_0015.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5483596257803924994" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />To this:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSdG7RB0XyiM_KeeWrL4Em7cpONqHAQGRkZzGtgHp7RlnQhaNz1MooEUl3cmOeJMoRLAL-vFkCa-_ALQAzZ-FHmTmYW7EBCHnG39jlkVp9LLgXkyxZHz4vGNl3Od5ui2ADtfwO/s1600/IMG_0234.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSdG7RB0XyiM_KeeWrL4Em7cpONqHAQGRkZzGtgHp7RlnQhaNz1MooEUl3cmOeJMoRLAL-vFkCa-_ALQAzZ-FHmTmYW7EBCHnG39jlkVp9LLgXkyxZHz4vGNl3Od5ui2ADtfwO/s320/IMG_0234.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5483596266848303010" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />It's quite a story.<br /><br />We left Washington, DC on Christmas Day, long flights and no Chinese food making me a dull boy. Our destination? Fabulous Quito, Ecuador! The second highest capital in the world, and with an elevation of nearly 3,000 meters, not the type of place to take high speed, physical activity lightly...<br /><br />Which is why as soon as we arrived we set off hiking into the mountains around the city.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyGFIQ3QMO5T69AmkyDP7X4e3T9Hh6QHlDVMedWqZDGLrNg2vWKsgQcKmVneUm1X_xZ-QmBqRwyomlvqWM4d_emNEh7Gboh4pqIpsHuPrgXoBSABa7a1TUStFsZff6dpTOvlUW/s1600/IMG_0038.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyGFIQ3QMO5T69AmkyDP7X4e3T9Hh6QHlDVMedWqZDGLrNg2vWKsgQcKmVneUm1X_xZ-QmBqRwyomlvqWM4d_emNEh7Gboh4pqIpsHuPrgXoBSABa7a1TUStFsZff6dpTOvlUW/s320/IMG_0038.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5483598084031816882" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM0DTkvti2tjvy7HB0ot7PNanGfw2PVdDBACH22ylM0nSLYw_SisFOhxCj0RcPgoiAMjQgqZJHy2pLK9pQgbVyzwlXUH0-wvuxzvBrL7lDxqQudzsdOOY9iBQ1gE9h2zyOFz_p/s1600/IMG_0029.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM0DTkvti2tjvy7HB0ot7PNanGfw2PVdDBACH22ylM0nSLYw_SisFOhxCj0RcPgoiAMjQgqZJHy2pLK9pQgbVyzwlXUH0-wvuxzvBrL7lDxqQudzsdOOY9iBQ1gE9h2zyOFz_p/s320/IMG_0029.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5483598062571495330" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Quito sits in a kind of basin formed by mountain ranges stretching out endlessly on either side. The city has low valleys and shallow hills mounted with high-spired churches. It is less cosmopolitan than other capital cities, and retains a lived-in, accessible aesthetic that made it feel almost instantly home-like.<br /><br />We decided that we needed to get a more holistic view of the city, so we (very, very stupidly) decided on our second day to take the <span style="font-style: italic;">teleferico</span>, a cable car that ascends you from 2850 meters to 4050 meters in about 9 minutes. Have you ever...been <span style="font-style: italic;">alive</span>, at high altitudes before? It's hard right? Usually, when you are dealing with high elevations you take things slowly, you let your body get acclimated to the new situation and, after several days, you feel better, more clear-headed, and able to function.<br /><br />You can do that responsibly.... or you can take a cable car 1200 meters straight up the side of a mountain, sort of like if you hopped into a jet, pointed it towards the sky, and just hit the ignition switch.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUIfC15byv6CT6aY2WQL0zFVZobrx6xpOGQ4KNCoBRKKUpfh9N-wawV4-yH8Pcs8JSpvYxTcCA0sY6UL2ygvGWLT9fA3p706Ib0HMQpm0SeoV0pOG6ZY9Q0utls5T8Dz80i0gx/s1600/IMG_0023.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUIfC15byv6CT6aY2WQL0zFVZobrx6xpOGQ4KNCoBRKKUpfh9N-wawV4-yH8Pcs8JSpvYxTcCA0sY6UL2ygvGWLT9fA3p706Ib0HMQpm0SeoV0pOG6ZY9Q0utls5T8Dz80i0gx/s320/IMG_0023.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5483599425049498690" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />This was really stupid...wheee!</span><br /><br />By the time we got to the top, and realized that a good portion of the things to do at the "top" were to hike even higher, we decided it may be a good idea to take it easy.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVU5k3xo935VNudHRbkWtyWwO6jTNcb6-FB2W0dngs5FE6GJI1wSGJbqJI2uNy-fq-YfBShAGdnfgqAucy-gw0p4ym3F0PMxb31yohKt8fAU2jXSmWui6wtTnP_rBIcY8iIX-J/s1600/IMG_0043.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVU5k3xo935VNudHRbkWtyWwO6jTNcb6-FB2W0dngs5FE6GJI1wSGJbqJI2uNy-fq-YfBShAGdnfgqAucy-gw0p4ym3F0PMxb31yohKt8fAU2jXSmWui6wtTnP_rBIcY8iIX-J/s320/IMG_0043.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5483600118160398162" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Okay I'm lying, we just went higher</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicESS4KKcSNUXte14sShJ8CF5ABTW4eK8faU_6yHOPxJDxPT7PhRhUDMkzBQQfKazIsR8IJakUI3tWw502jFd3bmHoKLWA-syzIiTMZye0yvrgqS4DJhP32OCsPaWYoorFV8bT/s1600/IMG_0053.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicESS4KKcSNUXte14sShJ8CF5ABTW4eK8faU_6yHOPxJDxPT7PhRhUDMkzBQQfKazIsR8IJakUI3tWw502jFd3bmHoKLWA-syzIiTMZye0yvrgqS4DJhP32OCsPaWYoorFV8bT/s320/IMG_0053.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5609757397173525202" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Spooky buildings are usually on top of mountains</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Eventually, our oxygen-deprived brains turned us around and sent us back to town.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7SJJiL5UZFlcoQqYj7SiKMh4xYNkzmAMOMLB7XWQk35_R_MyES0m2AaBr5VNIFC78n4R9W25IV6ItgJ741e37lMy2kVhFJvAIcie_TS9cqysmB9U_s1GLbQAL7i2pRZm1_E8X/s1600/IMG_0075.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7SJJiL5UZFlcoQqYj7SiKMh4xYNkzmAMOMLB7XWQk35_R_MyES0m2AaBr5VNIFC78n4R9W25IV6ItgJ741e37lMy2kVhFJvAIcie_TS9cqysmB9U_s1GLbQAL7i2pRZm1_E8X/s320/IMG_0075.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5483600603378659714" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />Free ear flowers to everyone who survives rapid, entirely ill-advised elevation changes!</span><br /><br /><br /><br />We decided that perhaps a few more terrestrial days would serve us well, so decided to follow our natural tourist-y instincts and visit <span style="font-style: italic;">Mitad del Mundo</span>, or "Center of the World." Despite being misleading for a variety of reasons (no dinosaurs, don't enter through a volcano, not actually geographic center of anything) there is a big monument that theoretically shows you where the equator passes through Ecuador (quick: how did Ecuador get its name? Bam! Now you've learned something. Apologies). How big is the monument?<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwenyiLHpHiI9Q5i0-sWoE_jfeT_-8pvI2LFzr7JYZFPI7dEw4PHq0rcz9vmPspL1iLt7pxoWJYPj2HdZhoxF5ysnvo1nQheLH14JALE3x-plSKohSjQ4tJLNWl0uVKAHMjRZX/s1600/IMG_0092.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwenyiLHpHiI9Q5i0-sWoE_jfeT_-8pvI2LFzr7JYZFPI7dEw4PHq0rcz9vmPspL1iLt7pxoWJYPj2HdZhoxF5ysnvo1nQheLH14JALE3x-plSKohSjQ4tJLNWl0uVKAHMjRZX/s320/IMG_0092.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5483604673135225570" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Eh...about this tall.</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSc-sFLNJ3rrZ4ZBwQhlQYl1Byu-wljXQEZNIOR0OW3Q9UaofAJrc1B-Ay0BxEshFtFvbZsj1gQu3tGBHt4dvdXZyjO8yWZKUK_8RMs7Svc0OWSe_kfrieQ_NAE5qeu12vZDl5/s1600/IMG_0099.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSc-sFLNJ3rrZ4ZBwQhlQYl1Byu-wljXQEZNIOR0OW3Q9UaofAJrc1B-Ay0BxEshFtFvbZsj1gQu3tGBHt4dvdXZyjO8yWZKUK_8RMs7Svc0OWSe_kfrieQ_NAE5qeu12vZDl5/s320/IMG_0099.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5609736381932429826" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />So that's what it looks like at the equator. I know, everyone thinks that they'll see water just spinning endlessly in pools without actually draining away...<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnI545bA_ho-3N3M7eMbp_50SQD4Cm1aqLe1UIgszBiwjzgwbm2YxXf1oLIuCbJAmU1Pqu_2F2vXAGYbuE9AmsVhPQwI1DOOYOs9b7C5b3KENP7DH5XhPXVOH9A7xqGyjLOW55/s1600/IMG_0096.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnI545bA_ho-3N3M7eMbp_50SQD4Cm1aqLe1UIgszBiwjzgwbm2YxXf1oLIuCbJAmU1Pqu_2F2vXAGYbuE9AmsVhPQwI1DOOYOs9b7C5b3KENP7DH5XhPXVOH9A7xqGyjLOW55/s320/IMG_0096.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5609737139261598738" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br />At least...I thought it would...<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />but really, the only thing there was this real big monument. And also an insect museum. Not insects native to the equator, just insects. Of course, you have to pay for entry, I guess as many attractions as you can cram in make it worth maintaining the really big obelisk that people come to gawk at.<br /><br />We spent another day or so in Quito, in Churches and on hillsides, taking in the variegated views that a hilly city in a basin provides. But soon, our itchy feet needed scratchin', and we were on our way to Cotopaxi, to see what this whole "volcano-climbing" business was all about.<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPiM_bd6vPw02WHPqg7onBUTV1_5O4ikzoTtGHBUMalRfT5pM1bNEhxW2ftMObMs99JqvK6KEESf2cZLNxxgVx6rQrJ0YFwq19nAGvBqBuKHlxPtaKU_Sutq128JDRHG8wQ6wY/s1600/IMG_0118.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPiM_bd6vPw02WHPqg7onBUTV1_5O4ikzoTtGHBUMalRfT5pM1bNEhxW2ftMObMs99JqvK6KEESf2cZLNxxgVx6rQrJ0YFwq19nAGvBqBuKHlxPtaKU_Sutq128JDRHG8wQ6wY/s320/IMG_0118.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5609753544446883810" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /><br /><br /><br />This church....super tall..</span>.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL7XD-v_r_PYInosXg9vhyXZYpG6XnoD_0fk4ZT3qcjOVwQGOUPbVEsW0vhlkZAyOZV2nLzZP0txDG3EXa9tm5-r7hwiNxIX8gwJpkz9xYoMQNlkN89kxwiBpyJumO963tlp2S/s1600/IMG_0112.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL7XD-v_r_PYInosXg9vhyXZYpG6XnoD_0fk4ZT3qcjOVwQGOUPbVEsW0vhlkZAyOZV2nLzZP0txDG3EXa9tm5-r7hwiNxIX8gwJpkz9xYoMQNlkN89kxwiBpyJumO963tlp2S/s320/IMG_0112.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5609753537813010978" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />In case you didn't believe me about the hills and stuff...here they are! Also that is a mega-big Jesus up on that hill, however the stairs to walk up to are so dangerous (because people will rob you) that you mostly admire it from a distance</span><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit8ydf3aSthzrnDX3_QUNPIM1p17FV_I8Rz1OTlEcfpY0qh8p5-Ce-inGP6c6nCjxLMWdQHxnWIvOqTBJPfSxFpBTZ2L2bVLEEBjN4oBMzehvV2DJsD3INg1MfwIh90woaWrri/s1600/IMG_0109.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit8ydf3aSthzrnDX3_QUNPIM1p17FV_I8Rz1OTlEcfpY0qh8p5-Ce-inGP6c6nCjxLMWdQHxnWIvOqTBJPfSxFpBTZ2L2bVLEEBjN4oBMzehvV2DJsD3INg1MfwIh90woaWrri/s320/IMG_0109.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5609753525459946722" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />This view makes the church look way more menacing than it really was</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1JFZ6J-tiQ-pIcYZRmktlw1IB3WgCXPj52G3o2ds6O9W5GsyT_FxJimiCdMtJ4RtA75cYDcM3kuykWpKX-fTloRIsrUi7AZ8ICoexBgyvOZGOkF_qPeonNQARtmowZ03BVavc/s1600/IMG_0137.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1JFZ6J-tiQ-pIcYZRmktlw1IB3WgCXPj52G3o2ds6O9W5GsyT_FxJimiCdMtJ4RtA75cYDcM3kuykWpKX-fTloRIsrUi7AZ8ICoexBgyvOZGOkF_qPeonNQARtmowZ03BVavc/s320/IMG_0137.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5609754128644315954" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">I should not have been sitting up here...</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBrJGbuRZ1YbD0aO8V-tc4sOXC7hjG1OBfonhmZf2F6-x4MOKDIzlxfRQcGLrVqaascYgPt6MGNLHhDAvSqNP7DI8MiPL_VajeAzo5P_Y2Rr2VuClqww4eB3ZfmFIijmI1Cf_g/s1600/IMG_0124.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBrJGbuRZ1YbD0aO8V-tc4sOXC7hjG1OBfonhmZf2F6-x4MOKDIzlxfRQcGLrVqaascYgPt6MGNLHhDAvSqNP7DI8MiPL_VajeAzo5P_Y2Rr2VuClqww4eB3ZfmFIijmI1Cf_g/s320/IMG_0124.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5609755311711008002" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtH0cCgpD2UJMyleYppFVoIHWfd-rGec8MANNZctEUGEmPU9MpAsUBqb60wTJfPjW6uCxT-hUuWq97P1NvXSHVl3ejM0H76K-2CxShLrfZLMDB0B8HR0FNMYNeiCaNDSBmF5pD/s1600/IMG_0124.JPG"><span style="font-size:85%;">Taylor made it to the top, despite being totally (and reasonably) freaked out about the height, narrowness, and general absurdity of attempting to get to the upper-most part of nearly any church.</span><br /></a>Norman Henry Pentelovitchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12390155598607641087noreply@blogger.com34tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19490432.post-80558863914846032952010-05-03T10:58:00.000-07:002010-05-03T11:08:51.960-07:00Guest Post: Brilliant new writer contributes Unicorn story to handsome blog writer/editor<div>I want to introduce everyone to a promising young writer from the snow-drift laden lakes of Minnesota. She is a creative force to be reckoned with and you can expect great things from her in the future. Without further ado, I give you the newest literary creation of Miriam Pentelovitch!:<br /><br /><div></div><br /><div><strong>Once upon a time there was a pegasus. And a friend that was a unicorn. They were close. Fly fly fly! They were so high that they touched a cloud. One day they got lost in a cloud kingdom. When they arrived they were amazed. It was beautiful! It was covered with diamonds and flowers! They loved it! They loved it so much they lived there. The end.</strong></div><div> </div><div><br /> </div><div><strong></strong></div><br /><div><em>Miriam Pentelovitch currently resides in Minneapolis with her family until she can afford a loft apartment or fairy tale castle. She concentrates her writing on unicorns and other mythical creatures and can often be found preparing to be a princess. She is also an avid pilot.</em></div><div><em></em> </div><div><em></em> </div><div><em><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibE4k5oV8OWcgyxlKF26jmLrZMrF00FMD6mRUzQfU-IFpRkTMLe11xYQsg3mBnNEpSuYNE04wsVMDeKMWi5Nd4dyAvai3mdgNacBznFo8qhGcwR-HEmPNja4OTD5kkJ5tpVy5q/s1600/IMG00777.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5467106811520822514" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibE4k5oV8OWcgyxlKF26jmLrZMrF00FMD6mRUzQfU-IFpRkTMLe11xYQsg3mBnNEpSuYNE04wsVMDeKMWi5Nd4dyAvai3mdgNacBznFo8qhGcwR-HEmPNja4OTD5kkJ5tpVy5q/s320/IMG00777.jpg" border="0" /></a></em></div><div><em></em> </div><div><em></em> </div><div><em></em> </div><div><em></em> </div><div><em></em> </div><div><em></em> </div><div><em></em> </div><div> </div><div><em></em> </div><div><em><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibE4k5oV8OWcgyxlKF26jmLrZMrF00FMD6mRUzQfU-IFpRkTMLe11xYQsg3mBnNEpSuYNE04wsVMDeKMWi5Nd4dyAvai3mdgNacBznFo8qhGcwR-HEmPNja4OTD5kkJ5tpVy5q/s1600/IMG00777.jpg"></a></em> </div><div> </div><br /><div><em></em></div><br /><div></div></div>Norman Henry Pentelovitchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12390155598607641087noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19490432.post-56985253105299386782010-01-26T20:38:00.000-08:002010-01-26T21:27:39.599-08:00Beijing, the Great Wall, and Chinese Nerds"Hey man get up, time to go."<br /><br />"Blerargaahhhhh"<br /><br />Its 2am. I can't remember where I am. I can't figure out how to turn off the alarm clock. Music is throbbing and for some reason I seem to be sleeping on a piece of wet cardboard that smells like the backdoor of a bad seafood restaurant. Am I drunk? Am I hungover?<br /><br />Nope, I'm in a Chinese guest house. Good morning!<br /><br />My erstwhile traveling companion Nate is attempting to rouse me after my 16 hour flight and hour and a half of sleep. Fortunately, I've planned ahead. I'm already wearing thick socks, tough pants, and a sweat-wicking shirt. And a headlamp. I somehow managed to fall asleep with my headlamp on. Fantastic. Well, time to go.<br /><br />We stumble out of the guesthouse into the "street," which is really more like a giant pit because whoever owns the block chose that week to dig up every inch of traversable ground to put in new pipes (if you've been reading this blog for a while, you will recognize this as the very same situation I encountered on my first morning in Cambodia).<br /><br />We make it to the end of the block by employing various technical climbing techniques, coupled with <span style="font-style: italic;">extreme leaping</span>, and find a car waiting. Putting faith in our ability to overcome would-be kidnappers, we get in and start driving. We are paying way too much money for the privilege of a 2 hour car ride, a 5 hour hike, and supposedly lunch. Guess how much of that happened? Fortunately, we have a guide, sort of.<br /><br />"Good morning! Do you want breakfast?"<br /><br />Yes of course we do. Our guide (whose name I've forgotten so I call him "Pouty") digs into his bag and proudly hands around slices of white bread.<br /><br />Value of trip so far relative to cost: low.<br /><br />The driver rapid-fires some Chinese at the guide.<br /><br />"The driver would like to be able to smoke a cigarette so he doesn't fall asleep."<br /><br />It takes a few seconds to realize this is a question, to which we are only too happy to respond affirmatively. Smoke in a car from a cigarette is infinitely preferable to smoke from an exploding gas tank.<br /><br />Confidence level in our survival: low<br /><br />We drive and drive, through haze that sticks to you in nearly tangible gray clumps. My head lolls on the headrest, and I'm only aware of our movement when it stops so that our driver and guide can ask for directions. This happens far more often than you would hope. Finally (oh god...FINALLY) our driver pulls over on the side of a dirt road (a very steep dirt road) and orders us out. Glad to be doing something else, we hop out, flip on our headlamps and look around.<br /><br />Goats look back at us. As does a towering, steep forest. Our guide takes a few tentative steps forward, smoking a cigarette. Eventually, something occurs to him (perhaps that he is a guide and not a tree) and he starts moving.<br /><br />It feels good to be moving. Early morning, hiking up a nearly vertical wall, I remember several years ago when Nate and I were doing the very same thing half a world away in Chile. I smile, and press on, eventually looking back to realize our guide has stopped to smoke a cigarette. He is out of breath and looks confused at our pace.<br /><br />Verdant greens flash under our lamps, and the damp ground gives just enough to make each step interesting.<br /><br />Eventually, we see the high brick towers of the Great Wall of China. Sweaty, exhilarated, we stop for a moment to catch our breath<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIsiVSVsVO9wF9wWHNcv3K2TjRqHQ3HNe1ayLl32lDRL-c7xAtLPiCSaGxK13tlk_tVRkG6vmzzWqRA57k7pcE_Mai2YUUUV4hRiO4cMFh5EOaiovlDavZIWEW98TQ43DMYd-d/s1600-h/IMG_0942.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399727990429490226" style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; width: 200px; cursor: pointer; height: 150px;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIsiVSVsVO9wF9wWHNcv3K2TjRqHQ3HNe1ayLl32lDRL-c7xAtLPiCSaGxK13tlk_tVRkG6vmzzWqRA57k7pcE_Mai2YUUUV4hRiO4cMFh5EOaiovlDavZIWEW98TQ43DMYd-d/s200/IMG_0942.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">I know this looks like a sweaty morning in 'Nam...but it isn't. Thats just smog.</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXlceOqSswTGNJGWQ8mwLXZWZuOOKuaG7sRj9oF6KbRZpfDvKZI49lfNWao3vHrEM_elJiqet4_WYOxI7huT13GwBxirGBeRtu0dyHC5OttucZnWowl7jpWZnKTpvsBSHqr4i8/s1600-h/IMG_0938.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399728001107762418" style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; width: 150px; cursor: pointer; height: 200px;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXlceOqSswTGNJGWQ8mwLXZWZuOOKuaG7sRj9oF6KbRZpfDvKZI49lfNWao3vHrEM_elJiqet4_WYOxI7huT13GwBxirGBeRtu0dyHC5OttucZnWowl7jpWZnKTpvsBSHqr4i8/s200/IMG_0938.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">What do you mean I look ridiculous? Explorers are sexy!<br /></span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilPlQIW_DeR-rBA4cZtGLJ1yNIrOwPF6v8diGY_Nk97ET8pvq5fxm_Xqz6ZQ3EuBoZlYdewciJVnWaqnWAdb3y7V3MTLpHoWjWxmkVLBjmBrNzt4AZM1NPxdJKZde1qeF2H6NL/s1600-h/IMG_0937.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399727985555643778" style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; width: 150px; cursor: pointer; height: 200px;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilPlQIW_DeR-rBA4cZtGLJ1yNIrOwPF6v8diGY_Nk97ET8pvq5fxm_Xqz6ZQ3EuBoZlYdewciJVnWaqnWAdb3y7V3MTLpHoWjWxmkVLBjmBrNzt4AZM1NPxdJKZde1qeF2H6NL/s200/IMG_0937.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />Preparing for the final ascent...it was about 20 feet.</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />We climb a narrow flight of stairs, arrive at the top, and begin our wait.<br /><br />We waited a long time. Japan may be the land of the rising sun, but in China its more like the "sun that drags its ass out of bed and sort of makes it up eventually." It crested a high mountain in front of us and took about an hour and a half to finally get up over the darn thing. Of course, we could only see it like a bit of egg yolk on some cotton given all the smog.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPwOvNp70bJehRJOLoeyOcLAKcEGH-YcO-DYGTz5ND7kByNfByiBxYSQnH9ozTYBr5fgG8DonlbMKJ1TThKisBUgDk84HC-ORcBmeSKd6nDoNu7ieVoLpZ1Lv3tao7kBSqc4Cm/s1600-h/China-Mongolia+2009+269.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399730745857943170" style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; width: 200px; cursor: pointer; height: 112px;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPwOvNp70bJehRJOLoeyOcLAKcEGH-YcO-DYGTz5ND7kByNfByiBxYSQnH9ozTYBr5fgG8DonlbMKJ1TThKisBUgDk84HC-ORcBmeSKd6nDoNu7ieVoLpZ1Lv3tao7kBSqc4Cm/s200/China-Mongolia+2009+269.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaqlQlli8kx_dd_0IVcjmheFRieIWDKOb8DKv2b3mybwZTyFdxC27XWk0AAsjhFnIFX0vg_IN-hGIPH9H4kxEnzn94C1unlgmYMeajM565ckUvsqtF5v13lqNy5qFfiABlFl7i/s1600-h/China-Mongolia+2009+268.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399730743428955346" style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; width: 200px; cursor: pointer; height: 112px;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaqlQlli8kx_dd_0IVcjmheFRieIWDKOb8DKv2b3mybwZTyFdxC27XWk0AAsjhFnIFX0vg_IN-hGIPH9H4kxEnzn94C1unlgmYMeajM565ckUvsqtF5v13lqNy5qFfiABlFl7i/s200/China-Mongolia+2009+268.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="text-decoration: underline;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span></span></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">These are ancient Chinese portraits of the greatest warrior-poets in all of China.</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Finally (finally!) the smog began flying away over a lower section of the wall, looking for all the world like ghosts fleeing a blinding light. You could watch the white tendrils stream over ramparts, and what it left behind speaks for itself:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi1-C-X5JLfuqpHAc0cVw06cV_jFHZP-Ro9KRgTXeujCOZAOPypapYLFtJaqm6lq7JbVOS9E04azdWbn5tn1PiBAE2K4YSQxV5ih-cVpMt9lf8FW5CkQsASe7d2SB6hCjDr3Di/s1600-h/China-Mongolia+2009+273.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399733222414958642" style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; width: 112px; cursor: pointer; height: 200px;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi1-C-X5JLfuqpHAc0cVw06cV_jFHZP-Ro9KRgTXeujCOZAOPypapYLFtJaqm6lq7JbVOS9E04azdWbn5tn1PiBAE2K4YSQxV5ih-cVpMt9lf8FW5CkQsASe7d2SB6hCjDr3Di/s200/China-Mongolia+2009+273.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz1Ht-KFPlP8XvFJ2L8unHLXlAzLn1JAtcQpOecK78mstZYLQFZL6zhqhYPLCDQlhWuLdiQtm5lmm02ltkwGavvdybKzOTGx2h3f81Flr2gJj7PNoLAQLG-Q0FKsKaUIV3tkk3/s1600-h/China-Mongolia+2009+274.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399732735440786738" style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; width: 204px; cursor: pointer; height: 114px;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz1Ht-KFPlP8XvFJ2L8unHLXlAzLn1JAtcQpOecK78mstZYLQFZL6zhqhYPLCDQlhWuLdiQtm5lmm02ltkwGavvdybKzOTGx2h3f81Flr2gJj7PNoLAQLG-Q0FKsKaUIV3tkk3/s200/China-Mongolia+2009+274.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG1pRatt7czBcwqMEunLpDabE4BPgrw1mWN65KZnBenmCb3ueTkiCDHb6CY5a17N8L1bJfc2GF86mtNZqf1YhlL-xktaZKhaSnvTMDHfl_1uMfCrwOS4V1Ug1Cvb_jc-w2tR6v/s1600-h/IMG_0986.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399731072590805234" style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; width: 252px; cursor: pointer; height: 200px;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG1pRatt7czBcwqMEunLpDabE4BPgrw1mWN65KZnBenmCb3ueTkiCDHb6CY5a17N8L1bJfc2GF86mtNZqf1YhlL-xktaZKhaSnvTMDHfl_1uMfCrwOS4V1Ug1Cvb_jc-w2tR6v/s200/IMG_0986.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFn3HyPurzN0Os70EZJ7-ZH7q4CuEe3ChBBjc0_fBATWk2l-PNtJhh9p2LYZ0lh4TSbjJEsbdjm6fAUxbUeiM3zPOe55Y0cUV8FLhwCougjy7Dt62Xt_GsKXJIJzmDqFsfFlg7/s1600-h/IMG_0989.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399736775848370290" style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; width: 200px; cursor: pointer; height: 150px;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFn3HyPurzN0Os70EZJ7-ZH7q4CuEe3ChBBjc0_fBATWk2l-PNtJhh9p2LYZ0lh4TSbjJEsbdjm6fAUxbUeiM3zPOe55Y0cUV8FLhwCougjy7Dt62Xt_GsKXJIJzmDqFsfFlg7/s200/IMG_0989.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPOKqm5TYkyLEACZzIoZ-Cw0X2Hsmu0IG5Q2CY42UdE02pj7VUQSMLBivUNeYvJ0sqyRJSGIcWV0xV2_WIrSN6EDv4Uc4PehfKYlNa89B3BGNGsyy2PKXfVkIV20hQF1nMLRF5/s1600-h/IMG_0993.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399736569080739890" style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; width: 150px; cursor: pointer; height: 200px;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPOKqm5TYkyLEACZzIoZ-Cw0X2Hsmu0IG5Q2CY42UdE02pj7VUQSMLBivUNeYvJ0sqyRJSGIcWV0xV2_WIrSN6EDv4Uc4PehfKYlNa89B3BGNGsyy2PKXfVkIV20hQF1nMLRF5/s200/IMG_0993.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQn-6UGUZ2wrVv-PB6oJNIgbkC2dxgMXB6khIZu105edZ6qwRxKUvkRUZnt-XXum9M-vz_BvLc10x2br6KlbKaVUh9-qkPNvS0ZJXgDKMKWgR2ZP5uYoaTCJJII30XFY36MbRN/s1600-h/China-Mongolia+2009+283.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399737018471660722" style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; width: 200px; cursor: pointer; height: 150px;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQn-6UGUZ2wrVv-PB6oJNIgbkC2dxgMXB6khIZu105edZ6qwRxKUvkRUZnt-XXum9M-vz_BvLc10x2br6KlbKaVUh9-qkPNvS0ZJXgDKMKWgR2ZP5uYoaTCJJII30XFY36MbRN/s200/China-Mongolia+2009+283.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcLQ31qR0YX3x2JQSBcaFS_3tsqkJDKUbquQ7wTgC86PHkBXSY8QVEiXzZ2x8qsa6UZnMWedbeyyducrpSqLsLtujObvQkSCG1ZHuH_BOz20rdMIDI55ltnd_Z5eTwxiNnVI-b/s1600-h/China-Mongolia+2009+277.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399735611192378162" style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; width: 200px; cursor: pointer; height: 150px;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcLQ31qR0YX3x2JQSBcaFS_3tsqkJDKUbquQ7wTgC86PHkBXSY8QVEiXzZ2x8qsa6UZnMWedbeyyducrpSqLsLtujObvQkSCG1ZHuH_BOz20rdMIDI55ltnd_Z5eTwxiNnVI-b/s200/China-Mongolia+2009+277.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_cfSYMjX3BAe2PGBPuZWU3uVY_fJsq73BXUOfvq0qdYQYP7kAQZFVlacOf3hmpX-ePXfGjl4P6Jp_41aXErjGyrolCEh_Kdje9H2rkFfbJxoPlqzfzZgpZvu2bQtNvAs8Qiqu/s1600-h/China-Mongolia+2009+278.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399735602371728994" style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; width: 200px; cursor: pointer; height: 150px;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_cfSYMjX3BAe2PGBPuZWU3uVY_fJsq73BXUOfvq0qdYQYP7kAQZFVlacOf3hmpX-ePXfGjl4P6Jp_41aXErjGyrolCEh_Kdje9H2rkFfbJxoPlqzfzZgpZvu2bQtNvAs8Qiqu/s200/China-Mongolia+2009+278.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /><br />And of course we took awesome-dude pictures, since we are awesome-dudes.</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />After snapping away for well over two hours (joined by a small group of hard-core Chinese photographers who had camped at the top all night just to get good morning shots), we hiked back down along the Wall. It is a remarkable structure, less for its height (which is impressive) but more for its depth and width. It would have been easy enough to build a high thin wall, but the Great Wall of China was easily wide enough for carts and people to pass each other comfortably. I'm sure I could google some measurements for you, but what fun is that. Just stick with the cart/person image and you'll be well served.<br /><br />After making it back down to our car, we headed back to the guesthouse. Nate, having already done the "Beijing thing" too the afternoon off, while I hopped in a cab to go see the Olympic structures. I'm going to be brief here because I can be. The buildings, sculptures, memorials, and other variegated hoo-ha related to the Olympics were all:<br /><br />1) very large;<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTJ8pS03IRkwm0oCBsML3bH_A5POsTrqGMfCF7Yre45fKVC0FbXQFTsiX_Vv27uhsqYwtHL9CO5yWDS3XRf7gN2baGSAbJmJc0R8Npa-c17G1fBju419Bav9EuCJfz73QyyCH_/s1600-h/IMG_1013.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399740623321639890" style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; width: 150px; cursor: pointer; height: 200px;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTJ8pS03IRkwm0oCBsML3bH_A5POsTrqGMfCF7Yre45fKVC0FbXQFTsiX_Vv27uhsqYwtHL9CO5yWDS3XRf7gN2baGSAbJmJc0R8Npa-c17G1fBju419Bav9EuCJfz73QyyCH_/s200/IMG_1013.jpg" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-CKL9keW00mQ4Y4gfmVqgq8UKKi89eWlLYYYKRf4Jh8kB04fdnBmpfsKH8IC3o7MOyXq2KB73E_znMcrV2gnpbtft4Rz-7AbQba30sqv4Oz4RvsQXYpVaHIS_rVAK8oOoE6FI/s1600-h/IMG_1012.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399740615473269202" style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; width: 150px; cursor: pointer; height: 200px;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-CKL9keW00mQ4Y4gfmVqgq8UKKi89eWlLYYYKRf4Jh8kB04fdnBmpfsKH8IC3o7MOyXq2KB73E_znMcrV2gnpbtft4Rz-7AbQba30sqv4Oz4RvsQXYpVaHIS_rVAK8oOoE6FI/s200/IMG_1012.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />2) very interesting looking; <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUkW7jZefLZBuLw4pl5veKPqxJXA4mRZrTDLrm_nC7O-q2BOn__k44pVmDewgKAR9lvDkGHl1VWf3D-c1XDibk0FsXjaAonoDqA9zd-oJoTT9fyRd5imqfXC39aPYutRLNxFyG/s1600-h/IMG_1008.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399740381479173602" style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; width: 200px; cursor: pointer; height: 150px;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUkW7jZefLZBuLw4pl5veKPqxJXA4mRZrTDLrm_nC7O-q2BOn__k44pVmDewgKAR9lvDkGHl1VWf3D-c1XDibk0FsXjaAonoDqA9zd-oJoTT9fyRd5imqfXC39aPYutRLNxFyG/s200/IMG_1008.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhheNjRIbCE9nO_DZttu3YWfsc1OxD7lf8TYLIXnAI1yflU78j3PuONco9kTYv788sYz6Ld09vXbSMcyRh6ppXokD7yABL1q2t4i7yXPP56HsQrcnIcgxNAzJ3R40WjxfSnp4zo/s1600-h/IMG_1040.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhheNjRIbCE9nO_DZttu3YWfsc1OxD7lf8TYLIXnAI1yflU78j3PuONco9kTYv788sYz6Ld09vXbSMcyRh6ppXokD7yABL1q2t4i7yXPP56HsQrcnIcgxNAzJ3R40WjxfSnp4zo/s320/IMG_1040.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431280202907143410" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfniDcIwHjUfPYwjLSKkWuBnVeH8-ffRRoXLnA1BJSFpq2LejnXGheg-25Z64Rt-Oa6ruuD1PROjrwGIiO_T7cC8j84RI4F54ZEsI3a5b92wo_SX_yJRpdcl8tOYLcQkDC_j18/s1600-h/IMG_1025.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfniDcIwHjUfPYwjLSKkWuBnVeH8-ffRRoXLnA1BJSFpq2LejnXGheg-25Z64Rt-Oa6ruuD1PROjrwGIiO_T7cC8j84RI4F54ZEsI3a5b92wo_SX_yJRpdcl8tOYLcQkDC_j18/s320/IMG_1025.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431280196729012898" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />and 3) very crowded. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjUbNy42_aFOGDQ5YPQZxrU57R2rJi7ntMR9fKS2iYxxj4W3WeMDhXGkYglV9VSwKAGZVOmlXHvY7sUZlpFZfPOBLSl5YFDBZ3fr9FVF7oKyHsj0S4p-MwPvh0_5nijGXCRpl-/s1600-h/IMG_1017.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399740730834969826" style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; width: 200px; cursor: pointer; height: 150px;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjUbNy42_aFOGDQ5YPQZxrU57R2rJi7ntMR9fKS2iYxxj4W3WeMDhXGkYglV9VSwKAGZVOmlXHvY7sUZlpFZfPOBLSl5YFDBZ3fr9FVF7oKyHsj0S4p-MwPvh0_5nijGXCRpl-/s200/IMG_1017.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Crowded with NERDS!</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />On a hot day, surrounded by people and having trouble breathing, I wandered about for a while, paid way too much money to get inside the "water cube" (an honestly cool building, worth a visit) and then paid way too much for a cab back to my guesthouse.<br /><br />...which largely ended my time in China. We hadn't intended to spend much time there in the first place, as we had other, different goals in mind. Goals specifically involving yaks and horses...ONWARDS!<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Next</span>: This train ride is HOW long?...Ulaan Bataar, its everything you could want in a post-apocalyptic future, with Communism!...and our first foray into sustainable-eco-green-local-agri-feelgoodaboutyourself-toursim!Norman Henry Pentelovitchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12390155598607641087noreply@blogger.com46tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19490432.post-76711586612576337182010-01-07T19:18:00.000-08:002010-01-08T08:39:47.349-08:00Go forth, young lawyer*Note to new and long-time readers: given that my blogs tend to run to roughly <em>book length</em>, and I have been informed on more than a few occasions that this makes each post somewhat difficult to muddle through. Thus, I will be telling the story of my time in China, Mongolia, Croatia, and Italy, with Nathaniel the insane, and Taylor the beautiful, in shorter, episodic posts. Think of them as the <em>tapas</em> to the porterhouse steaks I used to serve. If that analogy makes you groan and hate me, think of these shorter, more nimble posts, as the oompa-loompas to my previous willy-wonkas. Sure, you can take a whole book to explain what happened, but really all you need are some funny people singing a song to sum up the points, and maybe some technicolor wonder to keep you engaged. Consider the following my oompa-loompa songs, for you, dear reader:<br /><br /><br />94 hours after wearily boarding a plane in Buffalo, New York to return to Washington, D.C. with the New York Bar exam under my belt, I find myself in the ultra-modern airport in Beijing, China. My body thinks its the day before, my eyes think they'll never get moisture again, and my stomach is already rebelling against what will inevitably be a month of, shall we say, <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">interesting</span> food.<br /><br />What am I doing here, half way around the world again, with an enormous backpack, a heavy pair of boots, and a med kit full of antibiotics? Well, I had always heard that nearly starving to death in the vast grassland steppes of Mongolia was a thrilling experience, so why not give it a shot before starting my new life as a corporate litigator?<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDe6tCxSkqlvkBfU06bjN-cdhQIbSAKjv71cbcL4FyEzu1D95ABERazMsw3iipxTuWPC9bujrhUg2MCBtvcihqp0LwQCM0Bw62FGJ3wylsfT4dDsGJ39-e9STeqjvukF3ei7l2/s1600-h/IMG_0908.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399715125187349618" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 284px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 213px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDe6tCxSkqlvkBfU06bjN-cdhQIbSAKjv71cbcL4FyEzu1D95ABERazMsw3iipxTuWPC9bujrhUg2MCBtvcihqp0LwQCM0Bw62FGJ3wylsfT4dDsGJ39-e9STeqjvukF3ei7l2/s320/IMG_0908.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />How much yak do I have to eat?</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2HQE4GQCeQTPA6GAVxq0qhlIVRGxLjh-3CIvHhfV3QQ_hORAlabHYcZg5iPAFMxPOJG0cBEKfwTGortfRpi2PVTRBOCpJJ7qGJs0nzfLH1hA5FuB5PUjc19Vz3QOtm83kz91y/s1600-h/IMG_0911.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399715765135788066" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2HQE4GQCeQTPA6GAVxq0qhlIVRGxLjh-3CIvHhfV3QQ_hORAlabHYcZg5iPAFMxPOJG0cBEKfwTGortfRpi2PVTRBOCpJJ7qGJs0nzfLH1hA5FuB5PUjc19Vz3QOtm83kz91y/s200/IMG_0911.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">A window! China is so crazy!</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Four days ago, I was concerned with torts and arson and the law of mortgages. Now, all I can think about is how the hell I'm going to find a guesthouse without an address, with an unpronounceable name somewhere in the middle of Beijing. Lucky me, my innumerable e-mails, phone calls, smoke signals and telepathic thoughts have been received by the guesthouse and someone is there waiting for me when I get through customs.<br /><br />Stepping out of the airport, I immediately begin coughing like I have a new and instant form of bird flu. There is nothing I could say about the air in Beijing that has not already been said far better by better writers, so I will limit my comments about it to this: if you can imagine what it would be like to walk into the smokers lounge of a bar that still allows smoking, while you yourself were smoking several different things at once, and there was a machine producing smoke blowing directly in your face, it would still not be as hazy as my drive into central Beijing. Breathing was similarly difficult, in that, it was impossible. For all of you who have lived in Beijing, two questions: 1) Why? and 2) How?<br /><br />Arriving in a dark, narrow alley, the driver gets out and signals that I should follow him down an even darker, narrower alley, past sparkling arc welders and dangling telephone lines. At some point in my life, this may have seemed strange, but you spend enough time following people in developing countries to guest houses, and inevitably you're going to end up in a dark narrow alley, hoping against hope that the person leading you believes they can make more money from their commission at the guesthouse than by just grabbing at your wallet. We get to another street and I see a sign for a guest house...sigh of relief, its actually where I'm trying to be.<br /><br />I have traveled half-way around the world to find my friend, Nathaniel Weiss, so that we can go have a look at Mongolia. For those of you readers who don't know Nate, all I can tell you is that he spent the last several years in Afghanistan and Iraq, then spent the past year traveling pretty much anywhere in the world that suits his fancy. Nate goes from deep under the ocean to the top of mountains the way most people go from New York to Boston. What I am saying is that he does so <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">regularly and with a minimum of hassle</span>.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIKaVyciGIpcsKR9nsALzSTL0_lJpqBSMq9G5MwxviLR9S_8htk3TfA88ubuJRgko6l3CBBxHqLKd65Arl0X5-TRd_IDmxc6AGX7k93cWqa9Qo1JTv_3I64N-eUcuEpncuVUw4/s1600-h/IMG_0935.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399719714563442626" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 150px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIKaVyciGIpcsKR9nsALzSTL0_lJpqBSMq9G5MwxviLR9S_8htk3TfA88ubuJRgko6l3CBBxHqLKd65Arl0X5-TRd_IDmxc6AGX7k93cWqa9Qo1JTv_3I64N-eUcuEpncuVUw4/s200/IMG_0935.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />Communist Beer...no smiling</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Nate and I have been travel companions on many occasions, and, as before, reuniting with a fellow adventurer requires specific and timeless rituals<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaizt5UeyVuXCWtAF1WEUCGqErPRtiqsIzEr7rRd0wrGnxbCzpT-PyPpDBrerhj64UZMBfDRhqJGPZXG3OmKMEHnjq7wuvAphxmrAXUOHHbldtf5hsEGzkkiiSvxS2sgnoKOV6/s1600-h/IMG_0934.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399720367759369378" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaizt5UeyVuXCWtAF1WEUCGqErPRtiqsIzEr7rRd0wrGnxbCzpT-PyPpDBrerhj64UZMBfDRhqJGPZXG3OmKMEHnjq7wuvAphxmrAXUOHHbldtf5hsEGzkkiiSvxS2sgnoKOV6/s200/IMG_0934.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">We are underwater here</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Now, of course since I arrived into China at 6pm, after flying for more than a day, and just a few days after the most stressful period in my life, Nate had booked us to climb one of the highest parts of the Great Wall of China. The next morning. In time to see the sunrise. From the top.<br /><br />It was shortly after the above beer was finished (roughly 11pm) that Nate informed me that our start time for this first adventure was 2am.<br /><br />Yayyyy...<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfilfP6Ru8O4jICyw8LhddzpGUm7jbuT77Pk18OriCWNLzaSyT5w63hTQQ8dG0z0w15I9FttVSFfX3ZhtbG2mKfyPxRxSFLC4_oo2sEe0ESyNR2KrMZg_C3jAxnGwNmRYzrHbJ/s1600-h/IMG_0936.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399720969634328914" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfilfP6Ru8O4jICyw8LhddzpGUm7jbuT77Pk18OriCWNLzaSyT5w63hTQQ8dG0z0w15I9FttVSFfX3ZhtbG2mKfyPxRxSFLC4_oo2sEe0ESyNR2KrMZg_C3jAxnGwNmRYzrHbJ/s200/IMG_0936.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">I'm actually trying to indicate that there is a terrifying insect above me...please someone get it!</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Fortunately, I am a hardy sort, so rather than going home and, I don't know, <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">getting some freakin' rest</span>, we set out to see the sights<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiAxzqpu5HKYW1KLPFtaaqOi1SUtgjGDI2c46iYkirbDwzICWs4ZpaWqbewrx_UtaNMQcQcL7r3njif1s-OB4SRn04ywJGhyX3kd8bAOyK9Jz02uLtKiY1iJGlN9RK4nfLKNUJ/s1600-h/China-Mongolia+2009+253.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399723841601917970" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiAxzqpu5HKYW1KLPFtaaqOi1SUtgjGDI2c46iYkirbDwzICWs4ZpaWqbewrx_UtaNMQcQcL7r3njif1s-OB4SRn04ywJGhyX3kd8bAOyK9Jz02uLtKiY1iJGlN9RK4nfLKNUJ/s200/China-Mongolia+2009+253.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">This is entirely photoshop...I've never even been to Guam.</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq24LpuxYd-uZna2Brx43j8nJ6QuIoJ2GdRQe1tamUgUe4SYi1c1e9frJAiG068B7wDXxlWK1IutG9a3qGl9sPuLwxrBJaWNLSicZedRESf719CiSM17z-rtNO7e-PkvGhukl2/s1600-h/China-Mongolia+2009+252.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399723833621864210" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 112px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq24LpuxYd-uZna2Brx43j8nJ6QuIoJ2GdRQe1tamUgUe4SYi1c1e9frJAiG068B7wDXxlWK1IutG9a3qGl9sPuLwxrBJaWNLSicZedRESf719CiSM17z-rtNO7e-PkvGhukl2/s200/China-Mongolia+2009+252.jpg" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwuDqgceKZGcIubXL5vtzJHYhqUrjiExKgMX5kC03bflNIIYAbDfrcdZQ4kAa2MHa1Mgloesr5gYX0XcenTqo35HpqNhb0KE66k7T__4ChYthRiY3ADeSbP-ZAznJlMDFAg33N/s1600-h/China-Mongolia+2009+255.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399724118606179922" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 150px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwuDqgceKZGcIubXL5vtzJHYhqUrjiExKgMX5kC03bflNIIYAbDfrcdZQ4kAa2MHa1Mgloesr5gYX0XcenTqo35HpqNhb0KE66k7T__4ChYthRiY3ADeSbP-ZAznJlMDFAg33N/s200/China-Mongolia+2009+255.jpg" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx3brJ22AssczsBBKyybUSOrDLvWprDxywqKQI0L8k9BQBYFTmbgAmLR2yxFAYy8Z8m305wZhvDslSN8Mg8hlFbmE39onlFPz8lKLulZvIMiM5daHk4VtYSMrJOQ35CM2dBLnj/s1600-h/IMG_0918.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399724313631937970" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx3brJ22AssczsBBKyybUSOrDLvWprDxywqKQI0L8k9BQBYFTmbgAmLR2yxFAYy8Z8m305wZhvDslSN8Mg8hlFbmE39onlFPz8lKLulZvIMiM5daHk4VtYSMrJOQ35CM2dBLnj/s200/IMG_0918.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />And of course, got some dinner<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTkZCUDP9QRhJuwP4adnXpljMxL0aq9h4xRkciMSPHvn9z0I1YKDVGK75F-f2CWYMP5MgkyH86lXk7rjoXouJvS7GJqFXCsv7dCxS60bi_SZdce_EpCD3aoucr_1TI9KNXxwUT/s1600-h/China-Mongolia+2009+256.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399724633942827730" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTkZCUDP9QRhJuwP4adnXpljMxL0aq9h4xRkciMSPHvn9z0I1YKDVGK75F-f2CWYMP5MgkyH86lXk7rjoXouJvS7GJqFXCsv7dCxS60bi_SZdce_EpCD3aoucr_1TI9KNXxwUT/s200/China-Mongolia+2009+256.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />Little known fact: starfish are the natural enemy of the seahorse...they are enemies in the battle of <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">whimsical entities</span></span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy6SihWSosZpVPNwkaV1Jjh6KFugm0mUZ8tKh3DKXJtc1ZF6Ctr6xNUyK-hMIM67xmysaccCPZQnE2RgosEfsl29B5NmnmfUjnhefn9Oy2hV_JyU__8ttID6Nl0ZPmqlUGcbAu/s1600-h/China-Mongolia+2009+257.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399724638299495890" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 150px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy6SihWSosZpVPNwkaV1Jjh6KFugm0mUZ8tKh3DKXJtc1ZF6Ctr6xNUyK-hMIM67xmysaccCPZQnE2RgosEfsl29B5NmnmfUjnhefn9Oy2hV_JyU__8ttID6Nl0ZPmqlUGcbAu/s200/China-Mongolia+2009+257.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />What's better than sticky rice? Sticky scorpion! (Ooh! pun!)</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />After some late night jostling to find a cab back to our construction-zone lit hostel, I flopped down on the bed (which, incidentally, flopped me right back...you really do get what you pay for sometimes), and got a whopping one hour and thirty five minutes of shut eye. That was just enough sleep to get excited to see one of mankinds greatest triumphs: a super-long, super-tall wall, that inspired a thousand ships to sail...and at the end of that sailing they opened a thousand Chinese restaurants in the United States named in honor of that great big accomplishment.<br /><br /><br /><br /><em>Next</em>: Defying death in the early morning, pictures, oh so many pictures, and the beginning of a great journey.Norman Henry Pentelovitchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12390155598607641087noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19490432.post-17471787823083329762009-03-31T06:28:00.000-07:002009-03-31T06:43:04.668-07:00A Quiet Evil<p style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">PHNOM PENH, Cambodia</p><p style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">March 31, 2009<br /></p><p style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">It is rare to be in the presence of evil, and there is very little doubt that Kaing Guek Eav is the embodiment of evil. He has confessed to crimes so ghastly that it is difficult to use mere words to define them. Yet words were the focus on the first day of Kaing Guek Eav's (alias Duch) substantive trial.<br /><br />The courtroom of the Extraordinary Chambers in the Courts of Cambodia is part judicial forum, part theater. The participants are sequestered behind an enormous wood and glass wall, a gleaming curve that allows the audience to view the proceedings, as well as see themselves reflected. The "audience" (and the people in the seats are referred to with that word) enters the auditorium/courtroom after passing through a number of security checkpoints. The line to get in is not long, and the guards are well-trained enough to keep the process brief. Passing through the first of two metal detectors, visitors are shunted down a long fenced corridor to the main court building. Journalists queue outside the fence, snapping pictures of whoever happens to be walking past. <br /><br />The court building feels as much like a high school as it does a court. Concrete stairwells fixed with iron railings lead to yet another metal detector, where cameras, cell phones, and candy and gum packages that were missed at the initial screenings are collected on a table and kept like a bizarre court concession stand. <br /><br />There are many chairs on the "stage", though far more on the prosecution side of the room. Attorneys, civil parties, and other court staff filter in and take their seats, variously putting on their robes of black or purple, and their white cravats. As they enter, the audience watches them like animals in a cage while consulting a printed roster of who is who behind the glass shield. <br /><br />A bell sounds, the audience rises silently, and the seven judges file into the court. Everyone puts on their headphones and prepares to listen. The president, Judge Nil Nonn asks that Duch be brought to the dock by his jailers. The audience is rapt as the slight man with large ears and clean white shirt steps gingerly around his lawyers and sits in the appointed chair. The president directs biographical questions to him, where are you from, are your parents alive, what names have you used during your life, and Duch answers in a low gravelly voice. There is a tense feeling that this is all new and revelatory, though the information is already known and the process a formality.<br /><br />The president informs the audience that the greffiers will read paragraphs 10 through 162 of the closing order which lay out the factual analysis of the charges against Duch. A greffier begins speaking, and the audience settles in to hear what Duch is accused of doing. <br /><br />Listening to simultaneous translation takes some practice. Part of you wants to listen to the loudest voice in the room, but unfortunately, that voice is not always speaking a language you understand. So you focus instead on the voice in your headphones, a halting, careful English. The system is not perfect. The interpreters have the ability to control the flow of proceedings, and do so occasionally, stopping the judicial activities as a technical glitch is remedied.<br /><br />The voice of the greffier is telling you terrible things. Things you can hardly believe are true, things you wish weren't true. Yet Duch has confessed to a great deal of what he is being accused of. He disputes only small details: that he intended this, that he knew about that, but not the overall thrust of the charges.<br /><br />Throughout the morning, Duch barely raises his head. He has produced a pair of glasses and is reading the closing order along with the greffier. His movements are small and precise, nothing that would excite the burly guards seated directly behind him.<br /><br />At noon, the court breaks for an hour and a half, with only half of the closing order read. The audience is listless and disturbed: two hours of death and misery can do that. <br /><br />In the afternoon, Duch returns to the court, and the process continues. The greffier continues to read, and the audience is anxious that the trial move on, that the opening statements occur. Again, Duch is impassive, turning over pages and rarely looking up. Finally, the closing order has been read, and Duch's defense lawyer, Francois Roux, stands up to speak. He asks the court that since one hundred and fifty paragraphs of damning material have just been read to the court, that the ten paragraphs which follow, paragraphs which he claims are exculpatory, be read. The court adjourns for a half hour to deliberate, and upon returning, rejects his request. There is a legal basis for their decision, but it was in no way a foregone conclusion.<br /><br />The prosecution is asked if they would like to make their preliminary opening statements, and the Cambodian Co-Prosecutor, noting the hour of the day (3pm) and the anticipated length of the opening statements (two hours) asks that the opening be conducted the following morning. A brief conference on the bench yields an agreement to adjourn for the day, which the rustling of the audience indicates may be an unpopular decision. This audience came to hear trial proceedings, not to hear a publicly available document read aloud.<br /><br />Duch exits the courtroom quietly, and a moment after he disappears it is hard to remember he was there at all. His is not a large presence. If left alone with him under different circumstances it would be possible to forget he was there at all. Yet it is impossible to forget the words that describe what he has done. It is impossible to ignore the gravity of his crimes. Tomorrow, and the next day and the next, he will enter and leave the courtroom in his quiet way, and stand trial for some of the worst atrocities ever committed against fellow human beings. And we will watch.</p> <p style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> </p>Norman Henry Pentelovitchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12390155598607641087noreply@blogger.com67tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19490432.post-47019364549590798002007-10-11T21:49:00.001-07:002007-10-15T21:26:33.943-07:00Like Halloween, But Everytime You Go Shopping<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLBdHm-wj6TEU0XbArsRjDa6BQB5S9UAGkV9kq2MJr7VFVTI6dbIR6p8-FhgC05FZtTtYKNEhXWrJ-QD8-9P43DY7uDn2uDQwby3xIyfO5HYrc9hQeRb1ObYp3BvQLiBsN8IAG/s1600-h/IMG_7296.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLBdHm-wj6TEU0XbArsRjDa6BQB5S9UAGkV9kq2MJr7VFVTI6dbIR6p8-FhgC05FZtTtYKNEhXWrJ-QD8-9P43DY7uDn2uDQwby3xIyfO5HYrc9hQeRb1ObYp3BvQLiBsN8IAG/s200/IMG_7296.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5120926521702748002" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Yes. That is a pigs head.<br /><br />I’d like to spend my time in this post taking you (dear, loyal reader) through the mysterious, crazy, joyful, frustrating, smelly and stiflingly hot experience that is shopping at a Cambodian market. A few words about markets generally are likely in order.<br /><br />First, there ARE in fact grocery stores in Cambodia. If you’d like, you can head into an air-conditioned, brightly lit store, where dozens of courteous (if not incredibly bored) employees will literally jump to your aid should you help finding anything, anything at all. Even if it’s right in front of you and you’re reaching out to grab it at that very moment. Quite helpful. In these stores, you can buy your pre-cut, cellophane wrapped meat, devoid of any notion that this bright pink thing under lights ever came from an animal that is likely walking by outside right then. You can buy beer and you can buy chips and, for some reason, dried squid sold like beef jerky.<br /><br />But you cannot buy an entire cows liver.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7Kwbgrzp1E1vWD80lyWsmLLy2DQXP8B5TIAdKbdvVjPV4vRZpAJpIWMdFvddwd9wk2bFPtCLWV4jqEU8MokISN3BCSKydV-GG9543Yz1QtGhSbrD38iY49jpy_v04pUEONbyn/s1600-h/IMG_7294.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7Kwbgrzp1E1vWD80lyWsmLLy2DQXP8B5TIAdKbdvVjPV4vRZpAJpIWMdFvddwd9wk2bFPtCLWV4jqEU8MokISN3BCSKydV-GG9543Yz1QtGhSbrD38iY49jpy_v04pUEONbyn/s200/IMG_7294.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5120926483048042306" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">...the cow wasn't using it anyway...</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />...or an entire plucked chicken...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLfOEPCMBLNLbYBCg0eear3rqE_2-erceKXaH1BAQoo9IA0Jvkl8GLNZFdARMrDzroxtfIJczrhX8IKWAx7fwrt7xYfZzHf6RNDexbikVKxhSq6kaa2-1ykcA9exyiAlLpsbfO/s1600-h/IMG_7300.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLfOEPCMBLNLbYBCg0eear3rqE_2-erceKXaH1BAQoo9IA0Jvkl8GLNZFdARMrDzroxtfIJczrhX8IKWAx7fwrt7xYfZzHf6RNDexbikVKxhSq6kaa2-1ykcA9exyiAlLpsbfO/s200/IMG_7300.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5120927668459016114" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Did you know that chickens start off with heads? I always thought that came breaded and fried?!? Who knew?!</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />...or a bizzarelly fileted fish...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtvo3gYG_x-Yuz1mQYCASxS4tMwX_NcWxhqNxhu5IDwRBuNTQgD0pSi7t6t2JebrVuk-aw2uvrjzxTCMxF9Z9fmSjCvGuMUrVBZ-pCgl2ws97pS5WZI38wLyiEbZ7eO9xeDzf9/s1600-h/IMG_7297.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtvo3gYG_x-Yuz1mQYCASxS4tMwX_NcWxhqNxhu5IDwRBuNTQgD0pSi7t6t2JebrVuk-aw2uvrjzxTCMxF9Z9fmSjCvGuMUrVBZ-pCgl2ws97pS5WZI38wLyiEbZ7eO9xeDzf9/s200/IMG_7297.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5120927651279146882" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">....this was so strange as to defy words...except these words...and those just there.</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />...or a big ol' pigs leg (not pigs foot...pigs <span style="font-style: italic;">leg</span>) and some tripe!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6iXOd4u8rj_Q_aP5ZLoGXStVXkq54TaQdjSSBEqk8MAJ7QT97IKwWDwhhLjL00Jj1YcX0EJmCN-0bX8RgniRyh1USo56YcACkbQc1h8n11jaUmKJ6aPMMspAMKb_KBF_nVU69/s1600-h/IMG_7299.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6iXOd4u8rj_Q_aP5ZLoGXStVXkq54TaQdjSSBEqk8MAJ7QT97IKwWDwhhLjL00Jj1YcX0EJmCN-0bX8RgniRyh1USo56YcACkbQc1h8n11jaUmKJ6aPMMspAMKb_KBF_nVU69/s200/IMG_7299.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5120927659869081490" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ1ZJz-sqZzIYhplecAhxUj_J7XBKDnusyvXQFPZpPwhRogUn4_-gMNv8X8GUBey3szGOTeVi7JicA86S5GnbuUV_g2r6atw9hdxEmyBJ8l-mQIAAKu7IBeTXABFUCyPcK5JYl/s1600-h/IMG_7293.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ1ZJz-sqZzIYhplecAhxUj_J7XBKDnusyvXQFPZpPwhRogUn4_-gMNv8X8GUBey3szGOTeVi7JicA86S5GnbuUV_g2r6atw9hdxEmyBJ8l-mQIAAKu7IBeTXABFUCyPcK5JYl/s200/IMG_7293.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5120926474458107698" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />See! How disappointing to miss that.<br /><br />Now, to say that you can shop at a grocery store is not to say that many people do.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMwAgluWY_CiQZ_HxoKzyHGin6WhD7Lx-SrZpFbf563Q8znleYC8DCse88jwhYrOYLYI6GgGs65E6VQCijwb4wGssL9-GxeKZA8k70upXuBeYEXXvQRwdx5LdB8gS_7oIN12EV/s1600-h/IMG_7301.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMwAgluWY_CiQZ_HxoKzyHGin6WhD7Lx-SrZpFbf563Q8znleYC8DCse88jwhYrOYLYI6GgGs65E6VQCijwb4wGssL9-GxeKZA8k70upXuBeYEXXvQRwdx5LdB8gS_7oIN12EV/s200/IMG_7301.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5120927677048950722" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">...but if you go to a grocery store you'll make meat lady mad!</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />The majority of Cambodians go to one of any number of markets for pretty much anything you can imagine.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtdySXk8NlkkJ2jf4ryC6JtdAmrnj9l0vFNl9HKis3GQrITx_Ku0ncejck8shvUY0soLoeVvQZ4GjjLtp4BurDdduODKmXJhuKXlReQGHrs6tJPiI_VHtTUqaxWBYiPk5ILg4z/s1600-h/IMG_7332.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtdySXk8NlkkJ2jf4ryC6JtdAmrnj9l0vFNl9HKis3GQrITx_Ku0ncejck8shvUY0soLoeVvQZ4GjjLtp4BurDdduODKmXJhuKXlReQGHrs6tJPiI_VHtTUqaxWBYiPk5ILg4z/s200/IMG_7332.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5120930838144880674" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFe28qUzM-CawSsEtyekKbsnUtaZo-nBMmYo1L0YWW4TcCdyLEc4vSw6pR7uxKEoNw8s3xNefK_vDsS1hCqDeQGceUdCkpfd_uhjmqN5eMZfT1Pty0oXPNQd5vUakUc9BA3rqO/s1600-h/IMG_7333.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFe28qUzM-CawSsEtyekKbsnUtaZo-nBMmYo1L0YWW4TcCdyLEc4vSw6pR7uxKEoNw8s3xNefK_vDsS1hCqDeQGceUdCkpfd_uhjmqN5eMZfT1Pty0oXPNQd5vUakUc9BA3rqO/s200/IMG_7333.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5120930842439847986" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">like custom made jeans...in 5 minutes...</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Need a scarf? Need 17,000 scarves? They’ve got you.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA8iiWPjcHeZL7cGHV-8fQHXtMiltdDt3pwxQIg-3pk-7cQmPUtBIhx3KAXSnw8i9zy1L9eo0zkL9nlhaSkIQJRGmpQSO6PXLWRFT3IvM4MOFdWRZaaOeikYn-QPxpR86cq_ES/s1600-h/IMG_7329.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA8iiWPjcHeZL7cGHV-8fQHXtMiltdDt3pwxQIg-3pk-7cQmPUtBIhx3KAXSnw8i9zy1L9eo0zkL9nlhaSkIQJRGmpQSO6PXLWRFT3IvM4MOFdWRZaaOeikYn-QPxpR86cq_ES/s200/IMG_7329.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5120930108000440290" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">"yeah I'll have the red one...no the OTHER red one. No not that one either..."</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />In addition to krama’s, most sellers have hundreds of incredible silk scarves that they will force on you. Heaven help you if you show interest in even one, because you will be walking out with about 27. There are also table runners, table cloths, sheets, and towels.<br /><br />Need an enormous sword and a tiny wooden bowl in the shape of a mangosteen? That’s three booths over. But if you buy it TWO booths over, you can get it for just slightly less.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii4Xd49s6OaPB5hY79Bk8e9Q1pgqp_vP3xCuTX40VPbTAmEM577uVug-D2WaYZ20h6fqXLIz-BLD-B7puyc_ZDefT9p4GLajQlSO7j7qo0YlMOAh368ih84zarx21PrhMZpUEW/s1600-h/IMG_7328.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii4Xd49s6OaPB5hY79Bk8e9Q1pgqp_vP3xCuTX40VPbTAmEM577uVug-D2WaYZ20h6fqXLIz-BLD-B7puyc_ZDefT9p4GLajQlSO7j7qo0YlMOAh368ih84zarx21PrhMZpUEW/s200/IMG_7328.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5120930099410505682" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Ladies and gentlement...chotchkes!</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Fish?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXmymOzbNebM7fp78NOKGHJzykUeKNS4Q_quTeRCdwgizatGNw69LQ3801PIUgAJCUa4RigMCtzRixqoMXw1KTy11sgMCb7nBbRw0vd2IbreisppF7HNjf5ggXST5E9raaDkNW/s1600-h/IMG_7298.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXmymOzbNebM7fp78NOKGHJzykUeKNS4Q_quTeRCdwgizatGNw69LQ3801PIUgAJCUa4RigMCtzRixqoMXw1KTy11sgMCb7nBbRw0vd2IbreisppF7HNjf5ggXST5E9raaDkNW/s200/IMG_7298.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5120927664164048802" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipw59JPPMQn_61Jr437PupyN7GB6D6IIt_G3h_fFOH-BcbBuplZmLBq2PqZPxtly5Vng0ZbQRt8yUtxJq4SBC2lHEuc33ROggXZPaR6IoOcpUm_I2U_yT6oyLNmtQe11MU0Fuv/s1600-h/IMG_7295.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipw59JPPMQn_61Jr437PupyN7GB6D6IIt_G3h_fFOH-BcbBuplZmLBq2PqZPxtly5Vng0ZbQRt8yUtxJq4SBC2lHEuc33ROggXZPaR6IoOcpUm_I2U_yT6oyLNmtQe11MU0Fuv/s200/IMG_7295.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5120926500227911506" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Any chance that you want to buy some DVD’s? Of movies that came out in theaters yesterday? Of movies that are still in post-production? Of a book that a studio just bought the rights for? There are ten different vendors all vying to sell you some. An entire season of Lost? 7 dollars.<br /><br />Markets are crowded, could induce claustrophobia in mine workers and are so loud that rock stars walk out complaining about the noise. The aisles are as wide as one narrow-shouldered Cambodian, which I can assure you is not nearly wide enough for one narrow-shouldered American, much less two or three of such behemoths. The merchandise is stacked in front and the vendors sit behind it, occasionally shouting out an inducement to check out their wares.<br /><br />“You need t-shirt? I give you good deal.”<br /><br />“Fruit? I give you 1 kilo of rambuton for 4000 riel.”<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuST51TI1K5zbKzepASARX4qy4zrlTblge-bgfCc8QNlcHW6zmdZAdIcywtbZ-e-co3JHEgDf_Hr_4whICSD67x3Xbt28Fg40mdkQvBv7vz8txolCo4YwMSZEYsRH4opaeYfGw/s1600-h/IMG_7334.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuST51TI1K5zbKzepASARX4qy4zrlTblge-bgfCc8QNlcHW6zmdZAdIcywtbZ-e-co3JHEgDf_Hr_4whICSD67x3Xbt28Fg40mdkQvBv7vz8txolCo4YwMSZEYsRH4opaeYfGw/s200/IMG_7334.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5120930829554946066" border="0" /></a><br /><br />E<span style="font-size:78%;">ating this stuff would have been a lot easier if ol' Babe hadn't been staring at me (see first picture of post)</span><br /><br /><br /><br />“I give you good price for scarves, sell you many many scarves.”<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW3QDay7AZl1cgteKi_9xkNxf9WeIokbOf8TLy9wyqCZn1v-ECGb3wjq-p-vGmoJaqZi2PmItj0mNQDpJUHfnt8TVM1_PMWNCGIVIoJwDn-vGH3GbSkTG0x5aahDdGxFENmPxa/s1600-h/IMG_7330.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW3QDay7AZl1cgteKi_9xkNxf9WeIokbOf8TLy9wyqCZn1v-ECGb3wjq-p-vGmoJaqZi2PmItj0mNQDpJUHfnt8TVM1_PMWNCGIVIoJwDn-vGH3GbSkTG0x5aahDdGxFENmPxa/s200/IMG_7330.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5120930112295407602" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"><br />Ahhh I'm sideways! Yet otherwise an uninteresting picture! Ah!</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Etc.<br /><br />There is rarely a moment where your attention isn’t being diverted. Of particular note are the silk and cotton accoutrements. One of the primary items for sale is the krama, a traditional Cambodian scarf that is worn by both men and women, often while bathing, around the head soaked with water if out in the fields, around the neck to wipe sweat, pretty much anything you can think of, you can do with a krama.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKt_XX7FJfYi6rf6wePDfUEMbZ57gRpGlZuZ8Nggxz7DnYefPCWXVwdzO5izuv5OH_s25jwRmDONrnJlf-Cu7jzEGyz3Kc0C6jh9XuoRBqVjveVD_yTClhWvxXIvJSVxdEJYDF/s1600-h/IMG_7768.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKt_XX7FJfYi6rf6wePDfUEMbZ57gRpGlZuZ8Nggxz7DnYefPCWXVwdzO5izuv5OH_s25jwRmDONrnJlf-Cu7jzEGyz3Kc0C6jh9XuoRBqVjveVD_yTClhWvxXIvJSVxdEJYDF/s200/IMG_7768.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5121784540204372066" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Like eat brownies at my apartment back in DC (I have violated the blogger laws of temporal picture relativity! ARGHHH!!)</span><br /><br /><br />The best thing that I can compare a Cambodian market to is a haunted house. You’re sweating, nervous, and you pretty much have to be prepared to come face to face with anything, including a disembodied head, a sweaty zombie tourist, or a deeply, deeply drunk group of Singaporeans...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCQVCS-8hyphenhyphenDhK0X9-qhK2dy-zOHNfHLfMw6x63upkDpCvbnz2Qb94eCILI5rRUgW3_RVO0fTYj5Uatl47lwhvuXEl0_FgkBR42Sa4L-T-q2U-5a6HOi2Sx1zL7CQ-n1hz_8g2s/s1600-h/IMG_7302.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCQVCS-8hyphenhyphenDhK0X9-qhK2dy-zOHNfHLfMw6x63upkDpCvbnz2Qb94eCILI5rRUgW3_RVO0fTYj5Uatl47lwhvuXEl0_FgkBR42Sa4L-T-q2U-5a6HOi2Sx1zL7CQ-n1hz_8g2s/s200/IMG_7302.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5121783135750066242" border="0" /></a>Norman Henry Pentelovitchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12390155598607641087noreply@blogger.com62tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19490432.post-20906667238540245292007-07-21T02:26:00.000-07:002007-07-21T02:08:41.735-07:00DC-Cam: So just what does an NGO's office look like? Here's a hint: we probably have more hammocks than you do at your jobSo what the hell do I do every day and where do I do it? Some of you have asked this question, so apologies to those who have not.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9oj5XH48pimXcLk6CmfDh1KP-YU7W-1YFShUSdn-KXgfEszVbeRWbZb0aIqesshL7LtH5GO3GaL_kYPQK2nbAGBzwalDi8SdpzkgwdQDf5oZVB7vA0Ir7xNDWtsX0L3zlaDiG/s1600-h/IMG_6470.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9oj5XH48pimXcLk6CmfDh1KP-YU7W-1YFShUSdn-KXgfEszVbeRWbZb0aIqesshL7LtH5GO3GaL_kYPQK2nbAGBzwalDi8SdpzkgwdQDf5oZVB7vA0Ir7xNDWtsX0L3zlaDiG/s200/IMG_6470.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5089569402204644514" border="0" /></a><span style="text-decoration: underline;"></span><br />To start with, and to give a little bit of background for those who don't already know, the Documentation Center began through a grant and a lot of work from Yale University's Cambodia Genocide Project. The project was largely the brainchild of a man named Ben Kiernan who wrote probably the most popular book about Pol Pot called "The Pol Pot Regime." He set up the center with Youk Chhang (the gentleman from the previous post) as the director and it has been operational ever since. Initially, DC-Cam worked on uncovering and recovering documents from the Khmer Rouge period. DC-Cam also exhumed and recorded hundreds of mass graves, documenting the number of people in each pit, the way that they died and who may have done the killing.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAv6hnwEzbIGL83DzwTZMBpTx0lFhfe2bBs7D9RlcsJPUob02jhgWKfu8WjZbbG6EOWeFHf6SDfuZ06JOY7RYJrAuKLFY1r-xtTu3woj3i8Q4jO_VwcCRZ8AmyXnl6qTn0as2J/s1600-h/IMG_6456.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAv6hnwEzbIGL83DzwTZMBpTx0lFhfe2bBs7D9RlcsJPUob02jhgWKfu8WjZbbG6EOWeFHf6SDfuZ06JOY7RYJrAuKLFY1r-xtTu3woj3i8Q4jO_VwcCRZ8AmyXnl6qTn0as2J/s200/IMG_6456.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5075853542508492018" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Same pic of Youk, but now with shiny new context!</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />DC-Cam now has produced dozens of books, monographs, scholarly papers, and translations relating to the Khmer Rouge. Walking into the office full of young Cambodians, you would little expect that most of them have written a scholarly book, and that many hold Masters degrees from foreign universities. Youk's philosophy is to rebuild Cambodian society through education, and the best way to do that is to have his employees go away and then bring back skills and experiences that they can utilize to develop Cambodian society.<br /><br />DC-Cam is also the primary source of evidence that the Extraordinary Chambers in the Courts of Cambodia (ECCC) will rely on for the upcoming trials (which, by the way WILL be happening...really).<br /><br />So lets take a little tour of the office...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOqFIR-VlRqvyMK8nSyEc7aX8tAyHa_WYo1LkCqGURo7339z7w_bpbY0BOfKUJbbl-ihmHgi4tZ2nvthjdJOfCDKtFwRcFDx_nHWQuz1Zehh3iAxxg-IXa2MzPwB5bp0crBEam/s1600-h/IMG_6453.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOqFIR-VlRqvyMK8nSyEc7aX8tAyHa_WYo1LkCqGURo7339z7w_bpbY0BOfKUJbbl-ihmHgi4tZ2nvthjdJOfCDKtFwRcFDx_nHWQuz1Zehh3iAxxg-IXa2MzPwB5bp0crBEam/s200/IMG_6453.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5075851133031838914" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">We don't have engraved name plates, but we do have thick steel bars!</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />First off, we all sort of work wherever there is space available. I have essentially stormed and conquered the desk of a woman named Farina, since she has left to attend a conference in NY for the next month. Woohoo my own space!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfCmi7ICZfxzLzc_Oclbl-UJ8nIZiI-XlmnZxnb-SUoPpuJvpCRgJ6uTupCwbvSot4BS2qW6_6yv8qmLxPnQtKU2a5y7Lbu851JN4BBwH0jz7wlZAiKWLOxn2inC84glakbVm1/s1600-h/IMG_6461.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfCmi7ICZfxzLzc_Oclbl-UJ8nIZiI-XlmnZxnb-SUoPpuJvpCRgJ6uTupCwbvSot4BS2qW6_6yv8qmLxPnQtKU2a5y7Lbu851JN4BBwH0jz7wlZAiKWLOxn2inC84glakbVm1/s200/IMG_6461.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5075858571915195714" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />This is "The big table" (which I just christened as such).<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZlgb6a8OhbiRT27WMS5UM0oYF-m-qKYFpllAPpA2aiR32fwRC4YcHtg-y6tv6BfbcSNkczmgcjnGMjMiW_hnZR0NXV2ezj-s4z4wS389RvUGDnt-qUy5wIgbHViMbKOPSDJnk/s1600-h/IMG_6451.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZlgb6a8OhbiRT27WMS5UM0oYF-m-qKYFpllAPpA2aiR32fwRC4YcHtg-y6tv6BfbcSNkczmgcjnGMjMiW_hnZR0NXV2ezj-s4z4wS389RvUGDnt-qUy5wIgbHViMbKOPSDJnk/s200/IMG_6451.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5075849904671192226" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn_2H87KXlqHxE_aNYuJn1NkvijJ-WlGjoblmqNrlnLMehhJ4cwoxr595i0bSXHKgkKNA_YjjB4J16U-pO8jhrVnF6hJO7OZFWrxG7oQVcFC7gUBLHQWL-5owaWbYTi-npSHaJ/s1600-h/IMG_6452.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn_2H87KXlqHxE_aNYuJn1NkvijJ-WlGjoblmqNrlnLMehhJ4cwoxr595i0bSXHKgkKNA_YjjB4J16U-pO8jhrVnF6hJO7OZFWrxG7oQVcFC7gUBLHQWL-5owaWbYTi-npSHaJ/s200/IMG_6452.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5075850664880403634" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />If it looks like a chaotic mess piled high with papers, books, documents and reports, thats because it is. There are, at any given time, between 2 and 5 people doing research around this table which can be a little crazy.<br /><br />Of course, no office would be complete without internet. So in this brave new world of connectivity, we have a whopping 5 internet connections for about 20 people. This necessitates either arriving at the office very early, or being very sneaky with the ethernet cord while someone is at lunch. We all just recieved an e-mail from the accountants that while normal monthly internet costs are about 350/month, we are now operating at about 1,045/month. Apparently we consume internet like voracious wolverines.<br /><br />Since DC-Cam has most of the documents that the ECCC needs to operate, the co-prosecutors and co-investigating judges have "offices" at our building.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheGnPBXzDxXy7pwfP6WPFDeHkH0wABwiCryLloR8RIfkD2Qp5a3SM5bZ0f9okomBZH7fsrgbb6FoxKAX0VIfRTYSeLT-dDcwLdJdKBXQY-huamaY-vmm8zVwhqPvtvcOYy20Pb/s1600-h/IMG_6454.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheGnPBXzDxXy7pwfP6WPFDeHkH0wABwiCryLloR8RIfkD2Qp5a3SM5bZ0f9okomBZH7fsrgbb6FoxKAX0VIfRTYSeLT-dDcwLdJdKBXQY-huamaY-vmm8zVwhqPvtvcOYy20Pb/s200/IMG_6454.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5075851983435363538" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiNynC0Iv6_HWQUkrgLjOvePKf7hrs7UeDHCxuyxeOT7lGQSlPPyATMqHwN4UO_Ka49ZgLRmpOg_yNoXmw8iHYY6VEP8GAfsfhcaBncX6n6jFc9fbuLnj1P5Jz0XaeZFaVcz_q/s1600-h/IMG_6455.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiNynC0Iv6_HWQUkrgLjOvePKf7hrs7UeDHCxuyxeOT7lGQSlPPyATMqHwN4UO_Ka49ZgLRmpOg_yNoXmw8iHYY6VEP8GAfsfhcaBncX6n6jFc9fbuLnj1P5Jz0XaeZFaVcz_q/s200/IMG_6455.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5075852589025752290" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Funny story about these offices: they are two doors right next to each other that lead into the same room. I'm still confused about this.<br /><br /></span><br /><br /><br />Of course, we work hard, and rarely get a chance to take a breather.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMya-D1KMgg81YV9xhUXm4tgLh4lMF9lU_Ff5QRtLYNnI2P5SPX9dK6WQTnl68mdbKWkFfgw3MIsPVOBv-DsjUK7e8coRtxKICfIwyxivddw_dGlND8JgcXqlQ9R41lZ42-uOP/s1600-h/IMG_6459.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMya-D1KMgg81YV9xhUXm4tgLh4lMF9lU_Ff5QRtLYNnI2P5SPX9dK6WQTnl68mdbKWkFfgw3MIsPVOBv-DsjUK7e8coRtxKICfIwyxivddw_dGlND8JgcXqlQ9R41lZ42-uOP/s200/IMG_6459.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5075856231158019362" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"><br />I swear I did not take this picture after getting out of the hammock after a nap...really</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS4c9RPibBEnf7uSMKqWo95laUoYRWkZEhucXBEfLhf_IuyKSoAzM4cB9MjS0n2es8TdVo8pWun8AAsNyEliVHQ8vPLd_N98KhHBhAtozQ8-Re0wQKIemnvGRuWvxsoy941fEq/s1600-h/IMG_6460.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS4c9RPibBEnf7uSMKqWo95laUoYRWkZEhucXBEfLhf_IuyKSoAzM4cB9MjS0n2es8TdVo8pWun8AAsNyEliVHQ8vPLd_N98KhHBhAtozQ8-Re0wQKIemnvGRuWvxsoy941fEq/s200/IMG_6460.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5075857622727423282" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"><br />Youk likes to plant stuff...seriously.</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgltZMWO3gKc98NKjzR-YXdt1hoONqvMOtd_P97QaG8f2ZHWRLfhdY_Cv3AH8k5WEYgxoBTUwyZz2yjygXwM8p5SUhHYet1KcIMNkKRSqESYTMIPjnlMTmBUU1IRWTjpeUR45H1/s1600-h/IMG_6458.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgltZMWO3gKc98NKjzR-YXdt1hoONqvMOtd_P97QaG8f2ZHWRLfhdY_Cv3AH8k5WEYgxoBTUwyZz2yjygXwM8p5SUhHYet1KcIMNkKRSqESYTMIPjnlMTmBUU1IRWTjpeUR45H1/s200/IMG_6458.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5075854929782928658" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /><br /><br />My struggles with picture orientation continue...</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />This bird is my nemesis.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC0qII-ig-mbJ7SJz1Gskl6nlrk8S6lowNRrb2moZeiHQmyaSfZ3tjvR6lGPunNvmw3gSsBBIu6x9f_g5FnDlF0nVaRvOAlOOSvSTatGJkBbcZjnMRo1QjlKUutLeSVWLBxMtw/s1600-h/IMG_6468.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC0qII-ig-mbJ7SJz1Gskl6nlrk8S6lowNRrb2moZeiHQmyaSfZ3tjvR6lGPunNvmw3gSsBBIu6x9f_g5FnDlF0nVaRvOAlOOSvSTatGJkBbcZjnMRo1QjlKUutLeSVWLBxMtw/s320/IMG_6468.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5089500115792225410" border="0" /></a><br />Since Day 1, he has taken huge snaps at my fingers every time I walk by. I have reconciled our conflict by realizing that he lives in a tiny little cage that I walk by every day on my way to do whatever the hell I feel like doing. No wonder he hates me.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-jVOBC87As8sSe-GfJuRefDBxqO2dn6110dWAznY4UOVDGK4mdEFm2Ga296JbFLY3WKD2_PTt8hHqzU18Np7Rxh0U5pLltLYOrT3IbS_liEtZFc1F9AhTNFfL04B53WPunNA2/s1600-h/IMG_6467.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-jVOBC87As8sSe-GfJuRefDBxqO2dn6110dWAznY4UOVDGK4mdEFm2Ga296JbFLY3WKD2_PTt8hHqzU18Np7Rxh0U5pLltLYOrT3IbS_liEtZFc1F9AhTNFfL04B53WPunNA2/s320/IMG_6467.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5089500107202290802" border="0" /></a><br />The <span style="font-style: italic;">publications office </span>(so italicized since I'm not sure exactly what we call it) is where much of the actual putting together of the magazine occurs. Since we produce a lot of copies of the magazine in both English and Khmer, this room always tends to look a little crazy....except in this picture actually<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK9SH9MQjyApCP8OFqy6FkBmigzUZoQ4TmQCX8LbzpNM41CqaIPx6dvmJ7Oue8gNQYpxxFzDOJeqTMHyHJi_Otii4bqlrwYzz8dLfNVxXGHEqZEJH_qQ2Xk_RWBleDxCN-LGAz/s1600-h/IMG_6462.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK9SH9MQjyApCP8OFqy6FkBmigzUZoQ4TmQCX8LbzpNM41CqaIPx6dvmJ7Oue8gNQYpxxFzDOJeqTMHyHJi_Otii4bqlrwYzz8dLfNVxXGHEqZEJH_qQ2Xk_RWBleDxCN-LGAz/s320/IMG_6462.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5089498715632886866" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgacPKFQpmvDR5oEonRxbK6HjEmHDimAwJH4k6KG6p2b6RBuKr9_mLISIUNOxvpVfH48XTVvm-Fsjg5tD1qx-8kPgvkeIy0t8k5gopNFzf57aMP0_opXejod6y7UskvgHJLT_ku/s1600-h/IMG_6463.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgacPKFQpmvDR5oEonRxbK6HjEmHDimAwJH4k6KG6p2b6RBuKr9_mLISIUNOxvpVfH48XTVvm-Fsjg5tD1qx-8kPgvkeIy0t8k5gopNFzf57aMP0_opXejod6y7UskvgHJLT_ku/s320/IMG_6463.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5089498719927854178" border="0" /></a><br />So that's where I work. It is a constantly buzzing locus of activity for scholars, student groups, government officials, officials from the ECCC, members of other NGO's and geckos...lots and lots of geckos. On any given day, there may be a group of Teachers from the US passing through who want to know about our work with Cambodian schools to provide them with Boly's textbook (the first to address the Khmer Rouge period that is approved for any sort of use in Cambodian schools), a PhD candidate working on a thesis about the history of the Cambodian People's Party (the current oligarchic government party), or a co-prosecutor from the ECCC trying to find a particular document that can be used at the upcoming Tribunal.<br /><br />My own work has me either glued to my desk or out roaming around the provinces, interviewing village and commune chiefs and conducting legal trainings on the Court. Of course, pictures and silly tales of such passings will be the subject of the next few posts. Never fear dear reader, my exploits will be available for your viewing pleasure (because I know you're all lazy and don't read!)<br /><br />In short, it is an interesting place to be working.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Next</span>: The world's weirdest NGO community (qualifier: I assume), meetings with court officials, and the many, many hours that it takes to get anywhere.Norman Henry Pentelovitchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12390155598607641087noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19490432.post-77317050419972283912007-06-24T21:11:00.001-07:002007-07-01T17:50:05.897-07:00Khmer Rouge Soldiers, Too Much Fruit, and Confused Looking ChildrenThis man was a Khmer Rouge soldier<br />.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiry1qt9Iuag2Ez1JH5hyphenhyphenm_FC33j9fBdoGH4w3D-RbPuakptzvkEr3BIFx5AN5mdEOzpfjz-ikbWYN_9PHKQ7Ywdh65qZP5a4Dr4umcQyww8fGtr4Hh6eCDTewtnfmmqVX6NbGP/s1600-h/IMG_6526.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiry1qt9Iuag2Ez1JH5hyphenhyphenm_FC33j9fBdoGH4w3D-RbPuakptzvkEr3BIFx5AN5mdEOzpfjz-ikbWYN_9PHKQ7Ywdh65qZP5a4Dr4umcQyww8fGtr4Hh6eCDTewtnfmmqVX6NbGP/s320/IMG_6526.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5082140248128902418" border="0" /></a><br /><br />This man marched into Phnom Penh on April 17th, 1975 and told people to evacuate to the countryside, precipitating one of the worst periods of systematic human rights abuses in recent history.<br /><br />This man is a Buddhist monk.<br /><br />Difficult to reconcile? We sure as hell thought so. How did we come to spend time with this singularly unique monk?<br /><br />We (myself and BJ, my roommate) had decided to forego the warm sandy shores of Sihanoukville for the long weekend (being the Queen’s birthday and all of course). Instead, we traveled 5 hours North-East into a province called Kratie (pronounced Krah-cheh) with a co-worker of ours named Khamboly (Boly) Dy and another co-worker named Paree. This is the province that Boly grew up in, and he decided to go visit for the first time in over 2 years, in no small part due to the fact that he was about to move to the States to get a Masters degree. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU24L6DSqjGaCUHv3g5loMqxQOeJYmcVPhDAtbmyN94Owz0_Sb1ZzkX9lnoJ0ECnNm2iKUjcuet0eLXgItnrqBvufAqCCo2YTm5hQP2QCOoegXtkBCsyZMcrl2UnHI81twIJuA/s1600-h/IMG_6490.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU24L6DSqjGaCUHv3g5loMqxQOeJYmcVPhDAtbmyN94Owz0_Sb1ZzkX9lnoJ0ECnNm2iKUjcuet0eLXgItnrqBvufAqCCo2YTm5hQP2QCOoegXtkBCsyZMcrl2UnHI81twIJuA/s200/IMG_6490.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5082125005289968738" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDrZzAj8qBWnSQE2mwBYzAnXN-bHgrQcCkWUuF62-sKoFRZLFzS4WoSCWI9KLUeJQDVA912rJV83PKOMBqsV-_-lMY8zx_cnuBrJKNS2YaPMBI3KnUt-e9LYudbj2l3Vp97mEw/s1600-h/IMG_6493.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDrZzAj8qBWnSQE2mwBYzAnXN-bHgrQcCkWUuF62-sKoFRZLFzS4WoSCWI9KLUeJQDVA912rJV83PKOMBqsV-_-lMY8zx_cnuBrJKNS2YaPMBI3KnUt-e9LYudbj2l3Vp97mEw/s200/IMG_6493.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5082125035354739826" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGiuG2HNpFTnk8ELQJ0Tbs0HREfQR3rHdM7ZY90Xychvi9DR8wEllxNzT92ab8wD0YnOOx5A1Sw9mtvz4jLTblQg9_mmo9haEk-6FuxeSvqeUABYp42WXYix_2Og3kltaifLM8/s1600-h/IMG_6502.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGiuG2HNpFTnk8ELQJ0Tbs0HREfQR3rHdM7ZY90Xychvi9DR8wEllxNzT92ab8wD0YnOOx5A1Sw9mtvz4jLTblQg9_mmo9haEk-6FuxeSvqeUABYp42WXYix_2Og3kltaifLM8/s320/IMG_6502.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5082129489235825858" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5UstNbwh1ANtw0xzq7k-aVoUv6u2QEQpc2_U8BP6LB9F6MBzuB5FuODgI18khezMUpZs-lI4lhe1cz72JIKGe5nIZw_1mDLb0W-JkUQoB5496aNfRXg7VYAasK-s-VpXbStE6/s1600-h/IMG_6484.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5UstNbwh1ANtw0xzq7k-aVoUv6u2QEQpc2_U8BP6LB9F6MBzuB5FuODgI18khezMUpZs-lI4lhe1cz72JIKGe5nIZw_1mDLb0W-JkUQoB5496aNfRXg7VYAasK-s-VpXbStE6/s200/IMG_6484.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5082123764044420162" border="0" /></a><br />Kratie has an interesting relationship to the Khmer Rouge, as it was both the first province overtaken by the KR forces, and then the first to fall. Thus, there are many former KR soldiers living in the area, and many of those who helped to overthrow them.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQW2NJaJpCnC4iIJJAFO9vm2_1DNVHyYmUxa4HaGn5YbzNjAO3sWoLG9Df8iBmS2csKItPvElEaL-YrbUc7wXWXj2MtfhauPRfK75Y1Cixf9Nlc0376BjQvaPTROlo8GTgUsjp/s1600-h/IMG_6496.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQW2NJaJpCnC4iIJJAFO9vm2_1DNVHyYmUxa4HaGn5YbzNjAO3sWoLG9Df8iBmS2csKItPvElEaL-YrbUc7wXWXj2MtfhauPRfK75Y1Cixf9Nlc0376BjQvaPTROlo8GTgUsjp/s200/IMG_6496.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5082127827083482242" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGTLjW7ZSDLyDjFlDeCSKqW61SMM8sjt9iKsAOM670qKDBsD6S3Mt0cQAvd4aM5v86N62RIqtXuwzgztVEw42CVqff8yr4FIX6JMHPOz71udKwSTbeYRhRLjm3zVINS85Jdpsw/s1600-h/IMG_6481.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGTLjW7ZSDLyDjFlDeCSKqW61SMM8sjt9iKsAOM670qKDBsD6S3Mt0cQAvd4aM5v86N62RIqtXuwzgztVEw42CVqff8yr4FIX6JMHPOz71udKwSTbeYRhRLjm3zVINS85Jdpsw/s200/IMG_6481.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5082121900028613682" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggNteAIMI5YqQ3X7TCUGpIN9EztQYnPN0mXSM0GPa3tTGFuR4_3wRtnX248mp5PSqJ1FGQz_W9sDSzlMgoTNFlMyK6vDDW5Zi_wCr7gTjnQ3Z9CFFqdMnk6Syg3K49zIZke1fL/s1600-h/IMG_6475.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggNteAIMI5YqQ3X7TCUGpIN9EztQYnPN0mXSM0GPa3tTGFuR4_3wRtnX248mp5PSqJ1FGQz_W9sDSzlMgoTNFlMyK6vDDW5Zi_wCr7gTjnQ3Z9CFFqdMnk6Syg3K49zIZke1fL/s320/IMG_6475.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5079850761196696946" border="0" /></a><br />The drive out took us along National Road 4 (NR4) one of (X) number of national highways that sort of criss-cross the country. Considering that this is Cambodia, the road was in remarkable shape. That is, it was paved, wide enough for close to two cars to drive past each other, and had no land mines. Using your horn and steering are essentially the only two skills that you need to have in order to drive in Cambodia. Strategic use of the horn is a must, and there are a number of different and subtle techniques and sounds that you must be proficient in. For instance, if you are driving along a completely open road with no other cars on it, you will toot your horn every 15 seconds or so, to let anything (farmer, child, cow, pig, dog) know that you are coming. If there are other cars on the road, sometimes you will give several short blasts as they approach, apparently to let them know both visually and aurally that you are in fact, oncoming. Dealing with the thousands of motos is a challenge well suited to horn usage, as any time a moto is encountered (which is pretty much at all times) you are (it seems) required to honk at them until you have passed them by, just to make sure they know not to go veering into your lane.<br /><br />Once you’re out on the open (ahem) road, the scenery unfolds to either side of you like an enormous shag carpet unrolling: sunken rice paddies with murky water and brilliant green shoots of new rice predominate the landscape, only occasionally broken up by a slender, palmy fronded tree standing alone among the fields. Slate gray, rib rippled cows meander about, nibbling here and fertilizing there. Along the road are dozens of wood and thatch shacks, effectively just covered platforms built a few feet off of the ground, intended to provide a little shelter for the workers and sometimes sell any of the many varieties of fruit available throughout Cambodia. Pulling the car over is like a siren song for long-sleeve clad women and children, heads covered in red and white checked scarves, to approach you with baskets full of bread, sticky-rice stuffed into bamboo, and fried spiders the size of your face. If you’re feeling bold (but not spider-eating bold) you can try some durian, the pungent fruit that is banned from public transport in most SEAsian countries due to its ummm…intoxicating scent (quite delicious though)<br />.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRNwqdJsQIsGgV3-wlCbTdEcSjX1Teml8i7XsTBKCDMgDNJzPxARI65vmHWqQqgXF98BX7z5qNDd1yZPgkfgqt_SHbdU8tlk-S3G-d5i3RBpizCoYTs4xJiq2U4mk6DNBPfWFq/s1600-h/IMG_6622.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRNwqdJsQIsGgV3-wlCbTdEcSjX1Teml8i7XsTBKCDMgDNJzPxARI65vmHWqQqgXF98BX7z5qNDd1yZPgkfgqt_SHbdU8tlk-S3G-d5i3RBpizCoYTs4xJiq2U4mk6DNBPfWFq/s320/IMG_6622.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5082142507281700146" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6B4EI52rQmA_l05S12NUvadZx_7NtCZkLYY9d1ap5Q_hdJG9pj-vzisTkGTJEtCwfT0AdXH3pI5drg6Ritec3crohUy876XZcBovc-hm5V_HxKtBJdrmq_GdLE_-V1unNHpNd/s1600-h/IMG_6621.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6B4EI52rQmA_l05S12NUvadZx_7NtCZkLYY9d1ap5Q_hdJG9pj-vzisTkGTJEtCwfT0AdXH3pI5drg6Ritec3crohUy876XZcBovc-hm5V_HxKtBJdrmq_GdLE_-V1unNHpNd/s320/IMG_6621.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5082142515871634754" border="0" /></a><br />Another interesting feature of the landscape is the dichotomy between the shacks and huts that people call home, and the stupas and pagodas that reside right next to those shacks. The homes, for the most part, are neat wood structures, often 20-30 feet off the ground. They are supported at the base by concrete pylons and usually contain a small concrete patio on which may rest anything from a pack of dogs to enormous clay pots full of rainwater for cooking and cleaning.<br /><br />The holy buildings, by contrast, are vast white, blue and gold structures, 4 stories high or more, with ornately accented edges and beautifully tiled roofs. The roof tiles are especially of note, as they are usually a pattern of blue, gold, green and red, and tend to be arranged in expanding concentric rectangles. All around the pagodas are individual stupas, large, painted concrete tombs into which the cremated ashes of loved ones are placed. Seeing these ornamental touches next to such humble homes gave me a moment of pause, trying to reconcile the vastly different priorities assigned in my own culture to the appearance of the home vs. that of where we bury our loved ones<br />.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMpNQjJPCu6gY_K4kIbQgMNVCSwbn0WCCLBwOVHKLUpwQtO1c-ODSq4rGyB7BS5PtwyrXbjluOTJ8746ZwFgv-SxEWK5HILwFKAz9bCQ2H-T3I6KC43Kv5WqoQkm_0kAgEuHZh/s1600-h/IMG_6497.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMpNQjJPCu6gY_K4kIbQgMNVCSwbn0WCCLBwOVHKLUpwQtO1c-ODSq4rGyB7BS5PtwyrXbjluOTJ8746ZwFgv-SxEWK5HILwFKAz9bCQ2H-T3I6KC43Kv5WqoQkm_0kAgEuHZh/s200/IMG_6497.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5082127839968384146" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL6CYxjOop_nTARLPW2rSkR7h8HJuyclq6G-byvr_3jyavCCa4TkhnUApPOFj5eb1RODbkM-A9_B6YbLUAbEKYJjs2LNJPLPskCal8YSDkq8Elg9gpWTpu50-CnQcErcqPlf1Y/s1600-h/IMG_6498.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL6CYxjOop_nTARLPW2rSkR7h8HJuyclq6G-byvr_3jyavCCa4TkhnUApPOFj5eb1RODbkM-A9_B6YbLUAbEKYJjs2LNJPLPskCal8YSDkq8Elg9gpWTpu50-CnQcErcqPlf1Y/s200/IMG_6498.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5082127848558318754" border="0" /></a><br />A final architectural feature of note were the entrances to many of the rice paddies. I wasn’t sure exactly the divisions, but every few kilometers, there would be a narrow, dirt path inbetween the paddies that seemed to demarcate some sort of property line. Notable about them were the structures that guarded the mouth of those roads. Enormous arches, stretched over the road, and where each reached the ground, a long low wall would extend out to the highway. These walls were shaped as dragons, with intricately carved scales, typically ending in a fierce lion or dragons head, seemingly daring anyone to try and cross their path and venture down the dirt road. Clearly we stayed away.<br /><br />Part of the purpose of our travels was to deliver Boly's textbook to various high schools all around Cambodia. Since 2003, the government of Cambodia has excised from all official school books any mention of the Khmer Rouge period. Boly's book is the first such book that will deal with the Khmer Rouge period and has been written in a scholarly manner that is easily accessible to school-children. At present, the government has given the okay to hand out the books to the <span style="font-style: italic;">teachers</span> to peruse, but has not yet approved the book for the kids. Apparently, the government wants the book cut from its already lean 70 pages to a more politically correct 10-15 pages. There are some other changes that they want as well, and DC-Cam is currently in negotiations to finally get this book out to the schools as broadly as possible. Either way, we stopped a number of times to deliver the books, and it was a moment of pride for Boly to hand over his work to be taught to future generations of Cambodian leaders.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDUryr2bihnR4jiZccNwBfXr6dhNebdxsD6Ig0B12uDlZRoYq766mqvBH8OB5y7j6th8_GqkaOVrHBgWhS6pwLxUkQIcw_PzmEyDebdAoSflZrvBXPjSejmSMqQ5od9Ry6P2eV/s1600-h/IMG_6489.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDUryr2bihnR4jiZccNwBfXr6dhNebdxsD6Ig0B12uDlZRoYq766mqvBH8OB5y7j6th8_GqkaOVrHBgWhS6pwLxUkQIcw_PzmEyDebdAoSflZrvBXPjSejmSMqQ5od9Ry6P2eV/s200/IMG_6489.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5082123772634354770" border="0" /></a><br /><br />We arrived in Kratie and Boly drove us to his home to surprise his family. Being the masters of planning that we are, he had decided not to tell them that he was coming. Completely unexpectedly, noone was home. No matter, Boly quickly directed us to his uncle’s house, right across the street. There we sat and….sat some more. It seems that on the weekends, at least in Kratie, a popular activity is to gather at a relative’s house, sit on the floor, and not talk. It sounds boring, but it was really very pleasant. Boly has a number of cousins and other uncles who came by to say hello as well, and much of our time was passed trying to convince Lyda (seen below) that we were not the terrifying white apparitions that we appeared to be.<br /><br />One of the reasons that Kratie is mentioned at all in the guidebooks (albeit for about a page) is because of the rare, Irawaddy dolphins. This is typically where in the post I put up a picture of me doing something stupid with the thing that I am describing. However, in a blow to anti-discrimination activists everywhere the guy sitting at the entrance to the parking lot (I won’t dignify his position otherwise) told us that we each (white guys) had to pay 5 dollars just to get to the edge of the river to try and seek out these mystical, bizarre dolphins, and then a boat ride out to really see them would be another 7 dollars apiece. It was free for the Cambodians. Loudly protesting in both Khmer and English, we roared off into the sunset (well it was noon but whatever).<br /><br />We decided to go to the 100 columns pagoda, so called because, as you can probably imagine, it has somewhere around 100 columns<br />.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQsXBoMvxNAw-D2qG4Seoz3l3IGxvyB48vPb0ml-GSGgk_U1Ms3faj-bUsMdIB4KAfyJCfbzhBgzbJFLF011DR7od3OqB4Q46cEfIisRtzHYF4ZVtdIWCuim-vErKOvHcbJ2Tu/s1600-h/IMG_6508.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQsXBoMvxNAw-D2qG4Seoz3l3IGxvyB48vPb0ml-GSGgk_U1Ms3faj-bUsMdIB4KAfyJCfbzhBgzbJFLF011DR7od3OqB4Q46cEfIisRtzHYF4ZVtdIWCuim-vErKOvHcbJ2Tu/s320/IMG_6508.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5082134080555865298" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKp3cnvkDfKKQDASIKu8vVtCl49l967NfwgOSkXM9aZfz-Ky6AKgtFNWUTJ0i07KmIIT6yG6VRu-NKS7pjyovraKEta0TyLPSKXyxWMudKQIgzbv37z5iSBYxAaIe5W2ZivsEx/s1600-h/IMG_6512.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKp3cnvkDfKKQDASIKu8vVtCl49l967NfwgOSkXM9aZfz-Ky6AKgtFNWUTJ0i07KmIIT6yG6VRu-NKS7pjyovraKEta0TyLPSKXyxWMudKQIgzbv37z5iSBYxAaIe5W2ZivsEx/s320/IMG_6512.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5082134093440767202" border="0" /></a>What is interesting about these columns is that they are mostly made of concrete, where formerly they had been made of wood. We heard a number of conflicting stories relating to the fate of the columns, but largely, the point was that during the Khmer Rouge regime the temple was overtaken and the columns were stolen to be part of a bridge that was later blown up. Since the columns had been there for over 100 years, this was kind of a bummer<br />.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi01zlGx5XSU5b29pLy-AdyweW0Kur00eYQ98ofkoFbn_lk2xjPYyBfK-SFTN2Jex81t5F9wmnL7FnJpHFTqlzdIn8S-SC6xKmaq59_iAdzWvd7kyc1QyatC4B6Fk7gQvtcMQ4E/s1600-h/IMG_6517.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi01zlGx5XSU5b29pLy-AdyweW0Kur00eYQ98ofkoFbn_lk2xjPYyBfK-SFTN2Jex81t5F9wmnL7FnJpHFTqlzdIn8S-SC6xKmaq59_iAdzWvd7kyc1QyatC4B6Fk7gQvtcMQ4E/s320/IMG_6517.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5082138899509171458" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9Hi0zqUQ52XBaw_BK8jb57CsU04UIb2hNMVzDGLYoC8TUYPTpruTg5DTDC_3pAPz8ic-x8L64yG1BEVIsiLbcF-bqxFut3rVuzK_ALSZsBNybtm2G__xlUi9fkJEuRp9D4s1D/s1600-h/IMG_6515.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9Hi0zqUQ52XBaw_BK8jb57CsU04UIb2hNMVzDGLYoC8TUYPTpruTg5DTDC_3pAPz8ic-x8L64yG1BEVIsiLbcF-bqxFut3rVuzK_ALSZsBNybtm2G__xlUi9fkJEuRp9D4s1D/s320/IMG_6515.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5082138890919236850" border="0" /></a><br />At a nearby pagoda, we met the monk. With Boly acting as interpreter, he told us his story, it is incredibly complicated and I won’t try to retell it all here as it requires a somewhat intimate knowledge of Cambodian history in the last 25 years, and even though I’ve spent the last month and a half studying nothing but, I still have only a very little idea how everything actually worked. Suffice it to say that this man is a survivor, a leader and a holy man. His story is remarkable not necessarily for the events but for the fact that it is not unlike the stories of many others in this country. Each conversation that I have with people who were alive during the Khmer Rouge regime fascinates and terrifies me, yet I can’t stop asking questions and trying to figure out just what went on here. It is a question one could spend a lifetime answering.<br /><br />The next morning we loaded up for Phnom Penh, and arrived back just in time to have to justify to everyone why we hadn’t gone to see these ridiculous looking dolphins.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivFm-Qmd4Vc4GiyJbzRJCK7VW1vYHO1zzQBret6wWv3878E4uAAiBD8935EfugWR72mX2N6s5eOwV3bQ8Dn0nzDkRrmDdeGtmCcHn5dfb_xDqbuaKxJu3u4zbD_NjLMlqFpwmU/s1600-h/IMG_6540.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivFm-Qmd4Vc4GiyJbzRJCK7VW1vYHO1zzQBret6wWv3878E4uAAiBD8935EfugWR72mX2N6s5eOwV3bQ8Dn0nzDkRrmDdeGtmCcHn5dfb_xDqbuaKxJu3u4zbD_NjLMlqFpwmU/s320/IMG_6540.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5082140252423869730" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />(I am having serious formatting and picture orientation issues these days with blogger. Please bear with me while I curse and scream and pray to Buddha to fix these ridiculous technical issues)<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Next</span>: Seriously, some pictures of my office.Norman Henry Pentelovitchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12390155598607641087noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19490432.post-3829522041118495942007-06-19T01:30:00.000-07:002007-06-20T18:20:13.155-07:00How Did I Survive the Khmer Rouge? A guest entry from the Director of DC-Cam (my boss)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbvMvzH59xhKIMAIGbxvyxQ-okxickfRUjevekD32qYy9ZsyszZajxpFXMu8OIS1RFC-8rkbNEzuQN63Q1U3luBfCZXfw9J2tvK6keDXPKv1OCz8Km41UEu8ntwRqQJ9wGvUTH/s1600-h/IMG_6456.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbvMvzH59xhKIMAIGbxvyxQ-okxickfRUjevekD32qYy9ZsyszZajxpFXMu8OIS1RFC-8rkbNEzuQN63Q1U3luBfCZXfw9J2tvK6keDXPKv1OCz8Km41UEu8ntwRqQJ9wGvUTH/s320/IMG_6456.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5077692462821045586" border="0" /></a><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"> <span style=";font-family:Book Antiqua;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"><span style=";font-family:Book Antiqua;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"><span style=";font-family:Book Antiqua;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"><span style=";font-family:Book Antiqua;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"><span style=";font-family:Book Antiqua;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"><span style=";font-family:Book Antiqua;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"><span style=";font-family:Book Antiqua;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"><span style=";font-family:Book Antiqua;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"><span style=";font-family:Book Antiqua;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"><span style=";font-family:Book Antiqua;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"><a href="http://help.blogger.com/bin/answer.py?answer=42442" class="help" target="_help"><br /></a><a href="http://help.blogger.com/bin/answer.py?answer=42442" class="help" target="_help"> </a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"><span style=";font-family:Book Antiqua;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"><span style=";font-family:Book Antiqua;font-size:100%;" >There are many incredible stories about how Cambodians survived the brutality of the Khmer Rouge regime. Each one is suffused with pain and death and starvation, and occassionally luck and determination and hope. Youk Chhang, Director of the Documentation Center of Cambodia (where I work) survived the Khmer Rouge regime, and I could little hope, nor even feel comfortable, using any words to tell his story but his own.<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt; font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"><span style=";font-family:Book Antiqua;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;">How Did I Survive the Khmer Rouge Regime?</span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"><span style=";font-family:Book Antiqua;font-size:100%;" >by Youk Chhang<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"><span style=";font-family:Book Antiqua;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span></p><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style=";font-family:Book Antiqua;" >In the ten years that I’ve been working at the Documentation Center of Cambodia, reporters have asked me this question more than any other. I have been thinking a lot about the answer as the 30<sup>th </sup>anniversary of the Khmer Rouge takeover of Cambodia approaches.</span></span> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style=";font-family:Book Antiqua;" > </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style=";font-family:Book Antiqua;" ><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style=";font-family:Book Antiqua;" >On April 17, 1975, I was a boy of 14. My father was an architect and was later drafted into the Lon Nol Army. Although we were better off than many people during the early 1970s, prices were going up every day and we had to be careful with my father’s small salary. Plus, many of our relatives had moved into our house in Phnom Penh to avoid the fighting in the countryside. Every banana, every grain of rice was rationed in our home. My parents were also constantly worried that bad things would happen to my sisters, and devoted much of their attention to protecting them. And my school closed down almost every week. As a result of all these things, I learned to do a lot for myself (like making my own kites from newspaper) and to be by myself. In some ways, becoming independent helped prepare me for life under the Khmer Rouge.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style=";font-family:Book Antiqua;" ><br /></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style=";font-family:Book Antiqua;" > </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style=";font-family:Book Antiqua;" >When the Khmer Rouge began evacuating </span><span style=";font-family:Book Antiqua;" >Phnom Penh</span><span style=";font-family:Book Antiqua;" >, I was home alone; my mother and another family member had left for a safer location the day before, telling me they would come back for me. But the road was blocked and on April 18<sup>th</sup>, the Khmer Rouge told me that I had to leave. I went outside, but I had no idea of where to go because our neighborhood was completely deserted. So I started walking. Along the way, I heard people saying they were going to their home villages, so I decided to go to my mother’s home in Takeo province. Because I had no food with me, I asked the Khmer Rouge soldiers for some, and they gave me round palm sugar cakes. After some weeks of walking I arrived at the village. In the meantime, my mother had tried to cross the border into Vietnam, but was blocked. About four months later, she too came to her village and we were reunited.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style=";font-family:Book Antiqua;" ><br /></span></span> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style=";font-family:Book Antiqua;" > </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style=";font-family:Book Antiqua;" >My family was evacuated to Battambang province next. After we were there for a few months, I was separated from them and put in a teenagers’ mobile unit to dig canals. For about a year, I was able to sneak home at night to visit my family, but later our unit began working too far away. I was alone more and more, and grew more lonely than ever.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style=";font-family:Book Antiqua;" ><br /></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style=";font-family:Book Antiqua;" > </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style=";font-family:Book Antiqua;" >As a city kid, I didn’t have many survival skills, but hunger can make you learn a lot of things. I taught myself how to swim, for example, so that I could dive down and cut the sweet sugarcane growing in the flooded rice fields. And I learned how to steal food, how to kill and eat snakes and rats, and how to find edible leaves in the jungle.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style=";font-family:Book Antiqua;" ><br /></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style=";font-family:Book Antiqua;" > </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style=";font-family:Book Antiqua;" >Food became my god during the regime. I dreamed about all kinds of food all the time. It would help me fall asleep and gave me the strength I needed to return to the fields to work each day. Even today, when I see hungry children in the streets, it upsets me. I wonder why they cannot have enough to eat now that we no longer live under the Khmer Rouge. I see myself in their hungry faces.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style=";font-family:Book Antiqua;" ><br /></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style=";font-family:Book Antiqua;" > </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style=";font-family:Book Antiqua;" >I was angry, too, and this got me into trouble with the village and unit chiefs. But I was saved from being killed by many people and their small acts of kindness. Once the Khmer Rouge put me in the subdistrict security office, where I was beaten and tortured. A man who had grown up in my mother’s village went to the subdistrict chief, telling him that I was still very young and begging him to have me released. Two weeks later, I was let out of this prison. This man was later accused of having relatives in enemy areas and has not been seen again. And another base person named Touk gave our family food when we needed it most.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style=";font-family:Book Antiqua;" ><br /></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style=";font-family:Book Antiqua;" > </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style=";font-family:";" > Trapeang Veng, the village where we stayed in Battambang, had a chief who came from the West Zone; her name was Comrade Aun and she was only 12 years old. My mother begged her not to send me out to the fields to work, and gave Aun her shiny scissors from China as a favor. My mother treasured these scissors because they had been a gift from her youngest brother, but she sacrificed them for me. The scissors saved me for a few days until Angkar ordered Aun to send me away with the mobile unit.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style=";font-family:";" ><br /></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style=";font-family:Book Antiqua;" > </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style=";font-family:Book Antiqua;" >At the end of 1978, rumors started flying around Cambodia about the large numbers of people dying (Trapeang Veng once had 1,200 families, but only 12 survived Democratic Kampuchea), and people began stealing and taking many other chances. A base person told my uncle at that time that he should run away to Thailand because he had worked for the National Bank of Cambodia and would be certainly be killed if he stayed. My brother-in-law left a little later. After he walked for a few days, my brother-in-law turned back because he missed his wife. And I was told not to escape. I agreed, which may have prevented me from meeting the fate of my uncle. He continued walking to Thailand, but was never seen again. I suspect that he stepped on a mine.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style=";font-family:Book Antiqua;" ><br /></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style=";font-family:Book Antiqua;" > </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style=";font-family:Book Antiqua;" >These acts by members of my family and even total strangers may have saved my life more than one time. These were people who saw the value of life and did their best to assert their humanity during a time when it was difficult to do so. They gave me a reason to hope.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style=";font-family:Book Antiqua;" > </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style=";font-family:Book Antiqua;" >Reporters and others also ask me if I still have any nightmares about the Khmer Rouge. My life then was a living nightmare, but I do not dream about the regime today. My mother had a dream about me, though. I was sitting on the Buddha’s Eye Mountain, looking far away. She said this was a sign that I would survive, and it gave me hope.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style=";font-family:Book Antiqua;" ><br /></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style=";font-family:Book Antiqua;" > </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style=";font-family:Book Antiqua;" >So I never thought of dying, even once, during Democratic Kampuchea. Instead, I hoped that I would have a good night’s sleep and enough to eat one day. This hope was always with me and encouraged me to fight for life.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style=";font-family:Book Antiqua;" ><br /></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style=";font-family:Book Antiqua;" > </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style=";font-family:Book Antiqua;" >The Khmer Rouge changed my life forever. The need to find answers to why I endured so much pain and lost so many members of my family during the regime brought me to my profession of researching Democratic Kampuchea. I wanted to know why my sister was murdered, why I was jailed and tortured when I tried to find vegetables for one of my sisters who was pregnant and starving, and why my mother could not help me when I was being tortured. And I wanted revenge, too.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style=";font-family:Book Antiqua;" ><br /></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style=";font-family:Book Antiqua;" > </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="border: medium none ; padding: 0in; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style=";font-family:Book Antiqua;" >Although I am still seeking answers to these and other questions, I no longer have a strong desire for revenge. Visiting the home where I grew up has been a comfort to me; it renews the hopes I had for education as a child, and it keeps the memories of my friends and loved ones alive. I grew flowers at my house when I was young: orchids, and thunderstorm, fingernail, and winter Tuesday plants. I grow the same flowers today at DC-Cam. They remind me of where I’ve been and where I’m going now.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="border: medium none ; padding: 0in; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="border: medium none ; padding: 0in; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style=";font-family:Book Antiqua;" ><span style="font-style: italic;">Next</span>: What I actually do at work, remote provinces, and encounters with unusual monks<br /></span></span></p>Norman Henry Pentelovitchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12390155598607641087noreply@blogger.com460tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19490432.post-35194391556114670812007-06-11T20:58:00.001-07:002007-06-13T00:03:31.823-07:00Phnom Penh: Day 1, Night 1I'm as hot as I’ve ever been, and I’m only on the steps down to the tarmac.<br /><br />Lines of heat rise off of the pitch black tar and force my eyes crinkly. I’ve sweated through the shirt I’m wearing, and the clothes in my bag have decided to simply become sweaty by some miraculous process, to save me the hassle of sweating through them.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin13Yf_ssfk7bg7Ymy8kp-0ylevoHicbmxSN80pKkfQFFfRtSX_Qv7GwkUfIPfOT3-WatqwMUkHd0p5MXSBbnH4eNWP4icRFSroaXxslA2YEzCsgz0QseA8IN-hlcFeNTHUF1a/s1600-h/IMG_6299.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin13Yf_ssfk7bg7Ymy8kp-0ylevoHicbmxSN80pKkfQFFfRtSX_Qv7GwkUfIPfOT3-WatqwMUkHd0p5MXSBbnH4eNWP4icRFSroaXxslA2YEzCsgz0QseA8IN-hlcFeNTHUF1a/s320/IMG_6299.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5075026825728521250" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">I'm not in this picture because I had <span style="font-style: italic;">melted</span></span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />The airport is all done up in secondary colors, lots of oranges and and greens (and some primary yellow for balance), which, I suppose is a welcome change from the stark harshness of the black runways and the white planes.<br /><br />30 minutes of passport wrangling later, I’m waiting on a low concrete flower pot for my tuk-tuk driver to find the other 3 passengers who will be sharing the ride into the city. While staring down inbetween my feet, trying to remember the coldest day of the coldest winter I’d ever had the distinct pleasure of experiencing back home in good ol’ Minneapolis, a cockroach goes scurrying past my foot. I lazily crunch it under my sandal and watch about 3 ounces of bug guts go flying everywhere.<br /><br />Welcome to Cambodia. The first thing that you did here was kill something. Uh oh.<br /><br />My guest house is hot and dank (though clean) and since the prospect of going back to sleep is nearly as difficult conceptually as believing how incredibly jet lagged I am, I decide to take a stroll to try and locate my office.<br /><br />I start out down Sihanouk blvd (so named for the former King). All around me race motos and tuk-tuks, endlessly weaving through the, what appears to be, 4 lanes of traffic. It is important conceptually to understand that when driving in Cambodia, lanes and directions of traffic are merely factors to take into consideration while driving, much like the amount of gas you have and whether you should wear your sunglasses. The idea of “staying on your side of the road” is similarly fluid, and woe unto those who fail to look both ways every few seconds, because you never know when an ambitious moto driver has decided to cut straight through oncoming traffic to make a turn.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCEPa4sQsnl14cJ4IVmXgJ8LgBl-XHZWMzv04r3YFs6OfxfRYuhQxx1Fgjwxdocby2ezHHJ5XBGAPr9fYihpOnkfZEDjSR4L1cKNtk-VEhfq0A9lY9_laMHUm9eJfj7P67Kqim/s1600-h/IMG_6307.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCEPa4sQsnl14cJ4IVmXgJ8LgBl-XHZWMzv04r3YFs6OfxfRYuhQxx1Fgjwxdocby2ezHHJ5XBGAPr9fYihpOnkfZEDjSR4L1cKNtk-VEhfq0A9lY9_laMHUm9eJfj7P67Kqim/s320/IMG_6307.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5075027495743419458" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Tilt your head to the side to see why they don't have low bridges in Cambodia...</span><br /><br /><br /><br />It takes me an hour to find my office, though not for lack of asking directions and poor map reading. It may have to do with the fact that as a documentation repository for most of the country’s atrocities, DC-Cam trys maintains a somewhat low profile.<br /><br />Inside is a different story however. The office is essentially two, three story houses connected at the top by a narrow, corrugated steel footbridge. The rooftop patios house hundreds of potted plants, row upon row of flowers in various shapes and colors, and an extremely ill-tempered talking parrot who I have decided is my nemesis. When I arrive, I notice a man swinging comfortably in a hammock. I introduce myself and he says “Nice to meet you, welcome to Cambodia. I am Youk.”<br /><br />This surprises me slightly, as Youk is the director of the entire center. I had hoped to meet him under more auspicious circumstances. Fortunately, my hope was ill-founded. Youk smiles broadly at me, hops up, arranges for me to have some iced-coffee (a welcome relief from the boiling sauna of mid-afternoon Phnom Penh) and sits down to talk.<br /><br />I will be devoting a significant amount of this space to talking about Youk Chhang. In short, he is one of the most incredible people I’ve ever met in my life. He survived the Khmer Rouge period (more details on this later) and helped to found DC-Cam back in the early 90’s. Since then, the center has become a Cambodian institution, affecting the political momentum of the country and providing a source of credible and excellent scholarship where it has been sorely lacking. Youk believes in building Cambodia through education as much as anything, and the number of staff members with masters degrees from foreign universities, and PhD’s is a testament to his commitment to education. I’d be willing to bet that the staff of DC-Cam comprise the majority of graduate degrees of people in Cambodia.<br /><br />I spend the rest of the day with Sayana Ser, who is the director of the student outreach project and will effectively be my boss (a title which she vehemently denies).<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoYBG407_vkwgi7iusbJRgY2-M1VGaTp1CmMy_BGV41fjxQH6Z01WBCTEmACoQFWHZvGGmZwxxmWm_Qajt6DSwQAj1XYLj1egtoEJWtwwl7XIDIsuSdRBM2O3VIE8KGfXclEpp/s1600-h/IMG_6433.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoYBG407_vkwgi7iusbJRgY2-M1VGaTp1CmMy_BGV41fjxQH6Z01WBCTEmACoQFWHZvGGmZwxxmWm_Qajt6DSwQAj1XYLj1egtoEJWtwwl7XIDIsuSdRBM2O3VIE8KGfXclEpp/s200/IMG_6433.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5075439765359195282" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Everyone say hi to Sayana!</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />I end up at a noodle shop at the end of the day, eating some delicious (although wholly unidentifiable) food. By this time I’ve tracked down at least one of the other folks who I’ll be working with, and after inviting me up to drink a few beers, my soon to be roommate BJ...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyKqz2ZHNW9nnuYcTzRqtAExYvfFZ33k2vGDD7AHWWpyXnLVGQyTRyHdTNLQsdOzDhPuOpw2wYKmNIrwjMzFQFNpjm1k21zSURk_G7csbbDkoWun8lnJ5Th5moqV4KLBz2z58C/s1600-h/IMG_6339.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyKqz2ZHNW9nnuYcTzRqtAExYvfFZ33k2vGDD7AHWWpyXnLVGQyTRyHdTNLQsdOzDhPuOpw2wYKmNIrwjMzFQFNpjm1k21zSURk_G7csbbDkoWun8lnJ5Th5moqV4KLBz2z58C/s200/IMG_6339.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5075102906779202658" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Everyone say hi to BJ (he doesn't get an exclamation point yet)</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />...suggests that we go out to find entertainment.<br /><br />We end up at the Foreign Correspondents Club, which is a Phnom Penh institution. This means that they can overcharge for things like a roast beef sandwich and get away with it. Since the beers there were roughly 80 times the price of beers elsewhere, we decided to mosey. Our moseying took us to a bar on a boat called, cleverly "Pontoon."<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixRXjwGaTLosBrTgOleFCxcxKJHolkYgv6nic829gZ4GG0HyTXK0Ip1_1Y635kF08KlMJiSDz-giO6Jchn-8ZXmjdUC09mgS0He-Jqcp-kBJP07UWlwZgMpkjzSGTZ5U24otSF/s1600-h/IMG_6311.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixRXjwGaTLosBrTgOleFCxcxKJHolkYgv6nic829gZ4GG0HyTXK0Ip1_1Y635kF08KlMJiSDz-giO6Jchn-8ZXmjdUC09mgS0He-Jqcp-kBJP07UWlwZgMpkjzSGTZ5U24otSF/s200/IMG_6311.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5075102047785743442" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">View from Pontoon...nothing particularly clever to say about this I suppose...hmmm</span><br /><br /><br /><br />This fact is interesting only for the following reason:<br /><br />BJ (see above) has lived in China for about two years (on and off). While in China, he spent much of his time in Qiu Ming (spell check on this is hopeless). When we walked into Pontoon, BJ took one look at the bartender and says "Hey I think I know that guy." Turns out that "that guy" was Effe, a Nigerian who had also been living in Qiu Ming at the same time as BJ and now was a bartender in Phnom Penh. This may have been the strangest coincidence that I've ever been witness to.<br /><br />We had some beers, I grabbed a <span style="font-style: italic;">tuk-tuk</span> home, and the next day things really began to get interesting...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-HiquvsPYSyeIk0YBgxJiuKMBc2mR3Hc2vJ_kSi3zuEob9iGBq-UuzExQl5wmM0JKBnzdN86W95q7xK-7BzetR4bHRj4rw9BLbcwiUz6tyULVyB_okKPotIvO6ENamtXHd0cJ/s1600-h/IMG_6302.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-HiquvsPYSyeIk0YBgxJiuKMBc2mR3Hc2vJ_kSi3zuEob9iGBq-UuzExQl5wmM0JKBnzdN86W95q7xK-7BzetR4bHRj4rw9BLbcwiUz6tyULVyB_okKPotIvO6ENamtXHd0cJ/s320/IMG_6302.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5075026834318455858" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span></span></span><span style="font-size:78%;">Tune in next week to find out how I acquired a French villa in Phnom Penh</span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Next</span>: A busy week, a party or two, and work that truly mattersNorman Henry Pentelovitchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12390155598607641087noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19490432.post-45921979366545665012007-06-05T22:04:00.000-07:002007-06-06T00:13:22.272-07:00Chasing the SunIt's 10pm, and the sun is shining brightly. Really brightly.<br /><br />I close the window shade and try to go to sleep but its hopeless. I can long for the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">naptimes</span> of my youth, but unless I'm hungover, I can't sleep as long as the sun is shining. Some weird biological mishap I'm sure. So I decide to wait.<br /><br />Midnight. I crack the shade and there it is, my tormentor, glowing happily away, providing me with heat and sleep-deprivation for the last 13 hours. Damn.<br /><br />Two in the morning, and lifting the shade ever so slightly makes my eyes crinkle and my nose quiver (why the hell do we sneeze in bright sunlight by the way?).<br /><br />My flight from Minneapolis left at 3pm on an overcast Wednesday afternoon. I knew that to avoid <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">jetlag</span> at my ultimate destination of Bangkok, I would need to stay awake most of the time, and then try to catch up on all that sleep in a day or two before I started working in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Phnom</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Penh</span>, Cambodia. But my body didn't like that idea, because at around 4am Norm time, it was actually something like 4pm Tokyo time and the sun just was having far too nice a time shining brightly to care about me and my near desperate need to get a little bit of sleep. It was no good, so I let my tensed up feet just <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">pitter</span>-pat out a staccato beat that must have driven the nice Japanese lady next to me out of her mind.<br /><br />As I continued to chase the sun backwards around the world, neither of us stopping for respite, I thought about how strange my journey was. I was taking a flight that was exact opposite route of a flight that I had taken nearly a year ago. Though my ultimate destination was yet further on, I remembered a thought that I had had on that last flight from Tokyo to Minneapolis. I remembered thinking that after being on the road for the better part of a year, and with the prospect of law school looming before me like an awesome and terrible dinosaur (you thought I was going to say "wave" didn't you? but no gentle reader, I've used that metaphor once before, which is really once too many anyway), that I couldn't imagine when I would get to be out and about again. Yet here I was, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">exhaustedly</span> yawning my way through a 12 hour flight, so that I could land just in time for another 7 hour flight. It made me glad that I could keep doing something that I love, and that I could combine it with something that I was learning to love. I felt grateful. I felt honored. I felt <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">freakin</span>' exhausted.<br /><br />But that didn't matter, because the sun wasn't going away, and I wasn't going to sleep, so I did the only thing I could do: I sighed, picked up my headphones, plugged them into the armrest and sat back to watch "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Charlottes</span> Web"...again.<br /><br />I arrived in Bangkok and found out that the easy and fast (and cheap) shuttle that runs from the airport to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Khao</span> San Road (the backpacker ghetto to end all backpacker ghettos) had just dispatched its last vehicle. Further complicating things was that the new Bangkok airport was significantly further out than the old one. 45 minutes of sweating, haggling, yelling, dragging and furious gesticulating later, I was in a "Meter-Taxi" blazing my way back into the sweltering bulk of Bangkok.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixBY7yE8mmUy2oH4juoVk6AwPiAWRrRjFkGNo1_Eiywf1-3K3RLp2Fe63a8BqLDbvW2c936b_TK4iPqnjA1-IRWkp713uPv-YDt4qGx0yBZQiCT2eSE68kfQUQ5m8fuNXPS958/s1600-h/IMG_6256.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixBY7yE8mmUy2oH4juoVk6AwPiAWRrRjFkGNo1_Eiywf1-3K3RLp2Fe63a8BqLDbvW2c936b_TK4iPqnjA1-IRWkp713uPv-YDt4qGx0yBZQiCT2eSE68kfQUQ5m8fuNXPS958/s320/IMG_6256.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5072832153274840034" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">My superb relationships with monks continue. Fun note: I took this picture after he had taken a picture of me...with his <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">cameraphone</span>.</span><br /><br /><br /><br />I paid the driver, yelled the only epithet that I knew in German, and struggled off to find the guesthouse that I liked the last few times around. Of course it was full. Fortunately, two doors down was another, which provided me a room no bigger than a closet and bedsheets full of questionable stains. No matter, extreme exhaustion is a wonderful cure for <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">hygienic</span> concerns.<br /><br />I spent my next day preparing to get to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Phnom</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Penh</span>. This involved buying a Xeroxed copy of a Cambodia Lonely Planet (3 dollars), a great knock off pair of Ray-Bans (4 dollars) and some pad <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">thai</span> (22 cents). Then I went to see the reclining Buddha which is one of the main sights that I had missed the last time around.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-ojOhJzpQC8DmbsyUbNJClCYbsfKmNJbXrf_lV_LDfwYlRYEWCIPTQwFWjQnO7hyyAB1PyOuWJ1flPPFsn7QdanYqImDupKNyxXyQc-Tu2GgeyPleS6NfdyKhj3xa6BKtd58T/s1600-h/IMG_6251.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-ojOhJzpQC8DmbsyUbNJClCYbsfKmNJbXrf_lV_LDfwYlRYEWCIPTQwFWjQnO7hyyAB1PyOuWJ1flPPFsn7QdanYqImDupKNyxXyQc-Tu2GgeyPleS6NfdyKhj3xa6BKtd58T/s200/IMG_6251.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5072821501755945890" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">First <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">tuk</span>-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">tuk</span> ride back in the city. Sweet motorized hell-carts</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />As you can see, this is a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">friggin</span>' ginormous golden deity. I took a video of myself walking end to end of the thing, and it lasted 45 seconds (as soon as I set up a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">youtube</span> account that will be available).<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijZgZhgrOnhL2eRdPFH14g_NrZenWJ4mkmYEIUq7uzyHstMGMKWfdV2g0pQO66WwR5gbrYFdbvkd64I2Rg1fMD4w-xlK9UupfP80Rkaiv7PjF6QEQ1hM2ybSG1LFT0zrEbvAZp/s1600-h/IMG_6254.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijZgZhgrOnhL2eRdPFH14g_NrZenWJ4mkmYEIUq7uzyHstMGMKWfdV2g0pQO66WwR5gbrYFdbvkd64I2Rg1fMD4w-xlK9UupfP80Rkaiv7PjF6QEQ1hM2ybSG1LFT0zrEbvAZp/s320/IMG_6254.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5072826290644480962" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">For some reason I couldn't get these out of landscape format, turn your head to the side and imagine a giant golden head towering 50 feet above you....</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqFuXYxxhQTWYyu5iXsJ9H8ukfM4Q8jtg-hQBXl73nuptnWfx98M_Aq7PVFFU34hXMTkIcnu6xhXLZFfVcvWSvKTQ8G8WBlsG3B_k7_t1wwZXsFJpuXI4pyvGqmojqkBywEAul/s1600-h/IMG_6255.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqFuXYxxhQTWYyu5iXsJ9H8ukfM4Q8jtg-hQBXl73nuptnWfx98M_Aq7PVFFU34hXMTkIcnu6xhXLZFfVcvWSvKTQ8G8WBlsG3B_k7_t1wwZXsFJpuXI4pyvGqmojqkBywEAul/s320/IMG_6255.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5072829700848514002" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"><br />"Sigh...it's good being an enormous Buddha."</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4c-PXzrOwcJE_sk59VaNmJ4PIrOi20uJWJKXgGAKMoaV6Dzj407RSvWyDw9BKE5u0zN-VuWjf4HBVxRHcv0eSTbxZfOVUR1_jbcUF6DSSu3_lvmVhWbe0TqnKhu0ZAXFabVdb/s1600-h/IMG_6260.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4c-PXzrOwcJE_sk59VaNmJ4PIrOi20uJWJKXgGAKMoaV6Dzj407RSvWyDw9BKE5u0zN-VuWjf4HBVxRHcv0eSTbxZfOVUR1_jbcUF6DSSu3_lvmVhWbe0TqnKhu0ZAXFabVdb/s320/IMG_6260.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5072836366637757426" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">As some of you know, I have very large feet, however my flip flops weren't <span style="font-style: italic;">quite</span> up to the task here...</span><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqAuKHY8LZTiKG5yLRfDgQmrTdwzmPKNxRUkSG3EID4XWRDNkYkKdLI_SEDVr6To_Js62WUnu_tXfJ8gfwvcjBAMjcxtkwOZytx3rwRPF1ZxEsfiW5ABWS0G8IvcgNfigd0cE0/s1600-h/IMG_6274.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqAuKHY8LZTiKG5yLRfDgQmrTdwzmPKNxRUkSG3EID4XWRDNkYkKdLI_SEDVr6To_Js62WUnu_tXfJ8gfwvcjBAMjcxtkwOZytx3rwRPF1ZxEsfiW5ABWS0G8IvcgNfigd0cE0/s320/IMG_6274.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5072843088261575698" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">This looks strange in the wrong context....I'm getting my hair spiked out like that.</span><br /><br /><br /><br />I ate some more food, I walked around, I visited an art gallery that I remembered having excellent air conditioning. But looming <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">everpresent</span> in my mind was the idea, the knowledge, that soon enough I would no longer be traveling, I would be working. Not just passing through, but trying to do something useful.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Next: </span>Cambodia <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">Redux</span>; Genocide, Beer and an Unexpectedly Busy Social CalendarNorman Henry Pentelovitchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12390155598607641087noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19490432.post-75402025104432814582007-04-05T21:09:00.000-07:002007-04-09T22:31:03.560-07:00Japan: Nagano-ken, Nakano-shi, Toytota-mura (aka Rich's house)I have come to realize that some of my postings may not be digestible in a single sitting, nor several single sittings. As such, I am breaking up the rest of my time in Japan (and from there on) into bite size morsels for you to chew and savor at your <span style="font-style: italic;">pleasure</span>. Here, I'll even remove the wrapping for you to save the trouble...<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">NORMAN PENTELOVITCH NORMAN PENTELOVITCH</span><br /><br />It is important to note that while I have been a near constant traveler, my friend and compatriot Mr. Shelalalalalala has been in a different country doing something actually useful: teaching English (and occasionally...En<span style="font-style: italic;">grish</span>). Though my arrival was greeted with much hoopla and shenanigans (oh truly, shenanigans abounded), Rich still had a job that he was obligated to continue showing up at lest the kindly Japanese government decide to rescind their invitation to stay and play.<br /><br />Thus, I found myself winding my way through lush green valleys, past the surprisingly large town of Nagano (though why i was surprised is a bit of a mystery as the Winter Olympics did occur here only a few years back). But we were not to stay in bustling Nagano, our destination lay further North, in cloud frosted mountains and endless twisting roads hugging narrow passes as we drove to Rich's home.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtvDg4nkab0LyQ7fdpmA0QX9ofil_IP9Fyfq49fsoaiMrYyIszaByoa0fTQyvPXdlBWGjRq3VnqggDtp3tUotcMVAMH4loYZx9jSMSNMnFWxK177fZdzPpD_J0LR5afdwMkW2W/s1600-h/IMG_3567.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtvDg4nkab0LyQ7fdpmA0QX9ofil_IP9Fyfq49fsoaiMrYyIszaByoa0fTQyvPXdlBWGjRq3VnqggDtp3tUotcMVAMH4loYZx9jSMSNMnFWxK177fZdzPpD_J0LR5afdwMkW2W/s200/IMG_3567.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5050920371717016354" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">View from Rich's back porch...just imagine dueling banjo's, but a more peacful, Japanese kind of dueling banjo's</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />It should be noted that Rich's luck with regards to homestead is essentially <span style="font-style: italic;">superlative</span>. While many of his colleagues (other American teachers) have very functional if quite small (think NYC...immediately post-college) apartments that are essentially just right for a person of modest means, Rich has the equivalent of a castle with ramparts and battlements and a drawbridge...guarded by a fierce and loyal dragon...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV0hHCU_oOfkkTt-SGQqJcrayg6GQ1j8dgoBj2UcRnnwmFSAYB-rVnpKcnTVWFug7w_-DWU9paPKTXP5_OnH7ddnDv42Kx1hSvzQYnSarXF2UwxfWW-cTVvbEdU84Ie4pjLfpF/s1600-h/IMG_3586.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV0hHCU_oOfkkTt-SGQqJcrayg6GQ1j8dgoBj2UcRnnwmFSAYB-rVnpKcnTVWFug7w_-DWU9paPKTXP5_OnH7ddnDv42Kx1hSvzQYnSarXF2UwxfWW-cTVvbEdU84Ie4pjLfpF/s200/IMG_3586.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5050165608524155362" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">...the dragon occasionally needs a bath...</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcy5Z3mwvBqYSebkylJF6862fj-DDEXyGCINMZgs8MYqknkXOaLQQa_ErH8_eUE1JzA196JsEIGBu7zZ5Jei5Bg-9qO9NIueNrT26ou5WyKxqmvum5Z13u2eqEZZkX7Zr0uqBe/s1600-h/IMG_3587.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcy5Z3mwvBqYSebkylJF6862fj-DDEXyGCINMZgs8MYqknkXOaLQQa_ErH8_eUE1JzA196JsEIGBu7zZ5Jei5Bg-9qO9NIueNrT26ou5WyKxqmvum5Z13u2eqEZZkX7Zr0uqBe/s200/IMG_3587.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5050165599934220738" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">...a dragon cannot dry itself!</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj55pT0OjDk2TdVZYsMEoGPAxVaMa9AbRqtrsNebRuAGPivmSyg1y_qq3SbCIE5FgDRXQpp4BMsCWwUnM2ZJDiarzZeJ6G_tJe07DulyqONajFfxBwaZdTz5h1GDLfxwVTKdo56/s1600-h/IMG_3115.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj55pT0OjDk2TdVZYsMEoGPAxVaMa9AbRqtrsNebRuAGPivmSyg1y_qq3SbCIE5FgDRXQpp4BMsCWwUnM2ZJDiarzZeJ6G_tJe07DulyqONajFfxBwaZdTz5h1GDLfxwVTKdo56/s200/IMG_3115.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5050165604229188050" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Ahhh!! A dragon...oh...look how small and furry he is...wait..he's not a dragon at all!</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Okay if not a dragon, then certainly by a ferocious and greatly-in-need-of-neutering little yap factory. Rich, having fully embraced his new culture and adopting the customs of this wondrous land, creatively named his dog...Brooklyn...according to Richipedia...dogs were invented in Brooklyn. I feel that this requires some fact checking.<br /><br />Rich lives in the former home of the principal of a school. This means that he has a huge dining room, an office with a porch, a living room, bedroom and bathroom. All of the rooms are separated by a light wood covered in paper door, which slide left and right to either allow access or hinder it. It is EXACTLY like when the Simpsons visited Japan, except that I only walked through a wall one time...maybe twice.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSo83GxkGqCzJgOn7HqZ4QtdaWAxomm-fMWrxYXYbjHpKKEwu8YHhNnbWgigqkoVioS21DXBh9g6zEHnr-rn0KpMTd44BSugR12ScUpzvy8qtiqRgeNQXY80ab1l2x0uUoAaTB/s1600-h/IMG_3107.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSo83GxkGqCzJgOn7HqZ4QtdaWAxomm-fMWrxYXYbjHpKKEwu8YHhNnbWgigqkoVioS21DXBh9g6zEHnr-rn0KpMTd44BSugR12ScUpzvy8qtiqRgeNQXY80ab1l2x0uUoAaTB/s200/IMG_3107.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5050167163302316594" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Rich cleaning some dishes. He's all domestic like that. He is here performing the ancient Japanese ritual of <span style="font-style: italic;">dishwasha-mura-cleanup-kictchen-honto</span></span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />The point is, Rich's house is really...really nice. Which is why for my first week in Japan I barely left it. I was sorely in need of sleep, and the 3 thick futons that Rich laid down for me the first night looked like furniture heaven. For the first time in I can't-remember-when, I was able to sleep without tucking my passport under my shirt, worrying about if the door was locked, or if bed bugs were going to carry me off into the night. It is impossible to overstate how wonderful a little thing like "sleeping without desperately clutching your wordly possessions against theft from unknowns" is, and you cannot know until you have been vulnerable to such problems. The knowledge is preferable to the lack thereof.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPAzRw8uZpKi3oA0PEtslJIXzoOxyen-AKBS4dYOhIPG8IAoXar19JGTPhh_dvlvoTllNtsZl07WTZEt-EDQr_cTHnCg2YLurOEcM8VkaoYYhPpRnhBWRYEnaHEZN-cYsQFKHO/s1600-h/IMG_3566.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPAzRw8uZpKi3oA0PEtslJIXzoOxyen-AKBS4dYOhIPG8IAoXar19JGTPhh_dvlvoTllNtsZl07WTZEt-EDQr_cTHnCg2YLurOEcM8VkaoYYhPpRnhBWRYEnaHEZN-cYsQFKHO/s200/IMG_3566.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5050920367422049042" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Again, looking out of Rich's back porch. Lucky bastard.</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />And then we made a delicious concoction:<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6ZGWLkRqMSZ_uXQpM774jyxy-gegd0ejmeSYPW-XLTU4gitUd8sgqcUDVhkiTRl7iwfnQkdz97tSh486Bg3ued8qPoeI784pudDNwSUUNVs-CWaItsD7DSTNQCtvKCg7nKnTH/s1600-h/IMG_3197.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6ZGWLkRqMSZ_uXQpM774jyxy-gegd0ejmeSYPW-XLTU4gitUd8sgqcUDVhkiTRl7iwfnQkdz97tSh486Bg3ued8qPoeI784pudDNwSUUNVs-CWaItsD7DSTNQCtvKCg7nKnTH/s200/IMG_3197.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5050167167597283906" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">You wish you knew what was making him grin like that don't you...see below and I'll reveal our secret ways!</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwmvpLOH9zlhs1Kj6d02F-9VBWBfi0QF4G8zYMK3E21wBwbFKh4CEFyT1cV98lGza_yp9HJJ8QdK69HnWpBH-2J92AWykHyKQ8zLggWpX6FRWvtylofhWgVTPJi4-w5TOpt9WT/s1600-h/IMG_3196.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwmvpLOH9zlhs1Kj6d02F-9VBWBfi0QF4G8zYMK3E21wBwbFKh4CEFyT1cV98lGza_yp9HJJ8QdK69HnWpBH-2J92AWykHyKQ8zLggWpX6FRWvtylofhWgVTPJi4-w5TOpt9WT/s200/IMG_3196.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5050174387437308594" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">cornflakes + chocolate syrup + hot chocolate powder + vanilla ice cream = scrumdiddelyumptious!</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Much of my time that first was spent lounging...I tried to update this very website, I read multitudinous comic books (Rich has an unparalleled collection, and I can't imagine that short of the manga hord's that this country perpetuates, anyone has a finer selection), and we ate hamburgers. LOTS of hamburgers. You would imagine that being in Japan I would eat sushi all the time, and that I would sample strange and exotic foods that our Western minds can little imagine.<br /><br />Well I did that too, but largely, we ate hamburgers. And I'll tell you this, they were delicious. I won't elaborate because pretty, they were just tasty burgers, but a little bit of home in between the <span style="font-style: italic;">pop-pops</span> (marble sized salmon fish eggs so named for the sound they make as they excrete pure fish taste onto your tonuge), raw shrimp (not peeled shrimp, RAW shrimp...its is not appealing) and octopus tentacles (surprisingly grabby), was a welcome change of pace.<br /><br />Other craziness abounded at Rich's house. Notably, that though Rich had been living there for the better part of a year and change...he seemed to have never taken the garbage out. As I was to quickly learn is the norm (no pun intended) in Japan, everything is a little, shall we say...<span style="font-style: italic;">bizarre</span>. Thus, the garbage from everyone's house must be taken to a dumping area but only on certain days, OTHER days apparently are taboo.<br /><br />Did that stop us?<br /><br /><span style="text-decoration: underline;"></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB3auQzSSjKM0ru8nNEeUjp_neL07oAGGB7a0y2QFKTSPqvFALmjPoKPXkqsgou7Tzw-L3LI4nFstqpJB-n7gPPQcMSP1z1xZu7HA3DDDbBSNED8glSAC6-zvwmNhCbWAyED9Z/s1600-h/IMG_3488.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB3auQzSSjKM0ru8nNEeUjp_neL07oAGGB7a0y2QFKTSPqvFALmjPoKPXkqsgou7Tzw-L3LI4nFstqpJB-n7gPPQcMSP1z1xZu7HA3DDDbBSNED8glSAC6-zvwmNhCbWAyED9Z/s200/IMG_3488.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5050174404617177826" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Lots of garbage...</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjwJRFE_Wy8VNkKWn-81wJbF6RqqzLQzzkOOm4FhxFPhOLMlkjsRsV7VfKmxrM0PXcaCYpqAjfeTzzplGx0-l6qyneQgrwC0qzS4fMgDt_8L4av4rQb8OVeyxMKgkZ_VJXFpDP/s1600-h/IMG_3487.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjwJRFE_Wy8VNkKWn-81wJbF6RqqzLQzzkOOm4FhxFPhOLMlkjsRsV7VfKmxrM0PXcaCYpqAjfeTzzplGx0-l6qyneQgrwC0qzS4fMgDt_8L4av4rQb8OVeyxMKgkZ_VJXFpDP/s200/IMG_3487.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5050174400322210514" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">...it smelled bad...</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMYTb2w24kJ9CtoFYo4rwTyI7oAnggFwyCOh0S1M_F1_UFZnDqff5XEJW3wEb0dBXzZx2N5GfwlIndoYRZ3mI2Cm31gGmtDNSp-dSo-Apcs_rAUkOrEsGABV8_7mi3NvNwBc-e/s1600-h/IMG_3489.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMYTb2w24kJ9CtoFYo4rwTyI7oAnggFwyCOh0S1M_F1_UFZnDqff5XEJW3wEb0dBXzZx2N5GfwlIndoYRZ3mI2Cm31gGmtDNSp-dSo-Apcs_rAUkOrEsGABV8_7mi3NvNwBc-e/s200/IMG_3489.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5050174413207112434" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">I mean honestly...who has this much garbage in their houe at one time? Besides Oscar the grouch? And even HE would be amazed at this.</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />NAhhhhhh! And if that looks like a lot of trash to you, just try imagining driving around with loose bags on the hood and roof of the car. We were like the ninja-garbage men of northern Japan.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRrsgKj_dZkQ34RzvQMgS0tRvC-J67z9ZRyOEF568YMfch2wYcJOiwj4CqxNPpGv4Dn74nbPEbBDDa8yAXBh3JdTb8Coqo7JOVooc7o04xkJwQj6HT371i9pRPBJj0qwCrSaTS/s1600-h/IMG_3490.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRrsgKj_dZkQ34RzvQMgS0tRvC-J67z9ZRyOEF568YMfch2wYcJOiwj4CqxNPpGv4Dn74nbPEbBDDa8yAXBh3JdTb8Coqo7JOVooc7o04xkJwQj6HT371i9pRPBJj0qwCrSaTS/s200/IMG_3490.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5050919405349374722" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">"shhhh...be vewwy vewwy quiet...we're hunting wabbits...and illegally dumping garbage.."</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Most of our time at the house was passed in surpassing comfort, lounging on his <span style="font-style: italic;">tatami</span> floors, watching old episodes of 24 and trying to understand the nature of the existential Tostitos.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsIOprIOgzr9a6Y7iCTWR81-Ryx6YZu-N8ZR-qDQ9GUuUoxlxm1GGrM5QOOS17-MCDQ2ctLeE5nWVBulSGhNU8xeGgVV-FHROZr0eo_O5zOnXTXugWN17-mtblnhtmz4swFt45/s1600-h/IMG_3100.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsIOprIOgzr9a6Y7iCTWR81-Ryx6YZu-N8ZR-qDQ9GUuUoxlxm1GGrM5QOOS17-MCDQ2ctLeE5nWVBulSGhNU8xeGgVV-FHROZr0eo_O5zOnXTXugWN17-mtblnhtmz4swFt45/s200/IMG_3100.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5050174396027243202" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">...so these chips are for export, it says so right on the bag, but there they were in Japan, having been exported, but then, the bag still says "export" and who are we to resist the demands of the bag, but then if we export them, whoever we export them to will believe that we have made a mistake since they were to be exported in the first place not RE-exported...thus the mystery of the existential chips, they exist both here and not here at the very same time. Einstein called it the "snack-coefficient quandry." It is mathematics greatest unsolved puzzle.</span><br /><br /><br />But there was a great big (metaphorically speaking) country out there to explore...onwards! To the next post!<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Next</span>: The insatiable curiosity of Japanese schoolchildren, and Norm gets a little funkyNorman Henry Pentelovitchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12390155598607641087noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19490432.post-1160867670242266932006-10-14T16:02:00.000-07:002007-02-25T22:27:24.133-08:00JAPAN: An arrivalWelcome back dedicated readers! To those who are visiting for the first time, just Welcome!<br /><br />Imagine, if you would be so kind gentle reader...Times Square in New York, on a busy day, but at night. Got it? Okay now imagine that you are 8 feet tall in Times Square, there is no honking and people are rigidly obeying Walk/Don't Walk signs...still with me in this crazy/fantasy/voodoo world? Now imagine that when a Walk sign finally does appear, roughly 3,000 people all cross the street at the same time, and even with this surging mass of humanity, not one person bumps into you, calls you a name or tells you to move. Fairy tale? No, it's Tokyo.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLF0uRTraDUJBGCpLK-HPuyh5B8KzvL4s_nR8AOANL7wiB1G_0fc9-HydP5nGPFBcOPpa2XMJCpZhAfEsjdKMuT_Qp-Albnh7uypfP-j2_blvt9blJhoAsi24nT6I2d6KpN0WU/s1600-h/DSC00001.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLF0uRTraDUJBGCpLK-HPuyh5B8KzvL4s_nR8AOANL7wiB1G_0fc9-HydP5nGPFBcOPpa2XMJCpZhAfEsjdKMuT_Qp-Albnh7uypfP-j2_blvt9blJhoAsi24nT6I2d6KpN0WU/s200/DSC00001.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5034616777431767458" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">In Tokyo, light moves faster than OTHER LIGHT...hard to believe but you'll just have to take my word for it...</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />As a quick backtrack; I was leaving South-East Asia by way of Thailand. In a bizarre twist of fate, a friend of a friend from back home was staying in the same hotel as my long-time travel companions. A most propitious situation indeed (especially for me) since I'm cheap and didn't want to pay for a hotel room, I forced them to stay up all night with me until my 7AM departure. And Dawn, someday we'll be in the same country for more than 2 hours...at which point I SWEAR I will buy you that beer!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2997.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2997.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2994.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2994.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:78%;">Do you have any idea how late it was?! (you will if you're actually reading these posts instead of just looking at the pictures...you're so lazy!)</span><br /><br />Thus did I arrive in that fabled, wondrous land of sushi, Noh theatre and the inimitable, the effervescent, the seriously strange Mr. Rich Shelala. By way of introduction, Rich is one of my closest friends, an inveterate nerd and has been living in Japan for the better part of two years, spending his time teaching obstinate Japanese children the blessings of English (or as I came to see it Eng-<span style="font-style: italic;">grish</span>). Rich's instructions for the airport were nearly as concise and specific as those of Yeah Yeah (my erstwhile India-traveling-companion). "I will meet you at the baggage claim, just after customs. Don't try to go anywhere on your own because you will get hopelessly lost and be put into a<a href="http://glumbert.com/media/tonguetwister"> Japaneses game show</a>. You will be humiliated."<br /><br />As such, I picked up my pack (dusty, grimy, covered in a thin film of....I really don't know what. I guess all that time on/under/next to busses in developing countries does not to baggage much good), I glanced around for my guide. He was nowhere to be seen. Having been through the Washington D.C. ninja-training academy, I knew very well that my friend may be hiding behind any number of large pillars, shadowy corners or giant statutes (the Japanese really have stuff set up for ninja-hiding...). Thus made paranoid, I backed up against a wall and kept an eagle eye watch out for anything that smacked of clandestine-ness.<br /><br />And waited...<br /><br />And waited....<br /><br />I finally realized that Mr. Shelala would not be forthcoming, so I headed over to a bank of pay phones to try and call him. After fighting with the phones for a while, I just gave up and collapsed into a chair. It was at that point that I realized that in the past 36 hours I had:<br /><br />1. Been to the worlds largest rave and not slept<br />2. Gone Scuba diving twice...and not slept<br />3. Sat uncomfortably on a plane for 8 hours where I...did not sleep.<br /><br />Guess how I was feeling?<br /><br />It was at about that time that I saw, peering through the crowd like some sort of <span style="font-style: italic;">creature</span> that <span style="font-style: italic;">peers</span> a phantom. It was a whisper and a rustle, yet somewhere out there, I knew that <span style="font-style: italic;">it</span> lurked. The wily Raccoon (aka Rich, never quite sure about the nickname). He lurched through the crowd, enormous headphones encompassing strangely shaped ears...and then...WEIRD PICTURE TIME!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2998.0.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2998.0.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2999.0.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2999.0.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Much as with my reunion with a long lost friend in India, our reunion was joyous. Quite UNLIKE that reunion, I did not then immediately plop down into a beach chair, take a swig out of an enormous ice-cold beer and watch the sun set. No...Rich had other plans.<br /><br />"Okay we're meeting about 10 people for dinner in (Unpronounceable japanese) word but first we're going to get tacos and then we're going to a club."<br /><br />"Uh...okay, but I'm pretty tired, can we call it an early night?"<br /><br />Rich had neglected to mention to me a number of things. First, he neglected to mention that he had planned a kind of "Welcome to Japan" celebration which included, among other things, eating four or five times with different groups of people. Next, he had neglected to mention that most of our evening would be passed at a club. The real kicker though, was the following:<br /><br />Norm: So where can I drop my bags?<br /><br />Rich: in this train locker!<br /><br />Norm: (listens for crickets chirping...doesn't hear any, apparently they're a delicacy here) Excuse me? where are we staying tonight?<br /><br />Rich: Ummm (shuffles feet)...we're not...<br /><br />Norm: (seeing red...) I...haven't slept in like 3 days, and now we're going to be out all night, after I just got off of a 8 hour plane ride, haven't slept and won't be able to shower?<br /><br />Rich: Yeah.<br /><br />And so it went. Our first stop was to get me a new t-shirt, since the one I was wearing was now nearly completely invisible. Apparently if you wear something long enough without washing it, it just sort of fades into the ether. (p.s. if you are over 6 feet tall and have blue eyes, please do the kind people of Tokyo a favor and allow those two physical characteristics to be surprise enough. Don't do as I did, which was to remove my shirt in the middle of a crowded store, rip open the package of shirts I've just bought, and then put it on and walk out like nothing unusual had happened. Apparently in a land where giant roving lizards (godzilla is real...REALLY!) are nothing to get all worked up about, a white guy's hairy chest is a real problem. Who knew?<br /><br />Freshly clothed, we set out to devour some tacos (yes my culinary adventurousness is to be <span style="font-style: italic;">marveled</span> at), prior to going and having a slightly more traditional Japanese meal.<br /><br />I have previously described the insanity that is India, specifically Mumbai in an earlier post(hyperlink), so I figured that I had seen everything that the masses of humanity could throw at me.<br /><br />It turns out that I was wrong.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgusN2QRDi8oqcvRMVTvZ174FZzyd5PNcAJZCNnTesSHe42drwBtk755ZmUtsCdAmeNXsHFDWvtlCBlReZ8U0Vf4lWEdvyqq0YXUY45uREt5yIx8J6HF2SvqW1s0ZlZlKpGIeDU/s1600-h/tokyo_roppongi.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgusN2QRDi8oqcvRMVTvZ174FZzyd5PNcAJZCNnTesSHe42drwBtk755ZmUtsCdAmeNXsHFDWvtlCBlReZ8U0Vf4lWEdvyqq0YXUY45uREt5yIx8J6HF2SvqW1s0ZlZlKpGIeDU/s200/tokyo_roppongi.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5034617468921502130" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu-tqo_9PEJfXfgt3voN4tZ5b5MjIhwVKBjjJlOhs-mPlxjbHWe_x_87gtIO7PY-Ev2vhOsAIMXXpbQfosvKdA2_uZ_nIckwrtPsfcxig2Np5WoYyzX1ErBqaR-2PZonwVLxyN/s1600-h/tokyo_kabukicho.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu-tqo_9PEJfXfgt3voN4tZ5b5MjIhwVKBjjJlOhs-mPlxjbHWe_x_87gtIO7PY-Ev2vhOsAIMXXpbQfosvKdA2_uZ_nIckwrtPsfcxig2Np5WoYyzX1ErBqaR-2PZonwVLxyN/s200/tokyo_kabukicho.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5034617683669866946" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Arriving at Shibuya train station, I emerged into what can only be described as a fully functioning Times Square/Carnival complete with bright blinking lights, freaks of all nature and description, and a small brass bulldog that everything seemed to rotate around.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeKMwYaIdD8kx57mgEKDu3bD2eAPrMnmZncqt-g9ndzZwwZjrJdFzG2w_n8_U0CbthzqMb4sd0r3HhV_ZagrQ1Dup3D_Hmg_qGKVMoGDNMCyQIORjQVnBsdKBCVO0KWRqKnxzM/s1600-h/Shibuya.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 294px; height: 195px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeKMwYaIdD8kx57mgEKDu3bD2eAPrMnmZncqt-g9ndzZwwZjrJdFzG2w_n8_U0CbthzqMb4sd0r3HhV_ZagrQ1Dup3D_Hmg_qGKVMoGDNMCyQIORjQVnBsdKBCVO0KWRqKnxzM/s200/Shibuya.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5035723455715399442" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">There are a LOT of people here...</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />A large, strangely feathered hat must be tipped to the young women who populate Tokyo. I don't personally know much about fashion, but what I do know is that these girls were either so far on the cutting edge of fashion that they were practically bleeding <span style="font-style: italic;">trendy</span>, or they had been dressed by their kindly, senile, blind neighbor who had just retrieved a box of clothing left over from pre-1700 Japan. There is no inbetween. Bright pastels contrasted with alternating black and white striped shirt sleeves, and that was on their legs. Neon jewelry, spiky/swirly mohawks over high ruffled collar shirts and calf-length boots. You could devote an entire book just to describing one clique of kids.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoPUvjAm-sokMpVmeZWJBt2dGyChMi_UN33d-SV4WW-ZlkxnQh0efqjySr8SCYrkl2snYVCwqnrnLVH7-5Yi4YiyCf0T0r3uHd2ZFXB8S6SFCHev-PtRhXAfjh5fj58mmlZG0a/s1600-h/800px-Harajukugirls.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoPUvjAm-sokMpVmeZWJBt2dGyChMi_UN33d-SV4WW-ZlkxnQh0efqjySr8SCYrkl2snYVCwqnrnLVH7-5Yi4YiyCf0T0r3uHd2ZFXB8S6SFCHev-PtRhXAfjh5fj58mmlZG0a/s200/800px-Harajukugirls.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5034624731711199730" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">"We represent...the lollipop guiiiiild"</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg11D36Oe5HjfI9UNq62Bz3rEl3_eOeQp2Q6ZVbwSQGeUAfR8oZiZJ4hBo9uzv6O7AJxUWGRM4Az33X6OrnFlCkrkR7IpdoadULXacrWcVq2mgor0hIYd-o9IYYKV_Dv4La0rRe/s1600-h/IMG_6381-medium.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg11D36Oe5HjfI9UNq62Bz3rEl3_eOeQp2Q6ZVbwSQGeUAfR8oZiZJ4hBo9uzv6O7AJxUWGRM4Az33X6OrnFlCkrkR7IpdoadULXacrWcVq2mgor0hIYd-o9IYYKV_Dv4La0rRe/s200/IMG_6381-medium.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5034624731711199746" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">"Wait...we're wearing the school girl stuff? Oh I thought we were doing all black goth gear...shoot!"</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhes5enL_aq1PZibDg8CipH-eX_vHN1tGtDHHVnPbiVp8aYoJLldnA7hKG19Ww8yMcyMeTU_DRa84nafRnMd9otblbPhaQbDf9oV28qN0DC5vF5aemaElqAhzj1NEh3z_UHKRaM/s1600-h/wallpapers.3yen.com_7106.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhes5enL_aq1PZibDg8CipH-eX_vHN1tGtDHHVnPbiVp8aYoJLldnA7hKG19Ww8yMcyMeTU_DRa84nafRnMd9otblbPhaQbDf9oV28qN0DC5vF5aemaElqAhzj1NEh3z_UHKRaM/s200/wallpapers.3yen.com_7106.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5034624736006167058" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">"I'll get you my pretty, and your little dog too!" (oh man, two Wizard of Oz jokes in one post...I can hear Judy Garland swimming in her booze soaked grave)</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmBxTS1d-Lm4gTNMO90JLmW5nWRI8-FbfVSwYHUV_QbbAOEAxSHzwnNemJu_hHglelzwLzr9xP1N5wLRVXXSLihdzaVxdH0POi7IQZrb1m7mykp8LDkn2mBUpfneHufkH0VLIO/s1600-h/more-harajuku-girls.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmBxTS1d-Lm4gTNMO90JLmW5nWRI8-FbfVSwYHUV_QbbAOEAxSHzwnNemJu_hHglelzwLzr9xP1N5wLRVXXSLihdzaVxdH0POi7IQZrb1m7mykp8LDkn2mBUpfneHufkH0VLIO/s200/more-harajuku-girls.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5034624727416232402" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitU1Cy4XwxH7T55UAMwqqb9OnrxPGgeVWv9Mfwz78cwnNhXepz7adWycpTYdQ5QegSjTL_TEyEfm77a78_p45u_aifQ38fyCWBhF_2xSFXiu1bx8F7OONK-WmCGYr1ZzHcT2Az/s1600-h/11.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitU1Cy4XwxH7T55UAMwqqb9OnrxPGgeVWv9Mfwz78cwnNhXepz7adWycpTYdQ5QegSjTL_TEyEfm77a78_p45u_aifQ38fyCWBhF_2xSFXiu1bx8F7OONK-WmCGYr1ZzHcT2Az/s200/11.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5034624731711199714" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">I have. No. Idea.</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />I've already kind of gone into what that square was like above, but it is hard to capture the essence of the moment accurately. Suffice it to say that seeing that many people assiduously avoiding even the THOUGHT of a jaywalk was a weird experience indeed.<br /><br />Then, it was time for food.<br /><br />I have now in my travels eaten bugs, larvae, snake, springbok, crocodile, and any other number of unidentifiable munchable, all of which I have attacked with gusto. Still, there is nothing quite like hearing the words "raw" and "horsemeat" used in conjunction to describe something that someone would like you to raise your eyebrow (get your gander up...whatever euphemism you choose to employ).<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8x4m1k5tPSgSzDF0L9dX9M5HshfLkLrlv3yzYZimDxvNdQ4DFJ1pKHVirSmeiFBq2fcwZr3lNI0rHuJ3OkDb9BZYqoP6UByA7taN0O2YWOV-h5GR-TWBfGI0UsMGGw50enOjJ/s1600-h/basashi.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8x4m1k5tPSgSzDF0L9dX9M5HshfLkLrlv3yzYZimDxvNdQ4DFJ1pKHVirSmeiFBq2fcwZr3lNI0rHuJ3OkDb9BZYqoP6UByA7taN0O2YWOV-h5GR-TWBfGI0UsMGGw50enOjJ/s200/basashi.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5034616257740724626" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Now tell me that doesn't look delicious? "Wilburrrr...NOOO!!!"</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Basashi</span>, as it turns out, is not only a delicacy, it is absolutely delicious. It is basically extremely thin strips of raw horse, which you use chopsticks to swirl around in a mixture of horseradish, garlic and soy sauce. Even without the accoutrement's, this was a particularly tasty dish (My apologies to Mr. Ed, Seabiscuit and The Black Stallion).<br /><br />The place that we ate at is known as an <span style="font-style: italic;">Izakaya</span>, and rather than try to give a verbose and over-long explanation, I will let Rich-<span style="font-style: italic;">san</span> sum it up for you. "This is the Japanese equivalent of a bar except that food plays a much larger role and specific foods are featured that either go specifically well with beer or sake." So there you have it. It's exactly as he said, except that instead of barstools, you sit on little mats on the floor, and instead of ordering from a printed menu of words, I ordered from a menu of enormous colorful pictures (thank god for that, or I would have ended up with octopus heads in a garbage bag with a side of Donkey hair or some other such nonsense...crazy Japanese bars)<br /><br />After dinner, we ended up at a club...after first being rejected from a different club. We intially went to a club called Harlen (yes, a huge Hip-Hop club in the middle of Tokyo with a HILARIOUS <a href="http://www.harlem.co.jp/harlem/">website)</a> where the entire group was massively inconvenienced by my attire: specifically, the fact that I was wearing sandals. Anyone who knows me knows that this was not merely a function of my being on the road, I NEVER wear shoes out. However with my ready-made excuse of "more than one pair of shoes means one more thing for a village kid to try and steal/bargain for, which is why I don't have any", the group moved on to "Atom", where we danced, and, as has been, and remained a continuing theme, local people stared at us while we did our groovy thing.<br /><br />Stumbling out of the club at around dawn, I decided that sleep must be some weird concept that philosophers argued about but didn't really exist. I felt a decided need to eat brains (or maybe I just looked like a zombie).<br /><br />I looked at Rich. Rich looked at me.<br /><br />"Well, it's only 3 hours on a train to my house, and then we have to get a ride there..."<br /><br />"I hate you."<br /><br />The train that we rode was the much vaunted <span style="font-style: italic;">Shinkansen</span>, which I believe is Japanese for both "make you go broke" and "screw you, American tourist." Ancient texts tell us that it could alternately be translated as "You honor us with your hard earned money, now please enjoy our whisper-quiet manner of conveyance. Also...now you're broke." It lived upto its billing as a "bullet-train" though, in that it was shaped like a bullet, and was a train. Good stuff.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg073wxVP7uWqidynUFT-qyncIyCO2pDVE52LJSAglPiEamSyIbzrBOQY8SffN01qdMlkjfX6MLF0nTLNkhFaeoVonDqhXZKux0f9IWNLvXb6cYB4TFolJlKl5kK3Tts6hJoBhT/s1600-h/shinkansen.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg073wxVP7uWqidynUFT-qyncIyCO2pDVE52LJSAglPiEamSyIbzrBOQY8SffN01qdMlkjfX6MLF0nTLNkhFaeoVonDqhXZKux0f9IWNLvXb6cYB4TFolJlKl5kK3Tts6hJoBhT/s200/shinkansen.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5035723859442325282" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />This is a picture of myself, Rich and the great and powerful Devon who is now devoting his time to teaching our most frustrating of languages to children in China. He is truly a glutton for <a href="http://www.snowdevin.blogspot.com/">delicious punishment</a> (and a hell of a writer as well).<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_3002.0.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_3002.0.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Dear rich: Screw you</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPN0dbI3hsWwbVQ7tzkWBMdurpg-ZxM431NIfpsXXOCKhK37l4v85QtF6mWvckppf0ITXj1KrSrair4SVqpgY4rTEQ6Tiyn1YZoewQV-APsh2MnxJIO0qweu5CfR69Ar7Nu_S-/s1600-h/IMG_3000.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPN0dbI3hsWwbVQ7tzkWBMdurpg-ZxM431NIfpsXXOCKhK37l4v85QtF6mWvckppf0ITXj1KrSrair4SVqpgY4rTEQ6Tiyn1YZoewQV-APsh2MnxJIO0qweu5CfR69Ar7Nu_S-/s200/IMG_3000.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5034616055877261682" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Dear Norm: Shut up</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR-FUgwsAMncFha7HBwWiu1iBF_DhaUfU9ChFmSaDsi1cdRvCQagsJM0sjiAy_u9awSo1S5j-QSR03IGPnIupLQEQcRLjbr7QXrr4wEtTOZ4d-2_226OadMdwRJoLix_yUioor/s1600-h/IMG_3001.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR-FUgwsAMncFha7HBwWiu1iBF_DhaUfU9ChFmSaDsi1cdRvCQagsJM0sjiAy_u9awSo1S5j-QSR03IGPnIupLQEQcRLjbr7QXrr4wEtTOZ4d-2_226OadMdwRJoLix_yUioor/s200/IMG_3001.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5034616064467196290" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Dear Abby: so the other day this crush of mine...</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Arriving in <span style="font-style: italic;">Nakano</span>, the town NEAR where Rich lives, I availed myself yet again of the opportunity to horrify some Japanese people. As I had been in the habit of eating whatever, whenever I wanted to (oh sweet sweet pad Thai carts in Bangkok...sigh), finding myself short on cash (Tokyo = Bring someone elses credit card), and near starving, I practically dove through the front door of a donut shop (cleverly titled "Mr. Donut"...aparently the Japanese are also fans of the<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=duqvXu3Wu0Q"> Simpsons</a>) as soon as we stepped off of the train. I quickly scarfed several donuts, then, noticing that there was a garbage can behind the counter, I quickly leaned over the clerks counter and tossed the garbage into the can. It was at that point that Rich grabbed me by the shoulders and practically hauled me out of the store.<br /><br />Why you ask?<br /><br />Because the look on the clerks face was roughly what you would get if you crossed the look of being confronted with an 18 foot venomous snake, and a rampaging elephant with a shark on its back. That is, this poor girl was quite scared. Rich slowly explained outside:<br /><br />Rich: You are dumb. You are 2 feet taller than everyone here, you haven't shaved in a month, you smell like the underside of a particularly dirty mattress and on top of all of that, people here just don't step around/over/through counters.<br /><br />What can I say...he was 3 for 3, right on all counts. I gently reminded him that I may not have been quite such a horrifying sight if I had been allowed the opportunity to...oh I don't know...SHOWER or SHAVE or SLEEP at some point in the preceding 3 days. Rich dismissed this notion with a rather limp hand wave and a "Bah" which seemed to settle the issue.<br /><br />Sufficiently rebuked, we rode to Richs house where I slept on a<span style="font-style: italic;"> futon</span> for roughly eleventy-billion hours.<br /><br />(Disclaimer: due to my near-catatonic state, I did not have the wherewithal to take lots of pictures from this first night. Thus, many of the pictures here were not taken by me. I have taken PAINSTAKING measures however (i.e. sort of glanced at them) to ensure that everything you see represented above were sights that I actually was a witness to. Now quit yer griping).<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Next:</span> The cool north of Japan, a new teacher, and NINJAS!Norman Henry Pentelovitchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12390155598607641087noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19490432.post-1154764543984027302006-08-24T00:55:00.000-07:002006-08-25T16:28:15.840-07:00Beng Melea: The Lost Temple (sort of)The approach is overgrown and thick, spotlights of sunshine creeping through narrow cracks and crevices of foliage so dense that ambient light is only a wish and a whisper. There is no sound save the crunching of dry, brittle leaves, the "road" has been left a long time ago. As we progress deeper into a jungle that seems untouched for centuries by any people, the power and grandeur of a once powerful empire rises up before you like a great dark wave, one which vanishes moments before it can come crashing down upon you.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2654.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2654.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />The broken and flagged stones are toppled in every direction and the architecture is a figment to be guessed and imagined at, as opposed to some form that can be readily appreciated. Yet, perhaps more than any other temple that I encountered in Cambodia, this one held the most mystique, the most intrigue and provided the deepest sense of awareness that you were witnessing something greater than yourself.<br /><br />Backtracking <span style="font-style: italic;">ever</span> so slightly, we find myself, Aidan and Lorraine on day two of our Angkor visit. Though there are nearly 200 temples that could be visited, we chose to spend the entire day at just one. The reason? It takes nearly 3.5 hours, by <span style="font-style: italic;">tuk-tuk</span>, along not-so-great roads, roads that even our driver had to stop and get directions on, to finally arrive at the site. It is then another 20 minutes of walking through the abovementioned hyperdense jungle to arrive at what first blush appears to be a massive heap of stones dropped from some celestial quarry and then allowed to be overrun by vegetation intent on hiding something.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2531.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2531.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">3.5 Hours! Egads!</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />The ride out was not as bad as it could have been, I mean, we could have been riding on wheels that were <span style="font-style: italic;">square</span>, that might have been slightly less comfortable. Regardless, we arrived, stretched limbs that didn't seem to want to respond to any amount of cajoling, then headed straight past the cobra's head statues that guard the entrance to the path.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2692.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2692.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">"Abandon hope, ye who </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:78%;" >hisssssss...</span><span style="font-size:78%;">"</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />When we finally arrived at the temple proper, we were greeted by what has to be the worlds least busy guide. We never quite caught her name, but she indicated to us that we should follow her around the site. As we progressed, she would point to certain areas of rubble that she thought may not be stable, and would make a "no-no" sign with her hands to indicate that a dark, lonely, and most likely painful fate awaited anyone so foolish as to step there.<br /><br />A point that I wish to make now, is that due to my somewhat impulsive and reckless nature, I dragged my companions all over this site. As it is one of the most unrestored, unvisited and generally ignored of the Angkor temples, there are no "rules" to follow, you can go anywhere. I exploited this ability to the fullest:<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2671.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/320/IMG_2671.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Sitting in the mornin' sun, I'll be sittin' til the evenin' comes...sittin' on a...pile of rubble...wastin' tiiiiime"</span></span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />It is believed that Beng Melea was built according to the same plans as Angkor Wat. As such, it is an enormous site to climb around. There were a number of times where I would be working my way up a pile of stones, only to look down and realize that I was nearly 50-70 feet off the stony ground.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2700.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2700.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"></span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"><br />I can see my house from heeeeeeeeeeere</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />We spent a long time simply hopping from ruined stone column to ruined stone column, the whole time feeling like explorers who had been out exploring and had come to the end of an exploration. Really.<br /><br />Much of the restoration that has occured at the various Angkor temples has involved fighting back the jungle that constantly threatens to overtake the sites. If you've seen the movie "Tomb Raider", then you will be somewhat familiar with the temple in the jungle scene. The temple that they filmed at is called Ta Prohm, and we actually did visit there, however my camera died and so I don't have any pictures of it. This turned out to be a blessing in disguise, as one of the motivating factors to come all the way out to Beng Melea was to get some pictures of a temple that was REALLY being consumed by its surroundings, and at Beng Melea, nothing is being done about it. Ta Prohm is a heavily visited site, and there are a number of projects underway to save the temple before it is completely collapsed by the jungle.<br /><br />"How could trees collapse a centuries old temple?" you may ask, and how clever of you to do so! Here is how:<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2689.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2689.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"><br />The trees actually grow <span style="font-style: italic;">through</span> the stones</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2662.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2662.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Tell me this isn't kind of creepy...creepy-</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:78%;" >awesome!</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2669.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2669.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"><br />Hard to know which one is providing the support here...</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />The roots of these jungle trees creep inbetween the stones of the building, crumbling the mortar and slowly, inevitably separating support elements. Thus, as time ticks slowly away, each temple is decimated a little bit more, subjected to the whims of an uncaring host. One of the reasons that Angkor Wat is the best preserved of the Angkor temples is because of the huge retaining wall and moat that surround it, and have effectively kept the forest at bay for hundreds of years.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2660.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2660.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2699.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2699.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /><br />I thought that they looked like blood vessels...crazy, chorophyllic blood vessels. Maybe this is why I can't get into Med school...hmmm</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />The silence that I had previously thought existed, now turned out to be as illusory as a clear path back to where we started. The overwhelming racket of cicadas, loud calling birds and some unidentified rodentish type things (R.U.S's?...for you Princess Bride fans out there) served as a comforting, if not noisy back drop to our wanderings.<br /><br />Yes, thats right, in Part 1,342,455 of Norm doing stupid things I got myself up to a point on the ruins from which there did not seem to be a safe way down. I arrived in this predicament by wedging my back against a wall, my feet against a pillar and walking up. Cool as this seemed at the time...There was subsequently no way down...until I realized that I could use...<br /><br />(And now...if you would be so kind...please start humming the "Indiana Jones" theme song to yourself. Here, I'll help...<br /><br />"Dum da dum dum....dum da duuuuuum...dum da dum dummmmm...dum da DUM DUM DUM...")<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2672.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 293px; height: 219px;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2672.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">My middle name is ADVENTURE</span>...<span style="font-size:78%;">and also Henry</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />A conveniently placed vine! Thus did I work my way <span style="font-style: italic;">back </span>down on the other side of the wall, much to the amusement of all...except our guide who gave me a look that indicated I should perhaps not do that again.<br /><br />As does happen in Cambodia, we were soon presented with a sobering reminder of the dichotomy that these temples represented, that of the beauty that was possible, and the horror. This was highlighted sharply by the passing of this sign:<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2695.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2695.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />As it was indecipherable to us, we asked our guide about it. In very plain language, she explained that it announced the recent clearing of landmines from the area. The letter/number combination was for some official purposes. As we digested the fact that we had been traipsing all over ground that had only very recently been cleared of thousands of land mines, we were given our greatest surprise of perhaps my whole trip. Our guide, a very nice young lady of perhaps 28-30, bent down, and pulled up her right pant leg to about mid-thigh. There, instead of the normal tapers of the calf into the knee, there was a series of metal rods, dissapearing down into her shoe, a shoe that we could now see was filled with a hard black material. She explained that she had been part of a team of people who had helped to clear mines in this area after she had lost her leg to one of them.<br /><br />I was speechless (a true rarity for me) for quite a while after that. Not only had this woman been leading us all over a ruined temple that had involved a great deal of exertion for me, who has both his legs, but she had been having to climb up to some of the more precarious places that I had gone in order to ensure that I didn't fall to my death. In the span of about 2 agonizingly guilty seconds, I distinctly recalled 4 or 5 times that she had hopped from one place to another using only one leg, and using the other for stability. It hadn't really registered at the time, but the behavior, given our recent revelation was so clearly that of someone keeping weight off of one side of their body that I felt as stupid for missing it as I felt awful for forcing her to do it.<br /><br />After recovering from my grief attack, I began to wonder what kind of a person would first experience something as painful and life-changing as losing a limb to a landmine, only to come back to help get rid of those same mines, and then to stay on as a sort of guide to the place where all of that had happened. I think that most people would want to get as far away from memories of something like that as they possibly could, I know that I certainly would. And perhaps, it is just that she lived in the area and that work is scarce (because it is) in Cambodia. But then again, a person who is affected deeply by something in any way, one who sees something, or experiences something profoundly awesome or terrible can't help but be motivated by it. Be it motivation to start making choices that ultimately hurt you, drinking, drugs etc. as so often happens, or motivation to work to make a change, so that noone has to experience that again, it can be a factor that influences you for the rest of your life.<br /><br />There is a certain sadness as well, to being the curator of something that is deteriorating, and about which you, nor anyone else, can do anything. Be it the director of the Louvre watching the Mona Lisa slowly crumble, or be it a lonely Cambodian guide, sitting at a table in the middle of a jungle, at a rarely visited temple, hearing the merciless trees taking root among the ancient stones, watching your charge fall cannot be easy.<br /><br />I like to think of our guide as a person who chose the latter path. Something awful had happened to her, yet now she is able to point to an accomplishment, the clearing of the mines, as something that will make a difference, make a change. As few visitors as there are, people can walk safely through her small section of the world, one that she helped to make safe, and she can watch them enjoy what Cambodia was always meant to be. Beautiful.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2650.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2650.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2658.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2658.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2674.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2674.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2666.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/320/IMG_2666.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2655.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2655.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2648.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2648.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2679.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/320/IMG_2679.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Next:</span> A whirlwhind return to Thailand, SCUBA diving, and the worlds biggest rave on a beach<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2725.jpg"><br /></a>Norman Henry Pentelovitchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12390155598607641087noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19490432.post-1155705294277788292006-08-15T22:03:00.000-07:002006-08-15T22:16:45.880-07:00...and the word spreads kind of far and sort of wide...So...the lovely and talented Ms. Julia Dimon, a travel writer of some renown (at least in her native Canada and among gonzo travelers everywhere) recently asked if she could post some of my work (subject to her editing) on her website. After much hemming, hawing, galumphing and flip-flopping, all of which lasted less than a second, I enthusiastically told her "of course!" She promised me a pony and a rainbow and unicorn for my efforts, all of which I have been assured are forthcoming.<br /><br />Therefore, you may now find one of my articles in a brilliantly edited format at:<br /><a href="http://www.thetraveljunkie.ca/index.php"><br />http://www.thetraveljunkie.ca/index.php</a><br /><br />Julia is a fantastic writer and I both <span style="font-style: italic;">can </span>and <span style="font-style: italic;">do </span>recommend that you read the rest of her site. She, unlike many of us unfortunates, gets to do this kind of thing for a <span style="font-style: italic;">living</span>, a fact that I am both obscenely jealous of, yet also very excited about as it allows me to continue living through her experiences.<br /><br />I will soon have postings about the rest of my time in Cambodia, the world-famous Full Moon Party and of course, my zany month in Japan with only the <span style="font-style: italic;">finest</span> of people...<br /><br />Stay tuned...<br /><br />-N.H.P.Norman Henry Pentelovitchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12390155598607641087noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19490432.post-1152100369794130882006-07-05T00:42:00.000-07:002006-08-05T10:56:07.620-07:00The Temples of Angkor: Lepers, Giant Stone Faces, and the Largest Religious Building on the Planet(ed. note: I realize that I've been posting slowly, however I'll be picking up the pace in the next few weeks, watch for more frequent updating!)<br /><br />As our taxi pulled up to the immense stone causeway that leads into the worlds largest religious structure, the only sounds that we could hear were the yells from children:<br /><br />"Hello"<br /><br />"Hola"<br /><br />"Bonjour"<br /><br />"Slainche"<br /><br />"Bonjourno"<br /><br />"Goedemorgen"<br /><br />If I had to bet on which countries children are the most adept at learning languages, I would have to put all of my money on Cambodia. The children, by virtue of necessity, can speak about a dozen languages with enough proficiency to get people from nearly any country to buy their postcards. Of course, English being the language of bartering the world over, more often than not I could make out what was going on, an unususal state of affairs for me.<br /><br />Siem Reap, located 5.5 km South of Angkor Wat, is a city rebuilding itself at a lightning pace. Since Angkor was declared a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 1992, the main conduit of tourism, which is one of the country's biggest industries, has focused on that narrow path leading between town and temple. You wouldn't expect to find a first rate Mexican restaurant in the middle of Cambodia. Neither would you expect to find a European bakery or an enormous, Guiness-pouring Irish pub in the center of town. Since you wouldn't expect these things, like me, you'd be surprised when they were suggested to you by the swarming multitudes of street children.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2630.0.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 220px; height: 165px;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/320/IMG_2630.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">This little girl was like a walking Fodor's guide for Siem Reap. She knew where to find the <span style="font-style: italic;">best</span> aioli!</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />There is a thriving, <span style="font-style: italic;">nearly</span> vibrant night life that goes on from about 7pm until bar close, which appears to be right around dawn, just long enough for people to stumble home and catch enough shut-eye to spend the rest of the day perusing some of the greatest architectural achievements on the planet.<br /><br />Angkor Wat has been described so many times, by so many people that it is nearly useless to add to the lexicon of praise here. Nonetheless, to arrive on the site, and begin the nearly 1km walk that beings by crossing a moat 190 meters wide, which surrounds the entire site, through a massive archway, and finally into the temple grounds themselves is nothing short of <span style="font-style: italic;">super-awesome</span> (I <span style="font-style: italic;">defy</span> you to find any piece of literature<span style="font-style: italic;">, anywhere</span> that refers to Angkor Wat as such. I'm breaking new ground here people).<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2532.0.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 194px; height: 145px;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/320/IMG_2532.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /><br /><br /><br />The view...about to enter all that is <span style="font-style: italic;">superawesome!</span></span><br /><br /><br />From there, it is a mere jaunt of another half a kilometer until you are within the temple itself. The grounds leading up to the temple are dotted with ancient shrines and two immense libraries, each individually worthy of a day or so of exploration. However the siren song of five soaring, spired and shingled towers looms over you and implores you onward.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2542.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2542.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Getting closer...</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2541.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2541.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /><br /><br /><br />....annnnd very <span style="font-style: italic;">slightly </span>closer</span><br /><br /><br /><br />Finally, you are under the main gate<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2533.1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2533.0.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>...<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Nearly there...</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />...and as you pass through, you are witness to one of the most awesome, powerful, and lasting images that I have ever encountered. A simple camera could never capture the depth of the moment, as you enter a murky hallway, and see the towers rising above you through a narrow door.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2535.1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 146px; height: 195px;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/320/IMG_2535.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Are you getting a sense of how long this took?</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2536.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2536.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">okay this is getting absurd...</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Careful, you're about to learn something:<br /><br />The temples of Angkor comprise over a thousand structures, ranging from the nearly perfect Angkor Wat, to barely a pile of stones, hardly identifiable as having once been anything. There are perhaps 20-30 temples that are still easy enough to identify to justify a visit as a tourist. The temples were built by the Khmers between the 9th and 15th centuries, and are considered to be the supreme architectural works of that culture. The big poppa of all the temples, Angkor Wat, was built by and for King Suryavarman II between 1112 and 1150. The layout is unique with respect to Buddhist and Hindu monuments, as it is oriented West, whereas most temples are oriented East. Scholars are still debating this oddity, however one of the theories posits that as this temple was dedicated to Vishnou, as opposed to Shiva, the Westward orientation makes sense as Vishnou's normal association is with the West. This is supported by the art of the <span style="font-style: italic;">bas-</span>relief that scrolls all the way around the inside of the temple. This exquisite work of art (believed to be the longest work of carved art on Earth) is meant to be read while being kept on one's left, the opposite of the tradition at most other Angkorian monuments.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2539.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2539.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">We're there! Here! Whatever!</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />The temple itself is modeled after Mount Meru, home of the Gods in Hindu mythology. It is a common misconception that Angkor Wat has only three towers, as when viewed head-on, that is all you can see, however, the temple structure is actually called a <span style="font-style: italic;">quincunx, </span>which means an arrangement of five objects with four at the corners and one at the center, and which sounds like a method of leaping backward and forwards through time, or possibly a smelly Anthony Quinn. Either way, entering the grounds brings with it a sense of both timelessness and contrast. As you wander the grounds it is impossible not to hear the voices in the back of your mind, those of the Khmer Rouge, and their victims, trying to tear away all the civilization and beauty that was created by these people. Fortunately, the Khmer Rouge largely left the temples of Angkor alone, and due to the massive walls surrounding Angkor Wat, it has largely been preserved from the ravages of a jungle that has been all to eager to swallow its lesser neighbors.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2569.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2569.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Inside the walls. If you're wondering, the color of that sky is <span style="font-style: italic;">perfect</span>. It's on the color spectrum between Indigo and Mauve</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2551.0.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2551.0.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />It took myself, Aidan and Lorraine (my friends of long standing at this point, there through thick and thin and kind of gross since <span style="font-style: italic;">way</span> back in Laos) nearly an hour to simply find each other after splitting up at the site.<br /><br />Have I mentioned the steps yet?<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2557.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2557.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">That boy on the steps is actually 3oo0 feet away. Neat optical illusion huh?</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />No description of Angkor Wat would be complete without a mention of one of the less illuminating aspects of a visit. In short: There are many, many steps to be climbed. These steps are very, extremely, umm...<span style="font-style: italic;">really</span> steep. Like, scaling a vertical wall steep. After much huffing and puffing, one finds oneself at the uppermost level of the temple, and is greeted with scenes such as these:<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2545.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2545.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">"...oh soooola mia....."</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2555.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2555.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2553.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2553.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2547.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2547.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">"Hi, I'm the Buddha with the head. Aren't I nice?"</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2561.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2561.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />"........" (translation: Hi, I'm the Buddha without the head. Sucks huh?)</span><br /><br /><br />If you'll note the last two images, you'll see something about the Buddhas represented therein. One has a head, one does not. Three guesses as to which was the more common sight...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2571.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2571.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">There is nothing funny about this picture. Beheaded deities are no laughing matter..which is why I got kicked out...</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Well, since you are so clever, oh wise and gentle reader, you of course surmised that there are far more headless Buddhas than those who remain un-discombobulated. The simple reason for this is that every time that any group has ever decided to try and overtake Cambodia, it was decided that the best way to begin would be by beheading their most relevant deities. Makes sense if you think about it. Irony of ironies, the Khmer Rouge largely left the temple sites alone.<br /><br />The arching, vaulted ceilings, vast sunken rooms, and multitudinous prayer areas and shrines could be explored for days in Angkor Wat, but our 50 dollar passes (and for the record, I cannot as of the time of this writing recall anything else on my entire trip that cost that much. Not even flights that I bought while in South Africa and India. This should actually be an entire other post, but here is unfortunately relegated to a parenthetical. As it turns out, only 28% of the revenue that comes into the Angkor temples goes towards their upkeep and refurbishing. The rest goes to a shady cabal of international companies who turn a massive profit on the whole endeavor. The filmy sheen that I had to scrub off of myself every night after temple-hopping wasn't sweat, it was<span style="font-style: italic;"> corporate malevolence<span style="font-style: italic;">...</span></span>and I can assure you, it clings), were only good for 3 days, and with so much to see, it was time to be on our way.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2579.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2579.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Temple, from a distance...duh.</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2543.0.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2543.1.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Reverse view. The long walk home</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />The next stop on the normal first day temple tour is the site known as Bayon. Whether or not you are a professor of Khmer Studies at at a leading institution (which, perhaps you are), Bayon is fairly recognizable due to its unique architecture, spiritual importance and oh yeah...<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2600.0.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2600.0.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /><br />"Arghhh!! I'm a huge stone head!"</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2583.0.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2583.0.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">(Chorus): Argh!! We're 200 huge stone heads!</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />...hundreds of enormous stone heads! One of the main reasons for visiting the temple is to see the painstakingly, meticulously rebuilt library that took dozens, perhaps hundreds of graduate students and archaeleogists years and years to finish. I, of course, didn't get a single picture of it. I was too busy with looking at things like:<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2588.0.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2588.0.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"><br />If you hold the scepter of light at exactly the right time, at just the right angle...you get the location of the recipe of the perfect bowl of noodles....mmmm mysteriously delicious</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2592.0.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2592.0.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /><br /><br />Aidan thought he had discovered a doorway to Nirvana. Turns out it was a doorway to a <span style="font-style: italic;">record store</span> that specialized in used Nirvana tapes. He got <span style="font-style: italic;">In Utero</span> for 2 bucks!</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2594.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2594.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">It's a spiderweb, it looked nice in the light. What? Every picture has to be something you've never seen before?</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />As you peruse the exterior, it has hard not to feel like you are being watched. And this feeling becomes more prevalent, the more you look around. Fortunately, you are in good company with this uneasy feeling, as nearly everyone feels somewhat offput by the nearly 200 enormous carved stone faces that surround you everywhere you go. Bayon is unique for a few reasons in Angkor architecture: It is one of the only temples not surrounded by an outer wall, the prominence of the library indicates that it was significant both as a religious, and as an educational site, and it was constructed roughly 100 years after Angkor Wat, however there is evidence that points to it having been completed over a very long period of time, perhaps even longer than it took to complete Angkor Wat.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2610.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2610.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Wide angle view...big place</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />But really, you only want to know about the faces. (Sigh)...my poor, short attention-spanned readers.<br /><br />Well, there is some dispute over exactly who or what the faces are depicting, but there is a general scholarly consensus (isn't it nice when nerds get along?) that the faces are either Jayavarman VII or Avalokitesvara. Although neither of those names probably mean much to you, the latter is extremely important in Buddhism. Without getting to in-depth here, the Avalokitesvara is the embodiment of all of the compassion of all of the Buddhas. As such, he is the most highly revered Bodhisattva (and to carry out the explanation one degree further the bodhisattva is the " being who is dedicated to assisting all sentient beings in achieving complete Buddhahood)(for further reading that won't help a whit in understanding what an Avalokitesvara or Bodisattva is, but will give you a look into the mind of a brilliant writer to whom those terms meant a lot, check out "The Dharma Bums" by Jack Kerouac).<br /><br />Anywho, we spent quite a bit of time wandering around, taking goofy pictures with the heads. That was my trip to Bayon. I am quite the student of culture huh?<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2624.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2624.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">"...just the two of us..."</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2604.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2604.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">"...just the two of us..."</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Joking aside (though never <span style="font-style: italic;">entirely </span>aside) Bayon is a place where you begin to wonder at any ghost story, mystical happening or alien landing that you've ever heard about. At a place like this, anything seems possible. There are some places in the world that seem to hold magic and mystery, beyond rational comprehension, places that leave you with a sense of wonder. Bayon, as fully as anyplace else that I have been, evokes these feelings. There is a hushed, overpowering atmosphere (when not congested with tour groups) that seems to demand silence and obeisance to...something. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2611.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2611.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />It is interesting to note the different characteristics of the many faces at Bayon. Each face is slightly different from its mates, a fact that is pointed out in any number of tour guides and plaques at the site. Some of the faces are clearly happy, some seem angry, others demure or amused and still others paternal and knowing. It would be easy to spend a whole day, just trying to catalogue the look on each face, and interestingly enough, there are as many different interpretations, even for the same face, as there are people to look at it. While standing and staring at a face that to me looked joyful, a young boy passed me and gave a shudder. I asked him what was wrong (helpful scruffy stranger that I am) and he said that it looked like the face was mad at him.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2593.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2593.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2603.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2603.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">What do you see in the faces?</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />As we left the temple, walking away down a wide stone path with our backs turned on the faces, I couldn't help but again get the feeling that for good or evil, we were being watched over as we made our way onwards. To me, it was comforting, but it seems to weigh differently on each person who visits.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2612.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2612.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Casting call picture for the sequel to the Danny Devito/Arnold Schwarzenegger film "Twins" entitled "Unlikely Twins at Buddhist Temples"</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />After sweating profusely at Bayon, it was a 2km walk to another temple whose name I forget, largely because it was under renovation and I didn't get anywhere near it. Fortuantely, this brought us right to the part of the day that I was looking forward to the most...a visit to the Terrace of the Leper King.<br /><br />What is the historical significance, factual background and scholarly opinion on the Terrace...well, I'll tell you...<br /><br />Psych.<br /><br />You don't want to hear that. Neither did I. I just wanted to do this:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2620.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2620.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2622.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2622.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2619.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2619.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">"Hey...hey look at me...I'm the LEPER KING. I've got LEPROSY...ew...I'm all leprous because I'm the KING OF THE LEPERS...WAHHHHHH"</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />We finished the day by gazing vacantly at the Terrace of the Elephants, about which I know nothing, but made for a nice picture which you may enjoy...now.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2623.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2623.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /><br />Terrace of the Elephants. Neat.</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Next:</span> A trip way...<span style="font-style: italic;">way</span> out, and some Indiana Jones style adventure...<span style="font-style: italic;">not to be missed!</span>Norman Henry Pentelovitchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12390155598607641087noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19490432.post-1152084637067364892006-07-05T00:19:00.000-07:002007-04-09T22:33:02.050-07:00Cambodia: A difficult reality"...Although directly responsible for the death of about 750,000, the policies of the Khmer Rouge led to, mainly through starvation and displacement, the death of over 1 million people. In terms of the number of people killed as a proportion of the population of the country it ruled, it was one of the most lethal regimes of the 20th century."<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">NORMAN PENTELOVITCH NORMAN PENTELOVITCH NORMAN PENTELOVITCH</span><br />Thus did I find myself in the heart of a country with one of the most brutal histories in recent memory. Only not mentioned in the same breath as Kosovo, Bosnia and the Democratic Republic of Congo because of a difference of a decade or so, the destructive force and moral vacuum that existed in Cambodia until late 1979 is hardly discussed or given much thought in America.<br /><br />I arrived in Cambodia on a day that would prove to be typical of the remainder of my time in South East Asia: Humid, obscenely hot, and interspersed with massive downpourings of rain. I suppose that I should have been expecting this as it was the "rainy season", however I had (foolishly) expected that a city that had been subjected to such a season every year for the last say...oh...thousand or so years, would have been adequately equipped to deal with such torrents of downpour.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2431.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2431.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">"...yeah, take the next left past the family of ducks and before all the frogs..."</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2428.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2428.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">"...Sure...what a GREAT day for a bike ride...WONDERFUL suggestion..."</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />I thought wrong. Phnom Penh has the water-management infrastructure of a toddler. That is, whenever, and wherever it <span style="font-style: italic;">can</span> get wet, it <span style="font-style: italic;">will </span>get wet. Before launching into what I saw in Cambodia, it is worth a moment to take a look at the trial-by-ditch hopping that was required to get to my guest house.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2385.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2385.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">I walked to my guest house at night and went to sleep, when I woke up, there was a 3 foot deep ditch outside my door, filled with water, dug without any of the business-owners knowledge. Gotta love corrupt buearucracy</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Simply getting out of the "backpacker area" was a challenge.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2449.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2449.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">..though with sunsets like these...</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2450.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2450.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">...why leave at all? (view from my guesthouse porch)</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />As far as I could tell, there are only two industries currently in operation in Cambodia: tourism, and cashew plantations. Most of the plantations are owned by foreigners and they produce a staggering amount of the worlds cashews (here's a fun fact: if you've eaten cashews at any point in the last three years, chances are <span style="font-style: italic;">very</span> good that they came from Cambodia, but were routed through somewhere in South America so that they can get a good "branding" name on them). Since talking about cashews is not (I imagine) particularly illuminating, let us move on to tourism.<br /><br />Phnom Penh is a very large city, organized around two or three very large central streets. The cheap accomodation area is down an alley, which is down a second alley, which narrows into an <span style="font-style: italic;">alley-ish</span> type lane that is unlit at night and feels exactly like you would if you were in a movie, being chased by thugs and you were the unnamed bit part actor who everyone knows is about to eat a bullet to allow the hero to get away. Not someplace that I wanted to be stumbling around in alone.<br /><br />The primary reason that people come to Phnom Penh is to see the legacy of the Khmer Rouge through the Tuol Sleng Prison Museum (S-21) and the Killing Fields of Choeung Ek. Both are horrific reminders of the atrocities carried out by Pol Pot's Khmer Rouge, both invoke the same kind of skin-crawling, nail-biting, eyes-averting behavior that you would find at a typical auto accident, however they are necessarily experienced on a much broader scale.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2386.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2386.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">s-21, a former elementary school turned nightmarish prison</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />I visited Tuol Sleng first. What makes this stark, broken edifice particularly frightening is the buildings former role: Prior to being one of the worst prisons on Earth, it was a primary school. It is also very important to understand what the name of the prison means. In Khmer, Tuol Sleng means "Hill of the Poisonous Trees", a name chosen for the detention center by the Khmer officials as a kind of sick joke among themselves.<br /><br />As I entered the front gates, I was accosted by several people with various deforming injuries. There was a very young boy missing a leg, hobbling along on a splintering wooden crutch, his hand out and a dead sheen in his eyes, looking through me even as he asked for my money. Perhaps the most difficult person to face was a man who could have been anywhere from 3o to 60 years old. His face looked as if it had been melted, from the forehead down. There was skin and tissue connecting the top of his brows to the cheekbone below, and where his eyes should have been was simply an amorphous, gelatinous mess that he seemed to be able to move side to side. This man was missing one of his arms and his left foot. These people were victims of one of the most vicious, unfair and deplorable forms of munitions known to man: the landmine. There are an estimated 4-6 million landmines still remaining in Cambodia, and when they tell you to stick to the beaten path, they are deadly serious. It is further estimated that there are 40,000 landmine related amputees in Cambodia, one of the highest figures of any country. Entering the country, I had tried to steel myself to encounter such people. I had heard from other travelers about the horrors that they had witnessed, but what struck me the most about the stories that I heard were people's reactions to the disfigured. More often than not, I was told that a person had had to "look away" or had "quickly turned and walked away." This struck me as being particularly cruel. Amputee or not, these victims were still people, and I resolved to look at each one of them, not to shy away, but to make the effort to behave as I would hope to be treated should something similar have befallen me.<br /><br />That first man put this resolve to the test immediately. I can say that I did look at him (more likely stared) and that I politely demurred when he requested money (I later learned that the most likely source of his disfigurement was from white phosphorus gas, a substance still widely in use today by world militaries, both for marking locations and for "smoking out" suspected insurgents/terrorists etc.). From that point on, I tried to react with as little shock or staring behavior as I could when being faced with such situations. It was not particularly easy.<br /><br />Tuol Sleng prison was, as I mentioned, a primary school, and walking around its ghostly hallways, it is not hard to imagine the sounds of children rushing through the corridors and the low murmur of teachers talking to each other as they passed between classes. Unfortunately, the screams and groans of the tortured and dying, the sizzle and smell of electrifying flesh and the crunch of bones under hammers and chisels are far too easy to convince yourself that you can hear as well. The museum is set up very simply, and is beginning to fall apart. The "tour" starts on the first floor and consists of small, former classrooms, each of which now simply has the wire mesh of a bed, and several tools scattered about on top of it.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2397.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2397.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">A classroom-turned-torture chamber at S-21</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Without any explanation, the room would appear somewhat benign, if not also a bit sinister. It is the accompanying black and white pictures on the wall that lend abhorrent depth to the morbid tableau with which you are faced. Each room has one or two pictures on the walls. Each picture is of a recently tortured person, lashed to the bed, as often as not with barbed wire. Most of these people are quite clearly dead, their tongues hanging out of their mouths and their eyes rolled back in their heads. Mercifully, some of the pictures are too dark, or too obscure to make out.<br /><br />As I made my way around the ground floor, stepping into one torture chamber/classrooom after another, I couldn't help but reflect back on my own primary school education. Safe, carpeted, colorful, and sheltered, there were vestiges of such things in these classrooms. With a lot of imagination, you could <span style="font-style: italic;">almost</span> see crayon pictures on the walls and small chairs and tables on the floor. But then, as your gaze moved towards the windows, covered in two layers of thick, unmovable bars, and the bare, ominous emptiness of the room (preserved as it was found after the overthrow of the Khmer government), you find yourself unable to speak and fighting back tears (activities that I had to manage on a recurring basis).<br /><br />It was terrible.<br /><br />One of the main features of the museum is a display of hundreds of black and white photographs of victims of the Khmer Rouge regime. The majority of the prisoners who passed through s-21 were former Khmer soldiers who were thought to have been disloyal. However thousands of others, regular citizens and foreigners alike (including Americans, Brits, Aussies and New Zealanders) passed through, and died in the camp. To know that every single one of the faces staring blankly out at you from dozens of years of history was dead, often at an age so young that a simple confused look was all that was registered on the subjects face, was a draining experience.<br /><br />The upper floors were where most of the inmates lived. They are dark, murky, tiny hovels that I could barely squeeze myself into, let alone think about living in.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2400.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2400.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:78%;"><br />The tiles that look like "L"'s on the floor represent the walls of the cells. There were usually about 2-6 feet apart</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2401.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2401.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"><br />Hallway in-between dozens of cubicle-cells</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Outside of the school buildings, right across from an area that still had pull-up bars intact from a jungle gym, was an enormous gallows, one that was used both for executions by hanging, and also for prisoner torture. They would tie a noose around a prisoners feet, then hoist them up in the air, sometimes pulling on them from below, and sometimes simply letting them dangle there for extended periods of time, after which they would bring them back inside to extract confessions ranging from extortion, to conspiracy to murder. There were hardly any people who were confessing to a crime that they were even aware of.<br /><br />The top floor of the prison had a room with pictures in it of the former Khmer Rouge leaders, along with placards discussing their whereabouts today. A depressing number of them are, or have been living free for the last 20 years. It is only in the past few years that a "court" system has gotten around to charging these people with war crimes, and many of the worst perpetrators have either fled the country or have died. At a museum in any Western country, these examples of tyranny and horror would be as equally protected by the rules of the museum as were the other exhibits. This was not the case here. Instead, every photo of every leader was defiled, scratched, marked up and profaned. All save one. Pol Pot, the leader and perhaps worst criminal of them all did not have his picture violated in any way...because there was simply no picture up for him.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2407.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2407.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">The placard bearing Pol Pot's name below an empty space where a picture once hung</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />If I had to guess, I would say that at some point, there was a picture of Pol Pot on that wall, and that during that time, that picture suffered sufficient violation as to not be able to be displayed. The blank wall provided a stark contrast to the picture laden space around it, and, as well as any other display in the museum, demonstrated the power of the raw emotion that Tuol Sleng is infused with. Anger, pain, humiliation and despair are not mere notions here, they are tangible elements, able to be touched and examined and held.<br /><br />I left Tuol Sleng with quite a bit on my mind. The rest of my day did not prove any easier.<br /><br />The "Killing fields" are not what most people assume them to be. There were literally hundreds of sites around the country, many just being discovered now, where the Khmer Rouge mutilated and killed fellow Cambodians. It is largely assumed that the "killing field" outside of Phnom Penh is the primary one, however it was simply another site in a long list of such places at which thousands upon thousands of people died. However due to its status as the main execution field being served by Tuol Sleng prison, and due to its proximity to Phnom Penh, the site known as Choeung Ek is the most popular, and as such the most developed site to try and make sense of the varying atrocities that occurred.<br /><br />There is only one road to Choeung Ek, and your options for getting there are limited. I chose to take a <span style="font-style: italic;">moto</span> (the small moped like instruments of white-knuckle inducing fame) which ended up being a terrible idea for a variety of reasons, not the least of which were the fact that 1. Choeung Ek was an hour away 2. the road there was unpaved and unsmooth, making for a very dusty, very bumpy ride, and 3. It is rainy season. It rained. Going 60kph straight into winds that are already driving the rain into at that speed is a little bit like driving into a shotgun blast of M&M's. If you haven't had such an experience, I can assure you that it is unpleasant.<br /><br />I arrived at the site, paid the entrance fee, and entered. This is what I was greeted with:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2415.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2415.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Imagine coming upon this in a field if you didn't know what it was...terrifying</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />This particular killing field has been made into a shrine and a place of memory. The building pictured above is roughly 5 stories high, and is known as a <span style="font-style: italic;">stupa</span> (buddhist religious structure). As imposing as the physical structure itself is, it becomes more so by several degrees of magnitude upon realizing what it is filled with...<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2409.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2409.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2408.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2408.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />One of the legacies of the genocide in Cambodia is bones. Hundreds and thousands of bones. This <span style="font-style: italic;">stupa</span> is filled with thousands and thousands of human skulls, dug up from the area immediately surrounding the building itself. Five stories of them. I am running low on adjectives to describe horror, but the lump in my throat and the sick feeling from my eyelids to my toenails, all seeming as if they wanted to run and cry and explode and vomit and fight and build at the same time, hopefully gives an accurate idea of what I experienced there. Gazing up at this massive tower of death is an experience unlike any that I have previously undergone.<br /><br />As it turns out, bones are not the only remnants that are found in the killing fields<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2410.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2410.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">The text reads: "After excavating the Mass Graves, Victims' Clothes Were Cleaned By Deoderants in 1988 (<span style="font-style: italic;">sic)</span>."</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Though a body may decompose rather quickly, leaving behind only a skeleton as proof of an existence, the clothing that these people took to the grave has survived as a testament to lost humanity for far longer.<br /><br />As you walk among the grounds of Choeung Ek, you come to a multitude of shallow pits. Many of them are simply steep depressions in the grass, perhaps 5-7 feet deep. Passing these, you find a number of other pits, which have been excavated to a further degree and surrounded by a fence...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2418.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2418.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />...and bearing signs that read:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2417.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2417.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />I can't imagine whose job it was to count the bodies that were recovered, and I don't want to think about how often a sign such as this could have been repeated in any number of places all over the country.<br /><br />I don't want to think about these things, but I can't help myself.<br /><br />Elsewhere, there are signs reading "This is a tree against which soldiers threw children to stop their crying", "Mass grave of X number of victims who had been beaten to death", etc. etc. etc.<br /><br />In the Cambodia of the Khmer Rouge, a bullet was far too precious to waste on something so base and unimportant as a prisoners life. No, instead, the way that most people died in the killing fields was by being lined up at the edge of pits, already full of dead and decaying bodies, and then beaten to death with Oxcart handles, simple lengths of stout wood. As this procedure happened down a line, it was necessary to have several guards with bayonets fixed to their rifles to ensure that no-one tried to break ranks and run before it was their turn with the bat. It is important to understand the brutality, and senselessness of the manner of death, in any situation such as at the killing fields, to ensure that the site does not simply become a series of large holes in the ground with signs. There is very little to visually suggest that anything horrible had happened there (provided you were not looking at the <span style="font-style: italic;">stupa</span>), and if it wasn't being highlighted for you, it could easily be missed.<br /><br />Or so I thought.<br /><br />As I walked around, the ground under my feet crunched quite frequently, and I tripped a few times over what I believed to be very small rocks. After the third stumble, I bent down to see what it was that I was tripping over<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2421.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2421.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Human teeth. Scattered everywhere. They tended to blend in with the ground around them, but if you stopped and gave your footsteps even a cursory glance, the full weight, the magnitude of what happened there is unavoidable. Upon closer inspection, one can find stained blue and off-white cloth, coming up through the ground as well. I later found out that the baskets placed every 20 feet or so, are for visitors to place bone fragments and bits of clothing that they find when the rains come and these items rise to the surface. Apparently, these baskets need to be emptied every few days.<br /><br />There was something interesting about the Choeung Ek site, that bears mentioning. During my entire visit, I was harangued by groups of children, all of whom, it appeared, lived on or near the killing fields. When I first walked onto the grounds past the <span style="font-style: italic;">stupa</span>, several little girls came up to me and asked if I wanted to take their picture. Knowing this scam from any number of other clever children in other countries, I told them that I wouldn't be requiring their modeling services. After a few more rejections, they contented themselves to follow me around for some time, occasionally asking for sweets or for a drink of my water (which I eventually gave them). At first, I was bothered by these kids and their near constant chatter. When I gave them the bottle, they quickly drained it and then began an impromptu game of "water-bottle soccer", yelling and screaming and running about. My first impulse was to shout at them "Hey, be quiet! Don't you realize how solemn and reverent and overwhelmed you should be? Is the memory of your country so short that you can just play here without being awed by the horror of what happened here? Don't you <span style="font-style: italic;">know</span> what happened here?"<br /><br />And then I realized that of course they knew what had happened. It was right in everyones face, and moreover, it had happened only 20-some odd years ago. These kids knew as well as anyone. But what to do? Should they not play? Should they sit around and be sad and mope and let the past weigh them down until them became bitter at a world that could allow such things to happen? These kids had the right idea. Instead of death in this place, they saw a lesson. Instead of a burden, this place was a reminder, always there, always a part of the past, but never to be a part of their future. So why not play? Why not try to make some money off of a tourist who comes there? What I realized after some time is that what I was seeing was life carrying on, washing away the trangressions of its past and creating an opportunity for the future. I had just missed it because the poles of tragedy and opportunity were literally sitting one right on top of the other. Those children may grow up to be entrepeneurs or prostitutes or chefs or soldiers or bus drivers or lawyers or doctors, but the point is that they will grow up.<br /><br />That was for me, ultimately, the lesson to be taken away from Tuol Sleng, and the Killing Fields of the Khmer Rouge. Life <span style="font-style: italic;">will</span> go on for this country, the past will be remembered so that it won't be repeated, and the children will grow up in the shadow of that past, but not be smothered by it.<br /><br />That, is a good lesson, one worth learning, and more importantly, one worth teaching.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Next:</span> The temples of Angkor and Siem Reap, the pride of Cambodia<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2407.jpg"><br /></a>Norman Henry Pentelovitchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12390155598607641087noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19490432.post-1151471663505334732006-06-27T21:43:00.000-07:002006-07-05T11:50:31.566-07:004th of July Musings: Patriotism abroad<span style="font-weight: bold;">"Ask not what your country can do for you; ask what you can do for your country"<br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;">-John F. Kennedy</span><br /><br />This is not one of my posts that will be interesting for its pictorial content. For those of you who have come to understand this space as being one of great <span style="font-style: italic;">visual </span>beauty, perhaps it would be best if you returned in a few days when my efforts will be realigned around events that have actually happened in the real world, as opposed to merely being thoughts that I have...well...<span style="font-style: italic;">thought.</span><br /><br />To travel abroad is to put yourself into situations in which, regardless of how you see it, you represent your country. This carries with it an awesome responsibility, one that most people either ignore, squander, or both. Each time that you meet someone from somewhere new, that person forms an impression of you that is intrinsically linked to where you are from. They don't know that since you are from a particular region, or that you grew up poor or rich or black or white or green or yellow or blue or Jewish or Catholic or Hindu or Jain or anything else that could have influenced you in your developing years, that you may not be a representative of where you are from as a whole. They simply see you as "that American/Aussie/Brit/South African/Indian that I met." And they are going to remember it.<br /><br />As such, the label most frequently applied to me lately has been "American." This carries with it a great number of meanings. It can mean that you like Rock 'n' Roll and cheeseburgers and Coca-Cola. It can mean that you own a gun and carry it with you all of the time. It can mean that you support a government that is doing things that many people disagree with. Or absolutely none of these representations could speak for you. Unfortunately, as I've been roaming, more often than not, the above assumptions, coupled with any number of others, have made up the bulk of people's first impressions of me.<br /><br />It is continually amazing to me how entitled people from other countries feel to tell me what they hate about my country, how it is being run poorly or what is wrong. Simply by learning that I am American, I find myself drawn into massively one-sided conversations regarding everything that the lecturee knows, <span style="font-style: italic;">knows</span> to be inherently wrong with where I am from. Setting off on my travels, I knew from previous travel experience that I would encounter people such as these. Concurrently, I also knew that with each person that I met, I would have to make a choice: defend my place of origin, or agree with the antagonist that yes, perhaps some things about my country were imperfect. In the interest of peace and tranquility in any number of situations, I often chose to quietly listen to what a person felt the overwhelming (if not unsolicited) need to tell me about my country, and as often as not, I would let the comments go. Having gone through this exercise enough times that I wanted to scream, I began to wonder if I was in some small way, betraying my country. If I was being "unpatriotic."<br /><br />So what is it to be a patriot? Webster's dictionary says:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">A patriot is one who loves, supports, and defends ones country.</span><br /><br />The writer George William Curtis said:<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br />"A mans country is not a certain area of land, of mountains, rivers, and woods, but it is a principle and patriotism is loyalty to that principle."</span><br /><br />If you look through the tomes of literature dating back to the first organized governments, you will find more writing than you could possibly care to read about what is or is not patriotic. As often as not, the writing criticizes those who act patriotically. Goethe said "Patriotism ruins history."<br /><br />So what to do when confronted on the issue of my country? Do I believe in "my country, right or wrong"? Of course not. Anyone who knows me is aware of my staunch opposition to any number of decisions which our government makes. In this, I believe that I am in good company...<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">"We must not confuse dissent with disloyalty. When the loyal opposition dies, I think the soul of America dies with it."</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">-Edward R. Murrow<br /><br />"To announce that there must be no criticism of the President , or that we are to stand by the President, right or wrong, is not only unpatriotic and servile, but it is morally treasonable to the American public."</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">-Theodore Roosevelt</span><br /><br />But do I dare agree with everyone, all those who would vilify America, people who as often as not have never been to the States, and will readily admit that I am one of the only people from there that they have ever met? Can I possibly just let these people continue talking at me, haranguing me, <span style="font-style: italic;">blaming </span>me even, for the worlds problems? Am I a failure as a citizen, an American and a patriot if I remain silent? Isn't it sometimes just worthwhile to let an issue drop?<br /><br />The answer is both yes and no. There are some attacks that simply do not warrant a response. When queried by a very drunk man (nationality is unimportant save that he was not from the US) about whether or not I believed that the victims of 9/11 "deserved it", I found it to be such an infuriating, stupid, asinine question that I was at a loss. My first instinct was to fight him, to unleash all of the fury and rage that boiled inside of me to wither his ignorance, to destroy his smug mien. But what good would it have done? After a very long moment, I instead chose to simply walk away from him. Fortunately, the other people sitting around him chose to do the same. I hope that he understood the point.<br /><br />But that is only an extreme example. I have given up counting the times that, after answering the "where are you from" question, I get a knowing look and a "sorry" from the person. As often as not, the person responding in that fashion comes from a country about which I could find cause to say something similar. In fact, there is hardly any country on the planet about which one could not find some cause for criticism.<br /><br />But I don't.<br /><br />I'm Jewish, but when I meet a German I don't immediately write them off as "the country where the Nazi's came from." Yet when I meet people, I'm often instantly treated as a person "from the country who is at war with Iraq" or the country who "is destroying the environment" or the country who is "bullying and policing the world." Do I deny that parts of these statements are true? I do not. But I respond that my country is also the best functioning democracy on Earth. I say that my country provides freedom of speech, freedom of religion, freedom of the press, a government comprised of checks and balances, and that it is elected by the people, <span style="font-style: italic;">every</span> time. When people respond "well we have that too" I can proudly say to them "yes, <span style="font-style: italic;">now</span> you do, but my country was <span style="font-style: italic;">founded</span> on those principles." Maybe those ideals are trampled upon from time to time, and perhaps it doesn't always work perfectly, but what is important is that overall, it <span style="font-style: italic;">does</span> work.<br /><br />So how does all of this add up? Does walking away from an insult to my country make me a coward, or less of a proud citizen? By sometimes firing back do I make things better or worse? Can I consider myself a patriot? To this question I've decided that my answer is: I am half of a patriot.<br /><br />Living in Washington D.C. for the past five and a half years, I've often spent time at the Lincoln Memorial. In fact, I've probably spent more time there than any other single place in the District. In the Lincoln Memorial, on the left side of the building is a stone carving of the Gettysburg Address. I have read this enough times to have committed it to memory, and that memory has served me particularly well while I have been thinking about my status as an American abroad. Two lines of the address have always resonated with me, and I realize now that they, as perfectly as I can envision, describe what it is to be a patriot, anywhere. The lines read:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">"The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced."</span><br /><br />To be patriot is not to argue and fight with people. It is not to squabble over semantics and dispute descriptions and work to confirm or deny stereotypes. I believe that a patriot is a person who cares enough to work to make their country better. It is a person who loves some aspect of where they are from, for whatever reason, to work towards the goal of making that place better, whatever "better" may mean to them. To be patriotic is to <span style="font-style: italic;">do </span>something, not to <span style="font-style: italic;">say </span>something. Later in the Gettysburg address is the following line:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">"...that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion..."</span><br /><br />The last full measure of devotion. That in the end, the devoted were willing to die for their cause.<br /><br />That sounds frightening. It sounds like the things that we hear from suicide bombers and religious radicals, that you would be willing to "die for their cause." But Abraham Lincoln was not talking about a suicide bomber, and he wasn't talking about religion. He was talking about beliefs, and was using the soldiers of the Civil War, both North and South, to demonstrate his point. He is not telling us to throw our own lives onto the great pyre of sacrifice that the Civil war had already exacted. He is saying that from their deaths we should resolve to finish the work that they began, work that they believed enough in to start in the first place. To want to improve where you are from is all well and good, but the patriot is the person who goes from wanting to make a change, to working to make a change.<br /><br />"<span style="font-weight: bold;">Love of country is like love of a woman - he loves her best who seeks to bestow on her the highest good."</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">-Felix Adler</span><br /><br />Thus, to the question "are you a patriot" I have to answer that I have so far fulfilled only half of the requirements. I have a profound desire to see a change in my country, and I have an equally profound desire to be a part of that change. But I haven't started that work yet. I am still out here, still traveling and learning and figuring out why exactly it is even worth the time to make that difference. Soon, I will return to the United States to begin a period in my life during which I hope to learn how exactly I can fulfill the second obligation of a patriot. The obligation of making the change. It is my hope that in some small way due to whatever action I am capable of taking, people will no longer look at an American abroad as someone to be accused, or harassed or vilified, but as a person to be respected, not because of overwhelming might, or global dominance; but because of the wisdom, justice and acceptance that they embody.<br /><br />I believe that it is immensely important for Americans to travel abroad, and to do so with humility, grace, tolerance and passion. There are people throughout the world who know of my homeland only by what they are exposed to through the media, our pop culture and third or fourth hand accounts. These flashes of our country are not enough to help anyone understand what it is that America represents, and it is hard to ignore the fact that some of America's greatest enemies are people who (at least I feel) completely misunderstand our values and ways of life. Diplomatic processes are not the way that impressions change. People meeting people is.<br /><br />So perhaps in the end, I <span style="font-style: italic;">have</span> begun to be a patriot. I have been meeting people from all over the world, and with each interaction, I have given them (what I hope) is a positive impression of my country, a better understanding of who we are, and a glimpse at our potential. Perhaps this has begun a change, if only in those very few people with whom I've had the opportunity to speak. If that is the case, and if I have been able to change their impressions about America for the better even a small amount, then I have at least provisionally earned my title as a <span style="font-style: italic;">patriot</span>, and I intend to continue working to solidify that title as I carry on through life.<br /><b style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></b><span style="font-weight: bold;">"The love of ones country is a splendid thing. But why should love stop at the border?"</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">-Pablo Casals<br /><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;">Next:</span><span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span><font>Cambodia: A difficult reality <span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></span>Norman Henry Pentelovitchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12390155598607641087noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19490432.post-1150870143401954972006-06-20T22:50:00.000-07:002006-06-26T08:27:43.393-07:00The worlds finest, cheapest clothing, Tunnels and Traps and Bullets Oh My!, and a fond farewell to yet another countryThe tourism industry is a great and thriving giant in Vietnam, and not one that slumbers particularly often. Wherever goes a person with a backpack, so goes a guest house employee to attend to them. To be an "independent traveler" in this country is nearly a concept that is being phased out. Every interesting place has been tagged like so many toys in a store and every week seems to be some sort of enormous <span style="font-style: italic;">sale</span>. This is wonderful for the tourist, but a bit of a nuisance for one who tries to separate themselves from that title and the gaping maw of consumerism that it implies. Still, being able to buy an "open" bus ticket that would take me all the way from Hanoi to Ho Chi Minh City (Saigon), during which you can "hop on, and hop off" at 6 different cities along the way, presents itself as a sort of "you'd be really, <span style="font-style: italic;">really</span> dumb not to take this" option for travel throughout the country. Huzzah for progress!<br /><br />So I found myself on a bus with mostly other travelers, headed down to the clothes producing town of Hoi An (a note about Hoi An; If you rearrange the letters, you get "hanoi". This creates more linguistic confusion than you would imagine at first blush). Hoi an is known for one thing and one thing alone: tailors. In this sleepy, quite enjoyable little town, there are roughly 300 tailors to meet your tailoring needs. And apparently, some people's needs are <span style="font-style: italic;">vast</span>. The services provided are almost too fantastic to believe. Want a beautifully tailored, 120 thread wool suit with a silk lining in 3 hours? No problem. 60 Dollars. You can wait til tomorrow? Great! 55 dollars. You can have shoes made with your name and a catchphrase sewn around the sides. You can have gloves, handkerchiefs and scarves made. Or, for the ultimate in luxury, have a tiny Vietnamese woman size you for custom made underwear and socks. 12 dollars for the underwear, 2 for the socks. Guaranteed to fit.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2184.2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2184.2.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Silk worms. Not only do they custom make your clothing, but they <span style="font-style: italic;">grow and make</span> the silk there as well.</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />I didn't want to spend a ton of money. I really didn't. But you start picking fabrics, you start looking through fashion catalogs and then the proprietress tells you that the incredibly cool looking material that you're holding can be turned into a perfectly cut dress shirt in about 2 hours for 10 dollars, and suddenly my credit card seemed to leap from my hand and did the lombada with their reader. Fine. I'd buy a !#@load of clothes.<br /><br />I won't bore you with details, but suffice it to say that if you need a well dressed man to appear with/for you at any social function, I'm your guy. If you see me wearing a suit into a McDonalds it's only because I now have enough suits that I can do things like that and still have reserves enough for a whole April's worth of weddings.<br /><br />The only other notable event that occurred in this town was the following exchange:<br /><br />(Scene: The bars close in Hoi an at midnight, all save one, the Full Moon Bar. This bar is horrifically inconveniently located 20 minutes outside of town. As such, the <span style="font-style: italic;">moto</span> drivers all stand around outside of the local drinking establishments and come bar close, do their best to get you to ride out to this bar with them.)<br /><br />Me: (Yawwwwwn) Okay guys, now what?<br /><br />Moto Driver: Hey! Hey where you go?<br /><br />Me: Dunno, kinda tired<br /><br />Moto Driver: No, not tired! You come to Full Moon bar! Very good!<br /><br />Me: Eh, maybe. I'll see<br /><br />Moto Driver: No, you must come. There will be...MAXIMUM DANCING (thrust hips and waves hands around)<br /><br />Me: Wow. Maximum dancing. Sold. Lets ride.<br /><br />I mean come on, could you turn down MAXIMUM DANCING? Be honest with yourself, you couldn't.<br /><br />Unfortunately, the MAXIMUM DANCING had to occur <span style="font-style: italic;">sans</span> benefit of music, as by the time we arrived the power had gone out and the only light was provided by candles. We accommodated this problem by getting a group of people together and for some reason singing the theme song from <span style="font-style: italic;">Baywatch</span> over and over and over.....and over....and over....<br /><br />Weird night.<br /><br />The next bus stop was in Nha Trang...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2225.1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2225.1.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Owner of my guest house in Nha Trang. She was exactly like my Grandma, except Vietnamese. Seriously, she was awesome</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />...a town which is very well known as being one of the most popular with tourists, and not always the nice kind. It is an inevitable fact of travel that you will come across things which people do which disgust you. It may be what foods they eat or their hygiene or something else, but eventually, you will find something that you don't particularly like to hear about other people doing. Such as pedophilia. A bit of a heavy topic to be sure, but in Nha Trang, it is one of the most prevalent problems in terms of the tourists. Nearly always men, but of any age, race, and nationality, Nha Trang has earned itself a reputation over the years as being a prime area to engage in underage sex tourism. The government of Vietnam is well aware of this, yet is also aware of how much money such tourism brings in. It's not that they condone it, but they are certainly not doing very much to curtail it.<br /><br />Enter "Crazy Kim." Crazy Kim is 5 feet, 7 inches of whup-ass, and she reserves this power exclusively for child-predators. She is a Vietnamese-American who returned to Vietnam several decades ago, and, upon finding the sort of scum that you can only really imagine pervading Nha Trang, she decided to do something about it. It started off with her simply watching the beaches (where the predators usually troll for young children to sleep with), and in some cases following them back to hotel rooms, getting into the rooms and kicking the living shit out out of the perpetrators. In recent years, Kim has opened a self-titled bar, which not only is one of the largest and best run bars that I encountered in Vietnam, but also holds classes every day for the poor Vietnamese children to come to to learn English. She continues her pedophile ass-kicking crusade through public awareness, particularly through T-shirts emblazoned with her logo "Hands off our kids!", and talking to law enforcement all the time to get and give updates. The capture of Gary Glitter, the infamous British ex-rock star who was caught in Vietnam on a child-sex mission was thanks in part to Crazy Kim's assistance.<br /><br />I relate the above for two reasons. First, because it was something that was very in your face and gave a definitive character to Nha Trang, and second, because I know that many of you who read this site are travelers yourselves, so should you find some time to hang out in Nha Trang, you can sign up to teach English classes (any English speaker can do it), you can talk to Kim and ask how to help, or you can simply buy a t-shirt, the proceeds of which go to help continue her fight. It's a worthwhile cause, and it's a thankless cause. She can use all the help that she can get.<br /><br />I spent several nights in Nha Trang, doing my best to avoid engaging in any activity that smacked of <span style="font-style: italic;">culture</span>, then moseyed on down to Ho Chi Minh City, also known as Saigon (and hereafter referred to as HCMC).<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2241.2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2241.2.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Aidan, Lorraine and Zorro...I mean Normo</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2237.0.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2237.0.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Betcha can't guess what this is....guess yet? (see next picture)</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2242.1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2242.1.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">An aquarium! (No seriously, it wasn't even a pirate aquarium. Somone just decided "hey, I want to build an enormous pirate ship out of paper maiche and stone. Hmmm, but it needs to make money...Eureka! Fill it with fish). Not particularly logical, but cool nonetheless</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2233.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2233.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Day boat trip. Home made drum set. Drinking mulberry wine in the South China Sea. Ahhh...the tough life.</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />HCMC is as bustling and wild as Hanoi was, albeit with slightly wider streets.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2322.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2322.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">...and Burritos. "Why did he take a picture of his Burrito?" You may ask, or even "Why is he capitalizing 'Burritos'?"...Because it was fantastic, that is why. Plus, how often do you get a Burrito served on a banana leaf? </span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Unfortunately, these streets seemed to be just as full of zooming <span style="font-style: italic;">motos</span> as the old city in Hanoi was. Crossing the street was just as dangerous but it took twice as long. Oy.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2328.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2328.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Also Dragons. Dragons would eat you if you crossed the road too slowly. Big hassle.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2325.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2325.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">This is a park. No clever comment here, but isn't it nice?<br /><br /></span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />As in the rest of Vietnam, the Vietnamese people themselves were nothing short of very very lovely. Really, nothing short of that <span style="font-style: italic;">at all</span>. I was directed in turns to the National Palace (not particularly impressive), the Art Museum (mix between impressive and really not impressive art)<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2268.0.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 162px; height: 216px;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/320/IMG_2268.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">This is the courtyard at the National Art Museum. Yes, <span style="font-style: italic;">of course </span>it's a badminton court.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2293.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2293.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Cau Dai temple. So weird as to completely defy explanation.</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2304.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2304.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Essentially, they believe that God has spoken to man 3 times, once with Jesus, once with Moses, and recently with Victor Hugo of all people. I don't get it either. Very nice people, very cool outfits</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />...and the War Museum<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2271.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2271.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:78%;">I was told that this was a large eggplant, I think that the sign-writer from the Hanoi Hilton had something to do with it...</span><br /></span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2273.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2273.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:78%;">"We hold these truths to be self evident, that all men are created equal...etc."<br />-The Declaration of independence<br />Source: "A History of the United States" Houghton-Mifflin, 1966<br /><br />This quote, from one of our own most important national documents, led off the exhibit about American atrocities. This did not make my time at the museum any easier<br /></span><br />This museum deserves a note or two, as it will remain in my memory as one of the most emotionally grueling and vivid museums that I have ever been to. If I had to put it on an emotional par, I would probably choose to compare it to the Holocaust Museum in Washington DC. Though less well funded and organized, there is a certain kind of raw feeling that goes along with a visit. The most vivid exhibits are a massive photo exhibition composed of exposures from photographers who died during the conflict, and a series of pictures of the victims of various painful realities of war. Of the former group, what I found myself stumbling teary-eyed into a bathroom after was the series of photos by a woman photographer named Dickey Chapelle. Her work most often showed a very human side of very tired soldiers. Medics attending to a wound, two GI's, both heavily bandaged smoking cigarettes etc. What made this section so moving were the last two photographs. The second to last showed Ms. Chapelle in her younger years and the caption told about how it was her favorite picture of herself. The last photo was of the same woman, visibly bleeding on a battlefield strewn with other bodies. There is a helicopter in the background and soldiers in motion all throughout the frame. The dominant figure of the shot is a priest, standing over the woman and giving her her last rites. You can see the pain on her face, and the caption states simply that she passed away in the helicopter on the way back to the base. It took me about 10 minutes before I could carry on down the line.<br /><br />The latter group of photographs, those of the victims of the various war happenings were equally discomfiting and moving. Included were the two Pulitzer prize winning photos, one of the mother swimming through a river clutching her children to her, and the other of the little naked girl covered in napalm, running straight at the camera. Again, some time was needed before I could resume perusing the exhibits.<br /><br />I don't know very much about photography, so I'm really not a good judge of which photographs had good composition, details, clarity etc. What I am capable of judging is what emotions were elicited from me by these pictures, and without any hesitation I can say that I was deeply, and irrevocably <span style="font-style: italic;">moved</span> by the museum. Though these are pictures that could be found with a simple Google search, there was an immediacy to seeing them in the context of that particular museum in that particular place that cannot be achieved through the filter of the internet. Thus I have not tried to reproduce the experience here, choosing instead to merely described my response to it.<br /><br />An important part of a visit to HCMC is to visit the Cu Chi tunnels, in which Vietnamese guerilla soldiers lived and fought during the Vietnam War. The ownership of the tunnels is incredibly confusing, as at different points they belonged to both the North Vietnamese, and the South. This means that at different times, there were American soldiers fighting <span style="font-style: italic;">in </span>the tunnels against soldiers, and at other times fighting <span style="font-style: italic;">from</span> the tunnels. Of course, the fighting in the tunnels is the case that gets highlighted. Upon arriving at the tunnels, all guests are immediately sat down in a dingy room and shown what has to be the most blatant propaganda nonsense video that is still used on a consistent basis today. The main subject of the video was a young woman who distinguished herself (and earned a medal) as the "Best Killer of Americans" in that part of Vietnam.<br /><br />This made me slightly uncomfortable.<br /><br />Carrying on, we found ourselves following the guide out into the "jungle" (very sanitized for tourists at this point). Here, the guide hopped down into a tiny (read: <span style="font-style: italic;">tiiiiiny</span>) hole in the ground.<br /><br />Guide: "Too small for Americans. You (pointing at me, having already been identified as such), try to get in!<br /><br />I tried.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2309.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2309.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Popping up out of the tunnels. I am sneaky.<br /><br /></span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />I got stuck. I bascially had to force the hole open wider to get out. Point taken. We were then shown the various traps and tricks that the soldiers used to ensnare unwitting aggressors. I only have the one picture below, but the rest were equally horrific.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2312.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2312.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Viet Cong foot trap. This would hurt.</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Then it was down to the tunnels!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2313.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2313.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">I really did not fit in the tunnels very well. Oh, and since there was no light, this was how I decided to make life harder on myself by blinding my eyes with my own flash. Brilliant!</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />At the end of it all, the big finish so to speak, was that you could go down to their shooting range and fire off some rounds from guns used during the war. AK-47's, M-16's, and even an M-60 machine gun, which is the most Rambo looking thing you could ever hope to see. It was such a great deal, that bullets were <span style="font-style: italic;">only</span> 18,000 dong apiece. About $1.20.<br /><br />So did I gleefully blow away some targets? I did not. I couldn't quite (and still really can't) put my finger on my objection to the activity, but there was a smacking of impropriety that I couldn't reconcile. It may have been all the talk about killing Americans, the traps, the general knowledge of what the place represented, or something deeper than all of that, but I simply couldn't find the fun or amusement in shooting a gun purely for sport in a place where so much gun shooting for other reasons, none of them very pleasant, had occurred. Call me crazy, still can't quite figure it out.<br /><br />The final phase of my time in Vietnam was as a passenger on a boat, meandering through the waterways of the Mekong Delta. The Delta is not as interesting a place as I was led to believe. The boat ride is one of the big hyped-up things that all the guest houses try to book you on, and since the ride would take me all the way to Phnom Penh in Cambodia, I figured that I'd let the buses survive without me for just <span style="font-style: italic;">one </span>trip and travel in da boat. Though I haven't acknowledged except really to point out the ways in which it has inconvenienced me, the Mekong river is very much a part of the life of anyone who lives or travels in SE Asia. It is the principal source of fresh water for many remote areas, provides irrigation measures, and represents the food and a livelihood through fishing for many people. As a traveler, it is a kind of flowing companion, always accessible one way or another, and ultimately as important to the success of your travels as it is to the success of the communities which it supports. Throughout the different countries that the Mekong passes, it changes in nature. In Laos it was narrow and quick, a slicing current hurrying boats along steeply banked rivers, enclosed with ivy hills. Here in Vietnam, it looks much more like a major waterway, a Mississippi or a Nile, than simply a navigable river.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2376.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2376.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />The "tour" that I was on included a visit to a coconut candy factory (oh my was that good candy!) and some assorted other activities...<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2361.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2361.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Such as boat riding...</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2356.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2356.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">...and hat wearing!</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2357.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2357.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Our guide rode comfortably...</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />After passing though massive bamboo stands in a swampy type area, we got back to our main boat and started the trip up the Mekong to the border with Cambodia.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2341.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2341.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">"...3 stories, 2 bedrooms, HUGE backyard swimming pool..."</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Our last stop before the long-haul 5 hour ride commenced was a fruit market in <span style="font-style: italic;">Unpronouncable Vietnamese Town</span>. We ate some lychee and dragon fruit from grubby stalls among hundreds of locals, foul smelling cattle and naked children. Business as usual for me these last few months. The border crossing went smoothly, the only incident of note involving myself, a group of children begging for money and candy, and my realization that 1. I could lift the children high into the air with little, to no effort and 2. That the roofs of the huts surrounding the border area were only about 5-7 feet high. Thus, several precocious children found themselves stranded on rooftops for a few minutes while I let them think twice before going after the contents of my pockets again. When I got them down, I was assaulted with big smiles, a wave and even a handshake, then they went scampering off. My time in Vietnam was ended, and I can say without qualification that it was my favorite country to visit in South-East Asia, for the reasons enumerated above and others which simply cannot be translated into text. Should I ever have the chance to return, I would jump at it like low-hanging fruit, when I am hungry, and it's hot out, and I really feel a...well a <span style="font-style: italic;">hankering</span> for fruit. In other words, I would seize it.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />Next: </span>Patriotism, America and independent travel. Can they work together?<br /><span style="font-size:78%;"></span>Norman Henry Pentelovitchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12390155598607641087noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19490432.post-1149574530031964812006-06-05T22:53:00.000-07:002006-06-19T08:36:49.963-07:00Destinations of an absolutely opposite nature: The balmy heat of Halong Bay, and the cooling chill of the highlands of SapaHaving enjoyed the non-stop hustle of Hanoi for any number of days, it became time to move on to different things. That "different thing" firstly turned out to be a trip to North-Eastern Vietnam, to a place called Halong Bay.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2008.1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2008.1.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Hmmm...which to choose?</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Halong Bay is also known as "Bay of the Descending Dragon" due to a legend about the place, which goes something like this:<br /><br />"Long ago when their forefathers were fighting foreign invaders from the north, the gods from heaven sent a family of dragons to help defend their land. This family of dragons descended upon what is now Ha Long bay and began spitting out jewels and jade. Upon hitting the sea, these jewels turned into the various islands and islets dotting the seascape and formed a formidable fortress against the invaders. The locals were able to keep their land safe and formed what is now the country of Vietnam. The Dragon family fell so much in love with this area for its calm water and for the reverence of the people of Vietnam that they decided to remain on earth."<br /><br />So basically, we were traveling amongst dragon loogies that were formerly precious jewels. Bummer about the transformation.<br /><br />Treasure hunting aside, the place is magnificent.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2026.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2026.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">This view really, really doesn't suck</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2023.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2023.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Enormous granite outceroppings...<span style="font-style: italic;">again?</span> Yawwwwn...</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2020.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2020.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />There are roughly 1500 islands, exploding up out of water so blue and clear that you expect to see birds flying around in it. Each droplet of an island is such an alarming green against that brilliant blue that they seem to be emeralds set into a vast sapphire block. To get to Halong Bay, myself and my companions who I'd been on/off traveling with since our Mekong River difficulties got on a bus, that took us to a port, where we got onto a boat. Wary, as my luck with these people and boats was <em>catastrophic</em> at best, I boarded the three story high vessel, glancing hastily around for life preservers and escape pods. Finding none, I began to worry, but was reassured by the legend that Dragons wouldn't allow anyone to drown there, and that they would come to save you if there was any danger. I think that someone told me this just to make me feel better, though how the idea of being plucked out of the ocean by an enormous set of dragon talons is supposed to be comforting is beyond me.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2025.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2025.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">The dragon usually hides behind one of these two islands. If you look closely, you can just see his tail sticking out from behind the left hand one. Really, it's totally there</span><br /><br /><br /><br />Anyway, we were off. The plan being to spend one night on the boat and another night on the island of Cat Ba, the largest inhabited island in the area. I cannot recall if in my ramblings I have discussed my proclivity for flinging myself off of high things into water. I really, <em>really </em>love doing this. Just point me towards a cliff, rope swing, ledge, whatever, and if it looks deep enough, I'm jumping. The thrill of being in the air and falling for so long that you can think to yourself "damn, this is really high" then scream, then have time for a <em>second </em>thought of "Damn! This is probably going to hurt my feet huh?" is unparalleled in my experience. And you know that it's high when you can complete both thoughts before crashing loudly and splashily into a 10 meters of clean, ice blue water.<br /><br />All of the above is relevant, because by the time that the boat had slowed down enough to drop anchor, I had already leaped headfirst off of the third floor deck. In case any of you are unfamiliar with my athletic history, nowhere in the compliation of <em>Norm's End</em><em>eavors </em>would you find "proficiency at diving." One big headache later, I decided that perhaps next time I would enter the water feet first, as is my custom. We spent several hours jumping of of the boat, lazily paddling around in the water, and attempting to "board and conquer", to absolutely none of the crews amusement. Arrr....<br /><br />After a visit to some caves that looked as if they were carved out of molded plastic and were the set of some crazy movie about aliens and zombies and stuff, we returned to the boat to find our way to the kayaks.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2009.1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2009.1.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2012.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2012.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2011.0.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2011.0.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2014.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2014.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2010.0.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2010.0.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />As it turns out, the kayaks were stored at a fish farm.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2022.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2022.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Despite the lead in above, this is not a picture of the fish farms. I didn't take one. This'll have to suffice.</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Halong Bay is an interesting place for any number of reasons, not the least of which is the manner in which people live there. Imagine, if you would be so kind, an entire neighborhood of single family homes, clapboard and shingled with tile and corrugated tin, floating peacefully on a gently rolling current, kept cool in the shadow of a massive rising cliff face, overhung with weeping willow-esque branches and high standing, high branched trees. These homes all float due to dozens of enormous plastic jars and containers, lashed toghether under the very floorboards of the homes and all of the homes are attached to each other by lengths of rope. Gypsies and traveling caravans have <em>nothing</em> on the uniqueness of life that these people have created. For the most part, the homes have a sort of loosely understood "backyard area" in which there are perhaps four rows of 2x4's arranged into squares, under which hang nets. These are the fish farms, and if you have ever eaten "fresh sea fish" that wasn't native to your area, there is a reasonable chance that it came from here. Fish is one of Vietnam's biggest exports and those fish come from fish farms scattered all throughout the country.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2030.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2030.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Pieter, Mathias and Norm, kickin' it on some dragon loogies</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Getting off of the boat and onto the floating 2x4's was challenging enough in and of itself. Doing so after looking into one of the cages and seeing enormous, shark-like fish swimming around in what seemed to be a state of high agitation made the task all the more difficult. Oh, and there were dogs. As having an electronic security system to protect your home and fish out here would be non-feasible for a myriad of reasons, not the least of which being the lack of electricity and the time it would take for a rent-a-cop to get a boat out from the mainland, home security is provided by dogs. Big dogs. Really, really big dogs. As soon as our boat pulled up, two of the dogs came dashing down the planks, but didn't bark. The other two dogs split up on different beams and held back, just watching. I'm not sure when exactly someone figured out how to teach military tactics to canines, but I was impressed. In a supremely stupid and unthinking gesture, I reached out to give one of the dogs a friendly pat on the head, you know, to let him know that we were "a-okay." Maybe all our earlier pirate posturing hadn't worn off yet, but the bark/growl/snap/lunge that followed my efforts were enough to see me leap backwards about 5 feet and nearly fall into the big shark pit (which wasn't a shark pit, it was some other fish that apaprently wouldn't eat me. Whatever, they looked like sharks). Convinced that it was time to get into kayaks and get <em>far the hell</em> away, I lowered myself in, gripped the paddle and took off.<br /><br />There is something very humbling about being in a tiny, easily swamped boat, paddling hard against waves and current, and having the sun completely obscured by the rising <em>karsts</em>. Coming around the corner of an island, the sun is suddenly at full capacity, lighting up everything around you and reflecting gloroiusly off of all that surrounds you. As previously mentioned, the water is nearly perfectly clear, allowing you to see down through the sea perhaps 10-12 meters, 10-12 meters of absolutely empty, microorganism flecked water. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2032.0.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2032.0.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">If you have to squint to look at this picture, just try and imagine how bright it was to be there. Yeah, thats right. Pretty damn bright. (I'm sorry, my captioning skills seem to be lacking right now)</span><br /><br /><br /><br />It was a hard choice between staying in the kayak to get to the beach that was our destination, or repeatedly flinging yourself into the water. I managed to supress my baser instincts for the duration, but only just.<br /><br />The rest of my time in Halong Bay saw the whole crew on Cat Ba island, living it up in the extremely toursity town and catching a cold in an air-conditioned room (only the second "air con" room that I've stayed in in over 4 months. Both times I've come down with the sniffles. Apparently I'm no longer able to handle <span style="font-style: italic;">comfort</span>).<br /><br />Upon returning to Hanoi, my compatriots elected to head down South, a decision that I was as yet unable to make, because of the wonderful things that I had heard about Nothern Vietnam, namely the small border town of Sapa.<br /><br />A few crazy <span style="font-style: italic;">bia hoi</span> filled nights later, I arrived via overnight train into the small, but rapidly growing (read: tourism has found this place in a <span style="font-style: italic;">big</span> way) city of Sapa.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2099.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2099.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Descending view of the rice paddies. </span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />The city itself can be walked end-to-very-steep-end in about 45 minutes. However, in those 45 minutes you will encounter people hailing from no less than 3 separate hill tribes, scores of travelers and jewelery makers, and a thriving open air meat market at which you can by fish the size of a cows leg, and a severed cows leg the size of you. It's quite an experience.<br /><br />The main activity in Sapa is hill-tribe trekking, and there are about 8 gazillion companies all vying for your money. Feeling a bit pressured due to the extremely subtle sales techniques ("You come with me, you bring money (tugs sleeve)...we go now!) I set off walking on my own.<br /><br />I love mountain towns. I really do. I think that the same elements that draw people to so called "chilled out surf towns" are the same elements that draw me to hard-to-get-to, often cold, places. The air doesn't smell like smog, the people are generally friendlier, you only have to open your eyes and glance <span style="font-style: italic;">slightly</span> upwards to catch a breathtaking view, and noone finds it odd if you just decide to go off walking into the surrounding hills for a few days. A deep breath of mountain air flavored with noodle soup later, I was off walking to the nearby Hmong village of Cat Cat. Despite my previous culinary inquiries, I decided to not push my luck by asking about the naming of the village. After an hour walk down winding, steeply switch-backed roads, I arrived in the vast, stepped rice paddies of Cat Cat.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2091.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 199px; height: 150px;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2091.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">I did ALL of this in one day. I am very efficient.</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2094.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2094.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />The ingenuity that rice producing peoples bring to their endeavors is nothing short of remarkable. as each plateau must be filled to the top with an exact proportion of water, an overage causing the plants to drown and too little water causing themn to wither, yet the most sophisticated piece of machinery that I saw employed belonged to this guy...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2086.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2086.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">John Deere hasn't <span style="font-style: italic;">quite</span> made it out here yet...</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />The water levels remain constant regardless of flow, simply by having carefully placed and sized holes in the walls of the paddies. While marveling at the ecological efficiency that had clearly been handed down as innate knowledge through generations of farmers, you couldn't help but notice the many interestingly dressed children that swarmed you as you walked. You couldn't miss them really, because they spend most day light hours trying to get you to buy small bracelets, shirts and necklaces that they have woven. The ethnic group doing the most selling were the Red Tzao people, who dressed very distinctively indeed.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2127.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2127.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Fun fact: The only time that these people weren't smiling was for this picture. I don't know why, but they refused to look happy in photographs. Maybe they are allergic to the flash?<br /></span><br /><br /><br />They were overall, a lovely group of people (all women whom I met now that I think about it), some of whom took me into their homes and fed me some sort of noodle and chicken soup. Not quite how grandma makes it, but good nonetheless.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2090.0.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2090.0.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Even in the day time, the super-ninjas of Sapa remain elusive. Somewhere in town, there were four completely naked guys with ninja stars trying to remain inconspicuous.</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />The following day saw me hiring a 4x4 and a driver, and basically just tooling around in the mountains, occasionally stopping in a small village to play with the children and be hassled to buy things. Getting anywhere in this area took quite a while, so it was only towards the end of the day that I made it to "the waterfall."<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2133.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2133.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Guess how it got its name...?</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />After doing some calculations and realizing that 1. I am bad at math, 2. I am bad at planning and 3. I only had about 2.5 weeks left on my Vietnam visa, I reluctantly hightailed it back to Hanoi, carrying on to the South of Vietnam.<br /><br />The disparity of the places that I described above only serves to highlight how incredible a place Vietnam is. You can go from clean blue ocean, to high blue mountain skies as fast as you can make the decision to do so. And as I was to see, all of this contrast was merely a prologue to what I later experienced during the rest of my time in Vietnam.<br /><br />Next: Why you shouldn't even consider buying your clothes from anyplace except Vietnam ever again, I arrive in Saigon and madness ensues, and sober reflections on a terrible period in recent history.Norman Henry Pentelovitchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12390155598607641087noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19490432.post-1148734164125104532006-05-27T05:09:00.000-07:002006-06-03T08:09:27.576-07:00Back in 'Nam:(As my first two weeks in Vietnam saw me arrive in Hanoi, travel North, return to Hanoi, travel North-West, then return again to Hanoi and finally start the journey South, I have compressed all of my time in Hanoi proper into this writing).<br /><br />Things that I've been tempted to start this post with:<br /><br />"Gooooooooooooood morning Vietnaaaaaaaaaaam"<br /><br />"I love the smell of napalm in the morning, and banana pancakes..."<br /><br />"...so back in 'Nam..."<br /><br />Instead, I'll simply start with "Hello everyone, I'm in Vietnam now." Not as interesting, but sure is informative!<br /><br />Since I'm sick and tired of describing my times on buses (much as i'm sick and tired of being on busses) I will merely relate the statistics affiliated with my travel between the capitol city of Vientiane in Laos and the capitol city of Hanoi in Vietnam.<br /><br />Time bus scheduled to leave: <strong>7PM</strong><br />Time bus scheduled to arrive: <strong>7PM</strong><br />For those not keeping track: <strong>That's 24 hours on a bus</strong><br />Time that I had two seats to myself until: <strong>7:28pm</strong><br />Time bus actually departed: <strong>7:29pm</strong><br />Time bus arrived at border:<strong> 4AM</strong><br />Time border opens: <strong>7AM </strong><br />Amount of time spent wondering why we just didn't leave at 10PM: <strong>Lots </strong><br />Time spent sleeping on a loading dock near border and getting left behind by bus: <strong>2 hours</strong> Amount of time to get through Laos border, walk to Vietnam border, get passport stamped and pay the special 'foreigner weekend fee": <strong>2 hours</strong><br />Size of woman sitting next to me on bus: <strong>Quite large</strong><br />Temperature outside of bus: <strong>Warm</strong><br />Temperature inside of bus: <strong>Broiler</strong><br />Length of time A/C worked: <strong>8.3 minutes</strong><br />Amount of phyiscal contact that is preferable in these conditions: N<strong>one, just none</strong><br />Amount of physical contact I was forced to endure due to womans size: E<strong>xtensive </strong><br />Size of seat, and amount of leg room: <strong>tiny, negative (respectively)</strong><br />Number of beers that I drank when I finally arrived in Hanoi: <strong>Around 10</strong><br />Hangover: <strong>Awful<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_1967.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_1967.jpg" border="0" /></a> </strong><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">First view of Vietnam, just over the Laos border</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />And that's all that I'll say about it. It was miserable, I survived and I got where I needed to be. Can't ask much for for 12 dollars. Well, you can, but you won't get it.<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_1968.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_1968.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Boy, that was a fun 23 hours</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Vietnam is amazing. The blatant and in-your-face communism, the colors and the speed, the motos (mopeds) of which there are said to be some 5 million, the tragic history and the unbelievable pace of development, particularly in the toursim industry, it's all so different from where I'd been that for the first day, I just wandered around in a daze trying to take it all in. This actually was not such a bright thing to do, as crossing a street in Vietnam requires the prescience of Nostradamus and the agility of Batman and Catwoman's adolescent gymnast daughter. What I'm saying is that you need your wits about you.<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_1974.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_1974.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Yay! Communism!</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />During my more than 7 days in Hanoi (non-consecutive, explained in top parenthetical), I spent most of my time in the "Old quarter" and around Huan Kiem Lake, which was South-East of that area. The Old Quarter of Hanoi is what you would get if a group of people thought to themselves "hey, we'll never need more than two horses to pass each other at one time right? Okay great, lets make all the streets 6 feet wide, have sidewalks just wide enough for our tiny feet and lets have those streets have the appearance of a grid, but really meander aimlessly back and forth so that anyone not familiar with it gets hopelessly lost within 10 seconds." I'm not sure if this conversation actually happened at a city council level, or if they just let a child draw with a piece of charcoal and went with that. Either way, it's a cramped, tree-overhung, loud, wonderful area and you could easily spend much longer there than I did<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_1997.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_1997.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">My cyclo driver. His name was Hank. Those are my sunglasses he's wearing</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />What is particularly unique about the Old Quarter is that if you take a moment to collate the overload of sensory input, you notice that each street has its own unofficial trade that everyone on the street is engaged in. For example: you may be walking along and realize that on either side of you, everyone is fixing motos (which, by the way, seems to be a national past-time, there are so many that everyone has one, and everyone knows how to fix them). There is banging and yelling and brilliant blinding blue sparks shooting up from welders torches and happy little red and gold firecracker colors exploding from grinding wheels. As you walk further, you realize that there seems to be no end to the noise, so you turn right. Ahh better! It's quieter and you can hear yourself think. Then (if you're me) you get excited, because this is the toy street.<br /><br />Yes, thats right, a toy street.<br /><br />This is a street on which every stall, store and child on a bike is selling plastic dolls, big wheels, Legos, strange anonymous looking robot things that come as part of a set of 8 million complementary parts and a 4,000 year old backstory. It's a veritable profusion of playthings and I spent a great deal of time there. There are also stationary streets, pants promenades, tank top tunnels, ball game boulevards, and underwear alleys. At each corner, there are the small plastic stool and table combinations (always blue or red) on which sit dozens of people around steaming bowls of pho (noodle soup) with everything from chicken to dog inside of it (yes, Vietnamese people eat dog, and it is not like a "once in a while" kind of thing). This is a city as vibrant as any I've ever been in, and I was never far from someone hawking icecream and noodles and photocopies of popular books and wanting to change my money and take me on moto and cyclo rides and just speak English with me.<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2005.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2005.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">These kids were real dissapointed that I can't break dance. I promised them that I'd learn and come back to teach them my hip-happenin' moves. They looked puzzled and left</span><br /><br /><br /><br />Of course, Vietnam is not all about fun and games, it's also about learning something (i.e. being subjected to ridiculous propaganda) and Hanoi provided a number of such activities. Most striking were a visit to the former "Hanoi Hilton" and to Ho Chi Minh's mauseoleum.<br /><br />The Hanoi Hilton gained infamy during the Vietnam war for being one of the most brutal POW camps in recent world history. Going in, I didn't exactly expect to find a bastion of impartiality. Nor did I particualrly expect to be bowled over by their honesty at the treatment that American prisoners of war received at the hands of their captors. My lack-of-expectations were not exceeded.<br /><br />Hoa Lo prison (its formal name) was originally built by the French, back when they did all of South-East Asia a <em>big </em>favor by colonizing it.<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2144.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2144.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Weren't the French nice?</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />By no means was this prison anything other than awful, as the French used it largely to perfect newer and more terrible forms of torture, coerce confessions and ultimately to make sure that their guillotine never was lacking for company (sound familiar to anywhere else in the world...Iraq....). As such, while wandering through, a visitor is witness to any number of awful photographs, recounting of statistics and full sized mannequins chained to walls who have painted blood dripping from their chafed feet. Quite a sight. Still, as I walked around, I couldn't help but continue to glance up above me, waiting for that enormous, god-sized "other shoe" to drop.<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2155.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2155.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Have you ever been around a guillotine up close? The thing still had <em>blood stains</em>. Not too pleasant</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />And drop it did. It fell upon me like some great winged boot of <em>irony</em> cast down from up on high, right from the very top of Mt. Revisionist History. The "American Pilots" section of the museum occupied two rooms, two rooms stuffed full of the accountrements of American POW's lives in the camp. Most prominently displayed were Senator John McCain's entire flight suit, survival kit and even pieces of his plane. This exhibit thrust out into the center of one of the rooms, so that it was literally impossible to miss it, and it's implied message: "Even the mighty fall, we, in our benevolence had one of your people who is now a US Senator and we released him back to you safe and sound. Aren't we powerful? Aren't we kind?"<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2156.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2156.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Not exactly a bright cheery smiley face</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Aren't we full of s*#!?<br /><br />I feel that it is worth reproducing, in its entirety, the sign that was posted outside of these particular exhibits. The picture is a bit tough to read.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><strong>"From August 5, 1963 to January 24, 1973, US Government carried out two destruction wars by Air and Navy against North Vietnam. The Nothern Army and people had brought down thousands of aircrafts, captured hundreds of American pilots. Part of these pilots were detained in Hoa Lo prison by our Ministry of Interior. Though having committed untold crimes on our people, but American pilots suffered no revenge once they were captured and detained. Instead, they were well treated with adequate food, clothing and shelter according to the provisions of Paris Agreement, our government had in March 1973, returned all captured pilots to the US Government. Pictures in this exhibition room show how American pilots had their life in Hoa Lo Prison (whole quote <em>sic</em>)."<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2157.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2157.jpg" border="0" /></a></strong></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">To give the benefit of the doubt, maybe whoever translated this just put a <em>really </em>biased view on it. So it's the <em>translators</em> fault. Uhh huhhh...</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiight...the pictures all over the rooms portrayed the pilots playing ping-pong, cooking fresh food, writing in journals and, in one picture that was horrifying in its out-of-placeness, a group of five pilots apparently laughing uproariously at something that a Vietnamese soldier had said. The soldier has his rifle pointed vaguely in the direction of the pilots, and the boots of several more people can be seen around the periphery of the picture.<br /><br />It is of course the perogative of a country to remember their history however they wish, as well as to portray it in the light that is most beneficial to them. Certainly the "history" that most American school children learn during their formative years, as well as the museums they attend, and the movies they see are heavily influenced by what our country concieves of as "the truth." Without getting into a metaphysical conversation about the historical context of "truth", suffice it to say that one would be hard pressed to find as <em>extreme </em>a bent on the history that we present to our yearning masses. Partial and biased it may be, but out and out lying is harder to find. I think that we prefer subtlety.<br /><br />Anywho, the museum left me feeling a bit out of sorts (a feeling that I would later come to experience particularly strongly in Saigon) and inexplicably upset about the treatment that both our soldiers, and our history had recieved at the hands of this communist government. What tempered that feeling was largely the knowledge that it was not a war that had much to do with us, that, if given a moment to think about it, it would be very easy to see American pilots as great and terrible criminals raining down death and destruction on innocents. If this was the point that was presented, I think that I would have felt more sympathetic, however it was the notion that "the Americans were so evil and we were so good" when any number of substantiated accounts point to just the opposite having been true, that left me unsettled.<br /><br />Moving on, I found myself at the Ho Chi Minh Mauseoleum.<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2140.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2140.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Yup, understated and subtle, that's <em>exactly</em></span><em> </em><span style="font-size:78%;">how I'd describe it too!</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />What is rather ironic about the place, is that in his will, Ho Chi Minh specifically requested that he be cremated. Not one to be deterred by the final wishes of their most beloved leader, the government instead decided to erect an enormous, grey structure, an edifice dedicated to ..."austerity, plainness, communism and humility." I'm not sure what a three story high, solid granite and marble building and roughly 12 acres of surrounding land, all to serve as a shrine to a single, annually re-embalmed body says about "humility and austerity" but it was interesting nonetheless. As you enter (and when I say "you" I mean me and about 1000 Vietnamese schoolchildren, I was the only white guy that I saw the whole time), you are passed through three different security checkpoints, where things such as car keys, pens and pins on hats are summarily removed by stern-faced guards. You then get into a line. This line stretches on and on and as they are apparently used to the crowds, there is a little canopy that runs over the length of the line. After about 20 minutes, the line moves enough so that you can get into the mauseoleum proper. Then the real security begins. Vietnamese soldiers, dressed in that particular shade of green that defies my ability to describe it except to say that it is a violent, <em>frightening</em> green, line the walls, one every 10 feet or so. Each has a gun on his hip and a very firm stare. As you pass, your pockets are stared at, your hands are watched, and should you falter or even pause, a voice reminds you to keep moving, sometimes with the assistance of a little push. A man in front of me (Vietnamese) had 5 separate guards stop him on the way up, as they had noticed a<em> very </em>slight bulge in his front pocket. This turned out to be a pacifier for the baby in his arms.<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2143.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 194px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 148px" height="177" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/320/IMG_2143.jpg" width="246" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">There is no way to take a non-awkward picture in this setting. For the record, this photo was snapped by a very accomodating soldier, who had to set down his rifle to take it. </span><br /><br /><br /><br />Ol' Ho himself was quite a sight. He didn't look so much <em>human </em>as like a <em>terrifying mannequin, </em>albeit a very lifelike mannequin. There were probably 15 to 20 guards in this room, and during the 45 seconds of time in which I was herded through, not one of them moved a muscle. You can't stop to look, and you <em>certainly</em> can't take a picture as your camera was appropriated long ago. It was a very strange experience, looking into the dead face of a man whose picture hangs in nearly every home and business in the whole of the country. The rumor is that they re-embalm him every year, and that eventually there just won't be anything left to work with.<br /><br />Morbidity aside, it was quite amazing to see how much this man is still revered by his country-people. They love him. It would take a truly brave soul to speak out against any thing that the man ever did, be it run over a frog on his bike or spitting in public. To the Vietnamese, the guy can do no wrong (well, in the North at least).<br /><br />Hanoi also boasts quite a night life, with a profusion of establishments serving "Bia Hoi." Bia Hoi, for lack of a better description, is disgusting. It tastes like what beer would taste like if you gave a home brewing kit to someone who has never had a beer and told them to get to work. The catch is, it costs 2000 dong per glass. In Vietnam, 1 US dollar is equal to 16,000 dong. Thus, 8 beers for a dollar.<br /><br />8 beers. One dollar. Shocking idn't it?<br /><br />Given the above description, why would anyone subject themselves to this nonsense? Well, the price is certainly enticing, though you're probably overpaying for what you get, however the <em>setting</em> in which Bia Hoi is served is its main selling point. As previously described, people sit out on corners nearly 24 hours a day, on small chairs and around small tables. Thus, at every intersection, an elderly couple (not sure why this is, but thats the case) is serving Bia Hoi in dirty glasses to dozens of people sitting on the curbs. Since there are four curbs, four mini-bar areas, there are tons of people and a big, convival festival atmostphere about it. Vendors circulate among the crowds, selling lighters, pastries, amazing reproductions of Lonely Planet books and, of course, the ever present drugs. A typical interaction goes something like this:<br /><br />"Lighter? Lighter"<br /><br />"No."<br /><br />"(much quieter voice) <em>Something? Maree-wanaa? Oopium?</em>"<br /><br />"No, really thanks."<br /><br />"(mutter somthing nasty in Vietnamese and walk to the next table)"<br /><br />I met a number of excellent ex-pats, and with them, was able to explore some of the...ummm..<em>.stranger </em>places around the city. After 7 days, it was time to move on, but this bizarre city and it's pre-war/post-war, old world/new world split personalities will carry on for me as one of my favorite places to visit.<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/IMG_2045.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/IMG_2045.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Special bonus picture: The Temple of Literature. Very cool.</span><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"></span><br /><br /><em></em><br /><em></em><br /><em></em><br /><em></em><br /><em></em><br /><em>Next:</em> The mysteries of Halong Bay, a return to the Mountains, and some reflections on being an American in a place where that isn't something that you advertise.Norman Henry Pentelovitchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12390155598607641087noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19490432.post-1147774617071645362006-05-16T03:16:00.000-07:002006-05-23T04:51:07.293-07:00Laos: Leeches! Mud!, Norm and the hill tribes, and a city that I'm all done withOur antagonists were everywhere, surrounding us. They closed in, shimmering brown in cool morning air, rising up off the floor of the forest, reaching out with hungry intentions<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><strong>"Run!" </strong><br /><strong></strong><br /><em><strong>puff puff,wheeeeze</strong></em></span><br /><em></em><br />The bright green of the bamboo and the sun reflecting off of it all seemed so beautiful yesterday, but today is oppressive and dangerous. I desperately swing the only weapon that I have to ward off the ever-advancing evil, flinging back only a few at a time before the attack is reinvigorated.<br /><em></em><br /><strong><span style="font-size:85%;">"You must keep running, come on, they're all over!"</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></strong><br /><em><strong><span style="font-size:85%;">hurghhhhhhhhhh, puffpuffpuff, splat!</span></strong></em><br /><em></em><br />Trudging up-hill, the sun permanently fixed in our eyes, limbs burning like brands being pressed into deep muscle tissue, we continue our hysterical ascent. The air feels close among the bamboo and thick patches of muck slow us down on the few flat places that are teasingly interspersed with the near vertical wall we are climbing.<br /><strong></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:85%;">"Please! Hurry! We must keep going!<br /></span><br /></strong><strong></strong><em><strong><span style="font-size:85%;">ker-thumpkerthumpkerthump, puffpuffpuffpuffpuffpuff, "argh!!!"</span></strong></em><br /><strong><em></em></strong><br />Relentless, unfeeling, uncaring, our aggressors close ranks for hour upon hour, mercilessly advancing without knowing the signal for retreat.<br /><br />Yes, leeches can certainly be terrifying.<br /><br />As I clomped and clambered up the steep Northern-Laos hillside, occasionally stooping down to brush the homemade leech repellent/killer of tobacco, whiskey and raw salt on my feet with a feathered bamboo brush, I was struck by how quickly circumstances can change. Not three days before I had been sitting quietly under an umbrella, enormous bottle of <em>Beerlao</em> in one hand, <em>The Great Gatsby</em> in the other, contemplating the easy flow of the Mekong. Now, exhausted only one hour after waking, muddy, covered in bleeding wounds from sucker-mouthed leeches and sweating through the long sleeved shirt that I had, in a veritable orgy of poor decision-making chosen to wear, I began to wonder at the sanity of my undertaking.<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/Img_1732.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/Img_1732.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Northern Laos, not much to see...</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Jumping back a few days in time to the end of my stay in Luang Prabang, as everyone who I had been spending time with decided to go South, I ventured Northwards. This wasn't for lack of fellowship, as these fellows of mine from the ship (ouch! pun!) were certainly wonderful to be with. However, my occasional and seemingly bizarre need to be alone for a while had manifested itself and it was time to, as the kids say, "split."<br /><br />This involved taking a (say it with me now) "local bus" which added a new twist to my previous conception of exactly how uncomfortable you can make a bus ride. I bought my bus ticket, and arrived at the station what ended up being 2 hours early. "Great" I thought "I'm definitely getting a good seat." Gods of travel feeling grumpy that day, when the bus arrived at the station, it was completely full, every seat taken. This particular bus had originated in Vientiane, the capitol, and had spent the last 10 hours acquiring passengars, bags of rice, coconuts, etc. The sight that I was greeted with then upon setting foot on the bus was that there wasn't a seat anywhere to be had. A bit confused, I stopped moving for a second to try and figure the situation out. Big mistake. Immediately, I was pushed from behind by one of the drivers and told to "get to the back." Thoroughly confounded, and with freedom rider-like thoughts, I motioned that there didn't appear to be anywhere to sit. That was when he handed me a small red, molded plastic stool, you know, the ones that they have kindergarteners sit on when play time is over, and gestured into the aisle.<br /><br />Ohh okay I get it. 12 hours on a red plastic stool touching everyones elbows around me. Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaamn....<br /><br />Then I realized that I could put the stool on my chest and sleep on the floor, and that is how I spent the night, waking up every 10-15 minutes to allow people to get on and off the bus. I arrived in the Northern Laos province of Luang Nam Tha at 6AM and lurched away from the bus, feeling a lot like a grumpy zombie. It is useful to note that I was heading to an area that is largely undeveloped tourism-wise, so it's not like there was any really helpful (if annoying) little men with cards for guesthouses that I could simply rely on to get me somewhere, anywhere, that I could sleep.<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/Img_1743.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/Img_1743.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">at 6AM, this hut seemed like a fantastic option</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Did you know that it's hard to read a sign that is written in a language that you can't read? And that this is made more complicated by the fact that it was an hour before sunrise, and that my eyes were crusted over and bleary? Well, even though I've been in this situation before (with Yeah Yeah in India) it never gets any more fun. By the time that I had found a guest house, dropped my bag and passed out, the sun was shining and the flock of roosters that were kept behind the guest house were arguing over when dawn was. I tried to protest that everyone was awake so they could shut the $#*@ up, but my objections met with no response.<br /><br />Vaguely rested, I set out to try and book the much talked about trekking in the region. As I canvassed the town, I learned that there was only one trekking company (or "outfit" as one super-too-cool-for-school American informed me) so I had to use them. Being an incredibly small town, on the Burmese border which had only recently (4 years ago) opened any areas to commercial trekking as a kind of ecological experiment, it was not hard to find what I needed. As with any double edged sword, I got cut two ways by being alone. The treks that were provided could be quite reasonable in price, provided that you traveled with at least one other person. As there was practically noone else in town, I ended up spending a real lot-ton of money. But I got to trek alone, just me and the barely-English speaking guide, for three days.<br /><br />Ket and I got acquainted as completely as we could with sign language shorthand. After a night spent in town in which I learned that absolutely nothing was open past 10pm and that you were expected indoors by 11, as that was when the guest house was locked, I managed to get some sleep.<br /><br />Bright and early the next day, Ket and I started off, on the first leg of our journey; a 10km walk through a brief lowland area, followed by lots of hill climbing. Our itinerary was to hike for the day, then sleep in a village of native Hmong villagers.<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/Img_1766.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/Img_1766.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Yes, yes, I know, I look like an idiot in this picture</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />As I have spent a fair amount of time describing the beautiful and amazing landscapes through which I have ventured, I will not try your patience by expounding on Laos at length. However, failing to do so entirely would be doing it a massive disservice.<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/Img_1768.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/Img_1768.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">"...in leaves no step had trodden black..."</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Like all of South-East Asia, Laos' topography varies hugely, between long low valleys and, more frequently in Laos than in Thailand, enormous forest-encased rolling hills. Passing through them, particuarly at a low point, they rise above you like a great moss covered dolphin fin, row after row not glistening with water in the sun, but absorbing all light into a cool darkness beneath the canopy. The only way through is the very definition of <em>windy</em> and getting to the top of one hill affords you neither rest, nor much of a view, as the thick stalks of bamboo and conifer trees obscure any distance that may be look-at-able, and the way down is often more treacherous than the way up.<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/Img_1798.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/Img_1798.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">This hill is named "flipper"...by me</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/Img_1780.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/Img_1780.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />As Ket and I began walking, the sky turned gunmetal, a dull grey and blue and he urged me to increase my pace. Rain, when walking straight up hill, is not particuarly fun. We made it to the first village where we stopped to eat. Ket dissapeared for a few minutes with his machete, and returned with two enormous bamboo leaves. I then learned that most hill tribes use bamboo leaves as a kind of makeshift table when they are out hiking, and also to wrap food in as they grow high above the ground and are generally very clean. Lunch consisted of eggplant and sticky rice, and was, despite my previous distaste for eggplant, quite delicious. The fun began when the rain started and we weren't more than a little bit past the halfway point to the village in which we were to spend the night. Going up a muddy hill is one thing, you can sort of dig your feet in and push. Coming down a near vertical slope, while it is still raining and the path has been mutilated by passing cattle, is close to impossible. Add to this difficulty the fact that bamboo is the primary construction material in the region, and you find that much of the stalks near the trail have been cut at an angle. If you have never been around live, growing bamboo, it is not so much interesting as <em>necessary to remain alive </em>to understand that falling on a cut piece of bamboo can easily wound you deeply, if not impale you. At the grade of descent that we were attempting, falling on such a staff would be a very serious issue indeed. However, in a superb example of a problem leading to a solution, Ket hacked off two huge pieces of bamboo and together we edged our way down the slope with our improvised walking sticks. Each step necessitated reaching far out in front of your body with the stick, driving it with all your strength into the soft soil, and then trusting it enough with your weight to get your feet to a stable position.<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/Img_1770.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/Img_1770.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Funny story: I walked into this spiders web, and rather than breaking through it, it was so strong that it snapped my head back. Then Ket pointed up while taking big steps backwards, and I screamed like a little girl</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />As exhausting a practice as this became, it was also incredibly rewarding when, at the bottom of one of the hills we looked up and saw arcing high over the greenery a brilliant rainbow, a rainbow that even as we watched was shot through by sunshine as the clouds cleared for a few moments. A unique expereince in many regards, not the least of which was feeling a sense of accomplishment upon reaching the <em>bottom </em>of a hill.<img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/Img_1767.jpg" border="0" /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Me and Ket, best friends 4eva</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Near sundown, we arrived at the village. Dropping our soggy gear, and sitting down inside the special "visitors hut", many of the locals came by to stare at me. Then they offered me a <em>Beerlao</em>. We were 10 hours of hard walking from anything resembling a road, I saw no particuarly easy way for them to transport in goods, and here they were offering me a beer. When I said in an earlier post that <em>Beerlao </em>is an institution in this country, I was not understating the fact.<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/Img_1784.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/Img_1784.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">These kids did not think that the joke that I told them was funny.</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Anyway, the beer was sitting out warm and covered in cobwebs, so I elected to pass.<br /><br />After a dinner of fish soup, fried fish and some more fish things that I can't remember (sensing a theme?), I went outside to see what the village people did at night. In short, they go to sleep. The town did not have any electricity (although they had a very small generator operated off of the running water of a stream that I was told was just installed and had enough power for two light bulbs for a few hours...whoppeee!!) so after the sun went down, the families ate by lamplight and got some shuteye, to be awake bright and early to fish the river for the next days food.<br /><br />In my wanderings, I came across a shallow dock that hung into space a bit over the river. On the dock were a number of young boys from the village, eagerly crowding around a cheap radio, scratchy music coming out of the tinny speaker. <a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/Img_1796.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/Img_1796.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">"Sittin' on a dock of a, uhhh...<em>river"</em></span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />When the aerial would get jostled (which was frequently as everyone was elbowing each other to get closer to listen) the sound would dissolve to a low static <em>hiss</em> and the one holding the radio would have to realign it with the heavens to get the signal back. I sat with them for a while and occasionally acted as a kind of antenna extender, standing at full height and reaching as high as I could into the sky to perhaps better the reception. I think that I was at best, moderately successful.<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/Img_1785.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/Img_1785.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">The long wondered about boys who the movie "3 Ninja's" was based on. They asked me to keep their secret, and I said that I would, but I had my fingers crossed behind my back.</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />I wondered about what they hoped to find when they tuned in each night. I caught snatches of what sounded like the news, some pop music and maybe a talk program. Did these kids care deeply about world events? Would the croonings of the big pop singer of the moment be a necessary fix for them after a hard day of net fishing? How would they even know who to listen for, as the tabloids only were parachute dropped in once every month, leaving them hopelessly behind (I mean, they still thought that Brad and Angelina were a <em>rumor</em> for chrissakes!).<br /><br />My musings carried on past the time when they were called in to bed, after which I decided that they could be listening for anything, but that mostly, the radio served as a kind of reminder, even proof that there was something going on beyond their little stretch of forest and river, and that maybe they could come to that brilliant <em>something</em> one day. Maybe it is something that sustains them, or terrifies them or is only of enough interest to warrant a few minutes stolen each night. But no matter what, it betrayed a curiosity that I found endearing and hopeful.<br /><br />The next morning saw us awake at dawn and engaging in the jungle warfare described above. The trail was covered in fallen leaves, and since apparently leeches can spawn <em>spontaneously</em> when only given a leaf and some moisture, they were everywhere. More an inconvenience than anything, it was still a challenge to hold the small glass bottle with my improvised "leech-off" and try to struggle up an increasingly muddy hill. As mentioned before, inter-village commerce necessitated the transport of large animals along high narrow paths, and the passage of even one cow over a muddy trail is enough to render it nigh-on impossible to get through without getting seriously dirty.<br /><br />This days hike was to take us even deeper into the hills, then down to a river where we would begin a day and a half of kayaking on the Nam Tha river. For some background information, the region that I was trekking in is known as "Luang Nam Tha" meaning "The big river Tha." Similarly, "Luang Prabang" (where I been previously) means "the big Buddha."<br /><br />Etymological roots aside, the trekking this day was particularly strenuous, for the abovementioned reasons of leech killing, cattle freight and intermittent periods of very heavy rain. Of course, it was wonderful. The only sounds were those of the cicadas in the trees and the bamboo growing (and yes, at anywhere from 15cm to a meter a day you can actually <em>hear</em> it growing). It is a strange experience hardly speaking at all for 3 days (and one which I'm sure many of you are astonished to hear I was capable of) but it allows a lot of the clamor in your mind to calm down and, when not focused on edging your way down a hill, you can get to thinking quite clearly.<br /><br />One thought that remained persistent throughout my time in Laos (Authorial intrusion here: I'm in Vietnam as I write this where the feeling pervades) is that I was an American traveling through what was, up until the war in Iraq, the most heavily bombed country by the United States. Ever. Occasionally, Ket would point out a region of forest where there was simply nothing growing.<br /><br />"Bomb here" was his only comment but it resonated with me for some time. Later on, I learned that Ket was a field medic in the Laos army during that war. I didn't get into particulars with him, but he surely had to deal with casualties caused from American bombs and that thought sobered me throughout the trek. It's not as though I had never had a social consience before, but being confronted so directly with the results, even 50 years later, of a sustained bombing campaign brought certain facets of my resolve into sharper focus.<br /><br />We arrived at another village, got our kayaks and took off down the river. The Nam Tha river winds its way through much of Northern Laos, originating somewhere in Burma. The shores are steep and sandy, giving way to the same vertical walls of forest through which we had been hiking. I regret not having pictures of this, but pretty much every where that I've been in rice producing countries, you will see huge swaths of burned hillside, completely barren and deserted-looking. However, far from being something negative, this burning is intentional, as the ash from the fire serves as a perfect fertilizer for the rice crop that is later harvested. I don't really get it, but it seems to work.<br /><br />Kayaking for 6 hours straight, especially when you haven't done so in a very long time, is hard. Really hard. But, going along with that quietness theme of before, I managed to get myself into a rhythm that sustained me throughout most of the ride. Then I utterly collapsed when we reached the next village and slept for the few hours before dinner.<br /><br />It is continually fascinating to me the range of responses the arrival of a "white guy" has in remote villages. For the most part, it can broken down into 3 categories, and these three categories are almost always based on age:<br /><br />First category: Old people. The've seen white people before, are vaguely skeptical and have more important things to be doing. Usually you'll get a head nod of acknowledgement, occasionally a smile. Not much else<br /><br />Second category: Teenagers. Of course, teenagers are a weird sort no matter where you go, but in these villages there seems to be a great amount of cognitive dissonance when I first show up. They vascillate between "oh cool! someone different who has information about the oustide world and trends and stuff, lets talk to him!", and "but I'll just remain aloof and kind of glance over a lot because, well, I'm a teenager." This group is usually friendly right off the bat, then goes away for a while, comes back, and then dissapears for the rest of your time there. They want to ask loads of questions, but feel constrained by, well I'm not really sure what.<br /><br />Third category: The kids!<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/Img_1805.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/Img_1805.jpg" border="0" /></a> <a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/Img_1814.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/Img_1814.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />...these are the best because they go back and forth between laughing out loud at everything you do, running away in fear every time you stand up, trying to climb all over you when offered the chance, posing for pictures, watching you while you sleep and being generally interested in everything about <em>you</em>. It's great.<br /><br />So I awoke from my nap surrounded by a group of perhaps 15 kids between the ages of 1 and 12, standing over me and watching me while I slept. A little weird. As soon as they saw my eyes open, they all screamed and ran for the door of the hut, where, just like in the movies, a few moments later you could see a vertically stacked row of heads, peering around the corner to continue their vigil. I spent the night teaching and being taught. For instance I now know that "mu" means "nose" in Hmong, which is the extent of what I recall. For my part, I taught them "head, shoulders knees and toes" with the acompanying melody, how to count to ten and that cake is delicious. I'm really hoping that last one stuck.<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/Img_1810.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/Img_1810.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />We woke up the next day nice and early, set out kayaking and thinking, and arrived in the afternoon at the tour pickup point. I was smelly and sweaty and pretty dirty and leech-bitten and sore and I felt great. The truck ride back to "civilization" was a 4 hour shock absorber free-for-all over the rained out roads and mud puddles that passed for roads, finally arriving back in Luang Nam Tha just in time for me to bolt down whatever food was placed in front of me and to pass out.<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/Img_1821.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/Img_1821.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">The end of the line</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />I rode the crappy bus back to Luang Prabang, stayed the night, caught a bus to the capital city of Vientiane and stayed for 2 nights. If that sounds like a pretty dull description of travels, it's because nothing really of note occured and Vietniane is pretty much just a big ol' captial city, albeit one where nothing every appears to happen. The real highlight there was that I went bowling at 4am with a bunch of Laos people and had a lot of fun. There really isn't much more to say about the place. So have a look at the pictures.<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/Img_1853.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/Img_1853.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Those silly monks and their weed-whackers</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/Img_1937.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/Img_1937.jpg" border="0" /></a><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/Img_1931.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/Img_1931.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/Img_1930.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/Img_1930.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><p><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/Img_1936.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/Img_1936.jpg" border="0" /></a></p><p></p><p></p><p><span style="font-size:78%;">It's like the Arc de Triomphe in France, except...not</span></p><p><span style="font-size:78%;"></span></p><p><span style="font-size:78%;"></span></p><p><span style="font-size:78%;"></span></p><p><em></em> </p><p><em></em> </p><p><em></em> </p><p><em></em> </p><p><em></em> </p><p><em>Next: </em>Vietnam!, Further travel-related superlatives, and the terrifying sight of a swarm of mopeds</p>Norman Henry Pentelovitchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12390155598607641087noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19490432.post-1147597398475733352006-05-14T01:52:00.000-07:002006-05-16T18:17:38.420-07:00Laos: Long lazy days, too beautiful waterfalls, and everyone is getting "happy"After our little adventure with the vagaries of Mekong River transport, myself and the small group of friends that I had made on the boat (difficult circumstances serving to accelerate friendships...also beer) needed a few days to get our wits back about us. Fortunately, when the boat finally arrived where it was supposed to, our disembarkation in Luang Prabang, the second largest city in Laos, was greeted with a loud yawn from the locals and the occasional haranguing from a <em>tuk tuk</em> driver, who seemed about as concerned with giving us a ride as he was with the lint in his belly button.<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/Picture%20001.11.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" height="114" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/Picture%20001.11.jpg" width="162" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Buddhist temple, in front of which I was offered opium. Strange country...</span><br /><br /><br /><br />Due to the former French colonization of much of South East Asia, there have been certain residual effects on the cuisine, those effects being <em>fantasticness</em>. Restaurants serving <em>pan au chocolat, baguettes, croissantes etc.</em>, yet on the opposing menu page serving noodle soup with fish, fried everything with ginger and spring rolls. Eclectic doesn't even begin to describe it.<br /><br />After removing the feedbag from my face, I ventured out into the town to see what it was like. 20 minutes later I found myself on the outskirts of town wondering what had happened to all of the people. A few traversals later, I realized that the entirety of town could be covered on foot in roughly 45 minutes, allowing for the occasional stop for ice cream along the way.<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/Picture%20002.7.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" height="176" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/Picture%20002.7.jpg" width="140" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">A temple?! In South-East Asia?! No way!</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />So what is there to do in Luang Prabang? Pretty much nothing, which is largely the attraction of the place. An interesting phenomenon which may have been unique to our boat or perhaps just occurs every time a new load of people arrive, is that I knew pretty much everyone in town by Day 2. Because it is the low season, there were very few travelers there who hadn't come at the same time as me. Given our peculiar circumstances, everyone who had arrived together at least recognized each other on sight and after a day knew everyone by name and an interesting fact about them. I wrote them down on note cards.<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/Picture%20003.5.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/Picture%20003.5.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Thus I would find myself walking down the "main street" and being greeted by loud yells from both sides from people alternately 1. booking onward travel 2. sitting at internet cafes or 3. eating. This is what you do in Luang Prabang. It felt exactly like my first year of college, during which time I could barely get 10 feet down the sidewalk without being engaged in conversation about whatever it is that I was thinking about when I was 18. Probably girls.<br /><br />However, the continuation of that phenomenon is that inevitably, another boat arrived. This was more analgous to my final year in college. I didn't live on campus, couldn't be bothered to meet anyone new, and all of the formerly familiar faces were replaced with those of a vaguely sinister and menacing nature. Who are these new people? What are they doing in <em>my town? </em>They're eating <em>there?</em> That place sucks. Et Cetera.<br /><br />Aside from being the geographical equivalent of valium...<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/Picture%20025.1.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/Picture%20025.1.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">A whole day in Luang Prabang...guitar, beer, umbrella</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />...the town has a certain charm that makes it quite pleasant to hang out in for a while. As one walks down the street, the constant chant of "waterfall, waterfall?" from hopeful jumbo drivers (a jumbo being a pick up truck with a roof over the bed and some uncomfortable benches to ride on) who want you to go see a waterfall...apparently, follows you wherever you go. As I had not much else to do, I decided that it might be worthwhile.<br /><br />What do you think?<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/Picture%20008.3.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/Picture%20008.3.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/Picture%20009.3.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/Picture%20009.3.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/Picture%20007.3.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/Picture%20007.3.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/Picture%20010.5.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/Picture%20010.5.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">No comments really necessary here...</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />So yeah, this is essentially the most perfect grotto/waterfall/paradise that you could ever hope to get on film (or memory card). The water is exactly as blue as it looks and warm enough to suggest that a recent swarm of little boys had just vacated the premises grinning mischeiviously. After flinging ourselves off of the waterfall and taking turns playing Batman on the rope swing, we walked up to what we then learned was the "real" waterfall there.<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/Picture%20011.5.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" height="179" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/320/Picture%20011.jpg" width="175" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Egads!</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/Picture%20006.7.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/Picture%20006.7.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">I hadn't showered in weeks. This was insisted upon.</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />After gaping in awe and nearly breaking our necks trying to see the top of the damn thing, we learned that there was an easy path up the right side to some of the pools, or a more difficult path to the pools near the top that ran up the left side.<br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/Picture%20014.1.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/Picture%20014.0.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />The easy path, though inviting, was clogged with people milling about, so we decided that despite our fairly easy-going day, we'd hoof it up to the top pools and have a look about.<br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/Picture%20019.0.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/Picture%20019.0.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Jumping off, even though noone else was...</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/Picture%20017.0.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/Picture%20017.0.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">More perfect waterfalls...yaaaaaaaaaaaaaawn.</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/Picture%20015.0.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/Picture%20015.0.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">View from the tippity top</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />After 45 minutes of rugged climbing, that involved caribiners, harnesses, a helicopter and 10 tons of explosives, we found ourselves at a completely deserted set of pools, the space above them soon filled with our shouts as we hurtled through the void and splashed in the (thankfully deep-enough) water. From this pool, we were able to swim to the edge of the waterfall and look over. Scary, but <em>awesome-</em>scary.<br /><br />I returned the next day since I had had so much fun, and in my enthusiasm, after dozens of people had swung into the pool on the rope swing, I gripped it tightly, kicked off from the branch while giving my best Tarzan yell, then heard a <em>*snap* </em>followed by my an immediate arrest to my forward progress and a loud drop into the pool. When I surfaced it was to catcalls in no less than 5 languages, and a number of exhortations that I eat less before I come next time. Since I don't get embarassed, lets just say that my pride was very <em>slightly</em> bruised.<br /><br />I feel that the following sign is ironic enough to warrant its own paragraph break. Seriously, how ridiculous is this...?<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/Picture%20024.0.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/Picture%20024.0.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />After a few days, most of my traveling buddy-folks had made the decision to head South to Vang Vieng, a town renowned for harboring huge groups of backpackers who huddle around televisions everyday to watch Friends. No I am not kidding. The other reasons to go there are that there is a great river upon which to tube and drink, and at night you can have a "happy shake" or "happy pizza."<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/Picture%20026.1.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/Picture%20026.1.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">The whole gang, spending lots of money to see each other off in style</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />For those who aren't up on their South-East Asian-drug-euphemisms, allow me to enlighten you. A "happy"-anything is a food product that contains varying quantities of highly potent marijuana. Should one feel so inclined as to have an "extra-happy" pizza, it would involve a fairly <em>significant</em> amount of marijuana. To date, I know of at least 5 people who have ended up in the hospital as a result of getting too "happy". I also didn't hear from a single person who didn't regret having had one. I think that this functions a lot like peer pressure in high school to drink. Someone hands you a beer, you've heard that beer is great, everyone else is drinking one, you're excited, you crack the can open, it foams all over your hand, warm and fizzy. You drink it and it tastes like an old shoe, but you keep going because everyone else is having so much fun. 4 years later when you finally acquire the taste for it, you spend your time convincing everyone who hasn't already started drinking that they are missing out. I suppose that it should come as no surprise that this type of activity carries on in to any sort of large grouping of impressionable, herd-minded individuals (as many backpackers tend to be), but as nearly everyone who is backpacking at least ostensibly has survived certain rigors up to that point, you would assume that they could reason things like that out for themselves...but...well...not so much.<br /><br />I just realized that writing any further events will require a massive posting, and as such, I will be cutting this one short and putting up the rest of my time in Laos later in the week. Stay tuned!<br /><br /><em>Next: </em>Argh! Leeches!, Making friends with the hill tribes, and a capital city that didn't feel so capitalNorman Henry Pentelovitchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12390155598607641087noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19490432.post-1146730884073167722006-05-04T01:17:00.000-07:002006-05-08T22:00:31.473-07:00Laos: That sinking feeling in your gut, an impromptu concert, and Beer Lao!So...our boat was sinking.<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/Picture%20005.7.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/Picture%20005.6.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />5 hours into an 8 hour-a-day, 2 day trip, the "navigator" of the S.S. Uncomfortable decided to swing his vessel wildly into the middle of the Mekong while covering his eyes with his hands. At about that time, God (or Buddha in this case) decided that we weren't having quite enough fun, so he put a very large rock right in the path of the boat.<br /><br /><em>Keraaaaaack!</em><br /><br />"Whatthehellwasthat?" asked Mike, my seatmate and new-ish friend. He had been dozing painfully against a wooden bulwark (arr! aren't I nautical?) and the vibrations ringing through the wooden hull startled him awake.<br /><br />"Umm, I think that we hit a rock."<br /><br />It was at that point that the owners of the boat, about 20 Laos' (quick aside: I don't know how to refer to anything in Laos. I thought perhaps "Laotian" would be a way to refer both to the language, and the people, but I have been informed that this is not correct. Therefore, apparently the word "Laos" is at once a proper noun as the name of the country (Laos) , a language (Laos), and an ethnicity (Laos). This is really quite confusing) who all seemed to be members of the family which owned the boat, started screaming at each other. As the 150 or so passengers watched in befuddlement, the whole family jumped off of the boat, grabbed a huge 2x4 and propped it up as a plank upon which we were all to walk to shore.<br /><br />I literally "walked a plank".<br /><br />So where were we? Superb question. Unfortunately, not one person on the boat who was in charge of our safety spoke English. The best that we were able to manage was that we were somewhere that was not our final destination, and that it would be a very long time before anything happened. That's fine, I've been stuck waiting places before, no worries right?<br /><br />Right?<br /><br />It was when I saw them patching the hole in the boat with a bag of concrete that I began to have the sneaking suspicion that this was not your average "breakdown and wait a few hours and then go again." At this point, someone (a Thai girl named Nook) determined that the boat would be remaining there overnight. Woohoo! More adventure! Being the adventure-minded ex-boy scout that I was, I was all aflutter at the prospect of sleeping on the beach, in my nice summer sleeping bag and under my mosquito net. Finding myself alone in my excitement I realized that not everyone else on the boat was so well provisioned.<br /><br />Backing up a day or so here, let me explain how it was that I came to be on this forsaken beach, in the middle of the sweating, steaming Mekong river, stuck for an indeterminate amount of time and loving every minute:<br /><br />After the madness of <em>Songkran</em> (see <a href="http://asjustasfair.blogspot.com/2006/05/songkran-as-wet-as-youll-ever-be.html">previous post</a>), I hung around Chiang Mai for a few days, knowing that I had to move on. It is simply not possible to take a bus from Northern Thailand into Laos. Roads don't exist that run this route. Instead, the popular (and only) way to go is by boat. Many travel agencies in town sell tickets, and they always give you two options; the fast boat, which is a one day, 7.5 hour rocket-hell-sled ride of fear and terror (I'll get to that in a moment), or the leisurely, meandering peacefulness of the slow boat, which takes two days and (theoretically) stops at a small town along the Mekong that is rife with overpriced guesthouses. As the fast boat costs nearly 3 times as much, I of course took the slow boat.<br /><br />It is of course the perogative of each traveler to choose their method of transportation. However, more often than not the ironclad "Law of Financial Do-ability" is the primary arbiter in such decisions. That is to say, whatever is cheapest, backpackers do it. This leaves the less explored, and more expensive option to those with the means, who would be disinclined to spend 2 days sitting on wooden benches on an overcrowded boat that doesn't move fast enough to generate a breeze to cool you down. Unfortunately for these rich-type folks, the rules of logic are far more rigid than those of finances. Therefore, <em>if </em>the slow boat is cheaper, <em>then </em>it is less comfortable and safe than the fast boat, is really not a tenable syllogism.<br /><br />I was unable to take a picture of a longboat, largely because they move so fast as to defy normal refractory properties of light. Instead, I will describe them for you. Imagine a shallow wooden craft, heavily warped, with three rows of wooden benches spaced approximately 5 inches apart. When you sit down in the boat, you are given a helmet. They assiduously avoid using the word "crash" helmet. Since the helmet looked like a plastic mixing bowl with a piece of plastic wrap over the front, I understood it to be primarily to give the naieve and safety minded a strange peace of mind. What make these boats "fast" is at once so unique and so bizarre as to nearly defy explanation. The enterprising people who run the boat companies must have access to a junkyard, as the back of the boat is weighted down with a full V-8 engine, with the drive shaft still attached. For propulsion, the drive shaft is fitted with a propeller. Appropriately, they call these "long tail" boats. One steers by simply pushing and pulling on the entire engine block. These things are not exactly cutting tight corners.<br /><br />So the people who were in a rush and had money found themselves hanging on for dear lfie as they were rocketed over the river at upwards of 50 mph. If you have ever gone this fast in a boat, you will know that it may be 50 but it feels like Mach 10. Add to this the fact that at least one of these boats either flips, or nearly flips every day, and we can see that the though the hare got near the finish line first, the turtle wil be the one going across (or limping in our case).<br /><br />I arrived at the border town of Chiang Khong...<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/Picture%20004.8.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/Picture%20004.8.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Laos! From Thai side</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />...and spent the night, then had a moment of panic when I got in this boat...<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/Picture%20003.4.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/Picture%20003.4.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />...sincerely believing that it was going to be my ride for 8 hours. A too-hasty sigh of relief later, I was in Laos.<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/Picture%20001.9.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/Picture%20001.9.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">View from the Laos side</span><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">Before entering Laos, it is important to acquaint yourself with the legend and history of the lager there served...namely, Beer Lao. How can I describe Beer Lao? Hmmm..well, if I am your average backpacker-Lonely-Planet-writer, I think that it would go something like this:</span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">"Oh sweet nectar of the Gods! Oh most opulent of pleasures! When the heavens bequeath'd upon Earth all the beauty that were to reside there, surely at the end of their labors they were rejuvenated with this most delectable of ambrosias. As sweet as <em>manna, </em>like licking the sweaty back of mighty Zeus or drinking the spit of Athena, Beer Lao will restore your health, regrow your hair, maintain month long erections, remove suspicious moles, cure your polyps, clean our your constipation, de-freckle the freckled, de-blemish the teenagers, cure strep throat and the common cold, boil water without the presence of oxygen and disinfect your septic tank. Oh Beer Lao! We worship you!"</span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">I think that it is a capital crime to drink any other beer in this country. To be fair, Beer Lao is quite tasty. If I had to compare it to something, it is a bit like a Sam Adams. However, as it is pretty much impossible to get ANY other kind of beer here, one does tire of it. But that is not allowed. Every single restaurant is sponsered by them. Guest houses have cases of it stacked everywhere. When I was trekking in the remote Northern regions of Laos (next post) staying in villages 14 hours from any road, without running water or electricity, the first thing that I was offered when I dropped my muddy pack on the ground was a "Beer Lao?" which I declined, as it was warm and covered in spider-webs. This stuff is an institution here.</span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><br />That being said, while waiting for the boat to leave (at 9am) about 30 people all decided to have one, me included. Quite tasty.<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/Picture%20019.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/Picture%20019.jpg" border="0" /></a></span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">This picture couresty of multiple Beer Lao's and a REALLY long boat ride</span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">So we beat on, boats against the current, though unlike Mr. Gatsby, we were headed <em>forward</em> into the future, instead of back into a green-lit past.</span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">The boat was a bit...overcrowded. There were people sitting on the floor, people on sacks of rice, people hanging out the sides and anywhere else that they could find a corner to squeeze into. For our part, Mike and I shared a very small cushion on the seat and traded off leaning out the window to try and relieve the painful hardness that the benches wreaked upon us.<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/Picture%20017.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/Picture%20017.jpg" border="0" /></a></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">That's Mike on the right. And that's his "man was that seat uncomfortable" face</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />In short, the Mekong river and the Laos countryside that surrounds it are incredible. The river is a fast-moving brown, the color of weak coffee with milk. It bends and ebbs around deep curves. Rock studded and treacherous, each shore shallows to a narrow strip of sand and boulders quickly from the middle, allowing little navigational latitude. The hills rising up on either side add new resolve to my definition of "verdant". The word "lush" kept roaring around in my head as well, though this is less accurate. As in Africa, the lushness is largely a <em>facade</em>, with huge palm fronds covering large portions of the hills and pencil-narrow trees shooting up in-between them. Most interestingly, from each of the boulders, sprouting like the doubled antennae of some fantastic insect, were enormous bamboo poles, all in pairs, that after some careful examination revealed themselves to be supporting nets. The primary source of food in this region is the river, with the fish that navigate its earthy bottom more often than not feeding everyone in a village. As we passed, great scores of men could be seen performing incredible feats of acrobatics to get down to check these nets, and, upon finding some squirming river fish, would haul up their lot to take for the next meal. All of those that we passed were sun-browned to the deep permanent copper of people who labor all day beneath a punishing sun. The workers muscles were sinewy and hard, accustomed to long, arduous tasks of consistent strength, instead of short bursts of increasing power, as to be found in weight rooms the world over.<br /><br />And as we passed, a friendly wave and a shout were our main means of communication.<br /><br />Fast-forwarding back to the beach upon which we found our erstwhile hero still stranded...<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/Picture%20007.2.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/Picture%20007.2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Members of the "boat-owning" family. I think that the baby was driving</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />I was in a fine mood, as it seemed to me that instead of "being stranded" we were instead "saving money." Sleeping on this beach would be free. Having resigned myself to staying the night, I fondly waved goodbye to a number of people who had literally flagged down a fast boat and would be traveling on to the comfort of a guest house up the river. For my money, these people missed out.<br /><br />As the sun set against the rising haze, smeared spots of light appeared in the village above us. Where we had disembarked, there appeared to be a small village about 1.5km away up on top of a hill. Wanderer that I am, I began asking around to find out if anyone had a torch (flashlight) that I could borrow to go look around. A few other people decided that it might be worth a visit, and, torch acquired, we began the short trek up the hill.<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/Picture%20016.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/Picture%20016.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Sunset on the Mekong</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />That was when we heard the singing. It is a well understood phenomenon that sounds carries well, and far, at night. It does so especially well near water (for a story with a very different outcome, check out the night that Yeah Yeah, my India traveling companion, learned this very lesson <a href="http://asjustasfair.blogspot.com/2006/03/india-part-2-markets-of-anjuna-things.html">here</a>). As such, the singing came to us very clearly, and it sounded happy and glorious. I resolved to find it. As we muddled our way up a very muddy slope and into the town, the wisdom of my plan began to seem a bit suspect. However, as I had now led (despite my assertions that "I'm going up there, anyone that wants to can come along, but I don't know what I'll find and I'm not in charge") about 10 people up into the village, I felt somewhat obligated to soldier on.<br /><br />Imagine, just for a moment, the following scenario:<br /><br />You are at home. Your whole family is there and you are eating dinner. Someone has cooked up a bunch of food and everyone is sitting around and enjoying it. Then the doorbell rings. Everyone looks at each other wondering who it could be. The doorbell rings several more times. Finally, someone gets up to answer it. When the door is pulled back, it reveals a large group of Chinese tourists, gesticulating wildly and speaking v-e-r-y- s-l-o-w-l-y in Chinese. Since you don't speak Chinese, you try to communicate with them through hand signals. When this doesn't work, the tall, blue-eyed one simply walks up the steps to your house, sits down at the table with your family (the 10 or so people behind him tramping up the stairs as well) and immediately requests that you sing for him.<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/Picture%20008.2.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/Picture%20008.2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><em><span style="font-size:78%;">Songslao! Songslao!</span></em><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />That is basically what we did. We found the house that the singing was coming from, got the attention of those inside who were singing by candlelight, and after a few minutes of confused jabbering, we were ushered inside, given sticky rice and vegetable soup, and then we sang.<br /><br />We made it understood that we had heard their singing and wanted to hear more. The family obliged us for a few minutes, then one of the rascally younger ones insisted "now you song!" which I interpreted to mean that it was time to fulfill our part of the unspoken bargain.<br /><br />I believe that it is a fairly well known fact that I do not have a "great" singing voice. Nor do I have a "good" singing voice or even a "passable" singing voice. No, instead I have a <em>bad</em> singing voice. Nobody cared. As I launched into "Let It Be" none of the 9 other people who had chosen to come with me also excercised their adventurousness by singing. So I sang solo. Then I sang "Puff the Magic Dragon," "River of Dreams," that song that goes "...in the jungle, the mighty jungle, the lion sleeps tonight" at which song everyone in the room actually did manage to sing on the "ah-OOOOHHHHHHHHHHH a-wee um-um-ba-waaaaaay", capping it off with a crowd pleaser; Happy Birthday. I don't know if it's the simplicity of this song, the reptitive nature or the festive implications, but EVERYONE knows happy birthday and so, sung along.<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/Picture%20009.2.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/Picture%20009.2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">The rest of the choir, though a <em>silent</em> choir they may be...</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />I then requested more <em>songslao</em> (which was my primitive way of saying "songs in Laos") and thus we traded songs back and forth for a good two hours.<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/Picture%20012.1.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/Picture%20012.1.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">I fit <em>right </em>in...</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />At this point, I was thinking about getting back down to the boat in enough time to claim a good spot on the beach. It was not to be.<br /><br />"Okay," said one of the younger family members, thinking hard "7 (holding up seven fingers) sleep here, 2 (more fingers) there." When I looked where he was pointing, I could see that the mother (I think) of the family and some of the daughters had set up 7 thick mattresses on the floor of an empty room a short ways away. There were also blankets and pillows. I didn't know what to say.<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/Picture%20013.2.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/Picture%20013.2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Who even has this many extra mattresses?</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />These people, none of whom spoke more than the most basic of English pleasantries, upon whose hospitality we had massively imposed, were now insisting that we sleep in their home for the evening. After ascertaining the eager smiles and nodding heads of my companions, I agreed.<br /><br />As we 7 lay down to sleep (the two girls with us were led to another house by two other girls from the village, apparently despite their remote address they knew a thing or two about how to keep everyone on their best behavior) the family brought in pitchers of just-boiled water for drinking and several glasses.<br /><br />We spent the night in wondrous comfort, the humid evening air blowing through the open room (which only had 3 walls), the sounds of pigs grunting below us and dogs out baying at, what I imagined, was a full moon. We woke with the roosters (annoying damn birds) and found our way back to the boat. We listened patiently to the stories of those who had slept on the boat and beach, sympathized with their sore backs, cramped knees and bleary eyes, and inwardly grinned at our comfortable night of repose.<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/Picture%20014.0.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/Picture%20014.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Where we spent the night as seen very early in the morning. Damn roosters.</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />The girls were able to divine an address for the village from one of the women there, and as I don't have it with me, I'll write my letter here:<br /><br />To: Family that Sang with a Bunch of <em>Farang,</em><br />7th Stop of the Slow Boat on the Mekong River,<br />Laos<br /><br />From: The tall one with the blue eyes and the terrible voice<br /><br />Dear family,<br /><br />Thanks for the food, drinks, songs and beds. If you ever get electricity, computers, and internet, please book a ticket to Minneapolis, Minnesota so that I can attempt to repay your hospitality<br /><br />Sincerely,<br /><br />The tall one with the blue eyes and the terrible voice.<br /><em></em><br /><em>Next: </em>Luang Prabang is just like they say it is, the perfect waterfall, and a decision to break with the crowd.Norman Henry Pentelovitchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12390155598607641087noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19490432.post-1146031498383472192006-05-01T22:49:00.000-07:002006-05-08T03:38:37.273-07:00Songkran: As wet as you'll ever be.Utter pandemonium.<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/27147-Songkran-0.0.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/27147-Songkran-0.0.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Complete and total chaos.<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/songkran-1.0.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/songkran-1.0.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Really, really, <em>really </em>wet.<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/Songkran-Thai-New-Year-water-festival.1.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/Songkran-Thai-New-Year-water-festival.1.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/songkran_a.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/songkran_a.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />This is <em>Songkran, </em>the three day long Thai New Years celebration that is enjoyed by hurling massive volumes of water at passers-by from trucks, bikes, mopeds, on foot, in a moat, on top of a building, pretty much anyplace that a person can be, you can get wet from.<br /><br />My plan had originally been to attend the "Full Moon Party (FMP)" which is the worlds biggest rave and is held every month (guess when...) on the Southern Thailand island of Ko Phagnagn. Jon told me that he was on his way to <em>Songkran</em> in Chiang Mai (Northern Thai city) as it was supposed to be the best place to celebrate in true "Thai" style. I was torn, but when I started weighing out the factors, the decision became fairly clear. See if you come to the same conclusion:<br /><br />I could go to the FMP, get drunk out of my mind and dance and stomp around on a beach for 14 hours straight with all Western backpackers, possibly getting robbed (happens frequently), passing out (likely) and getting a sunburn (also likely)<br /><br /><em>or...</em><br /><br />I could go to <em>Songkran</em>, throw, hurl and fling buckets of water at an entire towns worth of people, hang out with mostly Thai people, participate in an annual cultural event (versus a monthly, created event) and avoid that irritating sunburn.<br /><br />I think that the choice is obvious.<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/songkran.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/songkran.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">I mean really...who doesn't want to be here?</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Now, this is not to knock the FMP in any way, as I hear that it is great fun and I intend on getting down to the islands for the next available one. However I simply couldn't pass up something that sounded like a fully sanctioned version of the type of water fights I used to have when I was a kid, albeit on a scale that I could never have even dreamed about.<br /><br />So off to Chiang Mai!<br /><br />It is advised, by pretty much everyone and their sister (who is lovely, you should meet her), that you should not be traveling anywhere in Thailand during <em>Songkran</em>. You will get wet. If you are driving in a taxi, getting off of a bus, eating lunch, someone will take the time to make sure that you are part of the fun. Thus, once you are somewhere for <em>Songkran</em>, you're there for the whole thing. Luckily, Chiang Mai was <em>the</em> spot to be.<br /><br />We arrived fairly early in the morning, on the day before the festivities were supposed to start, and already the zealous Chiang Mai'ians were dousing each other with water. Due to some quickly made acquaintances from the bus<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/Picture%20001.7.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/Picture%20001.7.jpg" border="0" /></a>...<br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Stephani knew what was up.</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />...we were able to get a guest house right on the main thoroughfare of the city, alongside the moat. To sweeten the deal, our room (which was a whopping 3 dollars a night) had a lovely balcony that looked out over the street where everything was going on.<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/melissa%20023.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 253px; HEIGHT: 171px" height="144" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/320/melissa%20023.jpg" width="251" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Norm, Stephani and Jon, enjoying the balcony</span><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"></span><br /><br /><br />Thus accommodated, we went out into the streets to see what was what.<br /><br />What indeed.<br /><br />Here is a map of Chiang Mai, so that you can get a better idea of the geometrical uniqueness of the geography:<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/chiang_mai.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/chiang_mai.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />The blue square that is in the center of the map is an enormous moat that surrounds the "old city" part of Chiang Mai.<br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/sangkran-festival-3-big.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/sangkran-festival-3-big.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">View of the moat</span><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"></span><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/sangkran-festival-13-small.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/sangkran-festival-13-small.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">'Nother view of the moat</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/sangkran-festival-5-small.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/sangkran-festival-5-small.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Moat pre-insanity</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />It is around this moat that trucks and people circle all day long, drenching each other. The water being flung around is mostly taken from the moat itself. In an interesting bit of government-actually-being-useful-for-something, there was a large sign erected (conveniently) across the street from our guest house which showed what the contaminants level of the water was each day. If everything was 'honkey-dorey' (okay) then the numbers were printed in green, if the water was full of deadly pirrahanas, they were in red. This was a very reassuring bit of signage, until we realized three days later that not a single aspect of the sign had changed throughout the festival. While I suppose that it is <em>marginally</em> possible that the levels in the water remained consistent throughout, given the number of people, animals, garbage and other detritus that I saw tossed into that moat, I'm given to believing that it was so much hopeful thinking. We made feeble efforts to avoid swallowing any water, but when you are being drenched with dozens of gallons every block or so, while holding a can of rapidly warming <em>beer chang</em> over your head to avoid getting any water in it, there is really no way to put off the inevitable. So we dug out our antibiotics and re-entered the fray.<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/Songkran%20truck%2002.0.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/Songkran%20truck%2002.0.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Yeah...good luck staying dry</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />To give an idea of the average day of <em>Songkran</em> for our merry band, I will give a somewhat stream-of-consciousness recital of the thoughts that occurred to me as we went along for a 15 minute stretch:<br /><br />Wake up, what time is it? Right, noon, okay, sleep somemore. What in the HELL is that noise? Oh god, damn plastic wrapped speakers blaring from the back of pick-up trucks and lady-boys screaming their heads off. Okay, get up, find bandana, find Jon, there he is already up, on the balcony. "Beers?" "Beers." Affirmative. Catch a beer, open, drink, find Stephani, offer beer, "no?", head downstairs, eat banana pancakes, forget bandana, back upstairs, ready to go, money in waterproof bag, head into street <em>splaaaaaaaash</em> okay, now I'm soaked, oh shit, here comes one of the...<em>Aieee!!</em> Damn trucks, buckets full of water and ice that shit is COOOOLD, okay, down the street, buy a bucket, use the string, lower bucket into moat and...oh no...okay, that 6 year old kid is about to get...damnit! His sister is fast. Okay, lower bucket, grab, throw at kid, lower bucket, grab handle, throw at sister. Run...Run! Find Jon, already down the street, refill bucket, throw at passing truck, loud screams, spin in circle, cross street away from moat, go to bar that has chairs set up outside, loud music blasting, dance dance dance, WET! Drink beers, damn! water in the beer, pour out little bit of beer, keep dancing, truck passes with a child <em>inside</em> one of the buckets, wearing goggles "YOU've got a kid in your bucket! A KID! In! Your! Bucket!" Kid smiles and gives thumbs up, hit him with squirt gun. Huge barrel at front of bar for bucket dipping, get Jon, lift barrel up (heavy!) dump into bed of pick up truck, completely flooding it. Dance in a circle. Run down street, get soaked, almost lose contact lens, get it back in eye, buy more beer, spin in a circle, foot gets run over by a pick up truck but it doesn't hurt. Jump in back of truck, bounce up and down, sing loudly, when huge ice filled barrel is empty, run over to moat, lower bucket <em>heave!</em> back into truck, run down street to buy huge blocks of ice, truck picks up speed, run with 10 pound block of ice in already numbing arms...sooooooooo co-co-colllld...<br /><br />And so on and so on. For about 6 hours a day. For 3 days.<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/24990027.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 204px; HEIGHT: 148px" height="109" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/320/24990027.jpg" width="203" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Nailing a truck...the armored division of <em>Songkran</em></span><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"></span><br /><br /><br /><br />To give you an idea of just how crazy all this was, allow me, if you will, to quote my traveling companion, Mr. Jon Guidroz:<br /><br />"I can't imagine growing up with this every year"<br />-Jon Guidroz<br /><br />Why is this significant? This quote is significant because Mr. Guidroz grew up in New Orleans, about 6 blocks from Bourbon street. He has attended Mardi Gras nearly every year of his life. And he couldn't <em>imagine </em>having this every year.<br /><br />Marinate on that for a moment<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/songkran_03.0.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/songkran_03.0.jpg" border="0" /></a>.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Elephants. Need I say more?</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />To touch on some other aspects of <em>Songkran</em>:<br /><br />-It is one of the friendliest giant fights you could possibly imagine. Despite the necessarily adversarial nature of a water fight (someone gets you wet, you get them wet), it is all done according to a fluid(no pun intended) set of rules. If a person does not want to get soaked, they really shouldn't be outside...but if that situation is unavoidable, all one needs to do is make eye contact with a would-be douser and wave their hands at them. This will keep that person from super-hydrating you. The problem with this is that it is not really possible to make eye contact with several thousand people at once (unless you're a fly) so you're still getting wet.<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/melissa%20024.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/melissa%20024.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Jon makes a feeble attempt to keep his perm dry</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />-The best part of the festival is that it is a family affair, with the parents usually supervising very small children. The little kids were what made this so much fun, because it was clear that they were just enjoying the hell out of it. The unspoken rule is that you simply do<em> not</em> totally drench the little ones. Instead, you engage them by flicking a little bit of water in their direction, at which point they'll probably rush behind the legs of the nearest parent-looking person, peer out shyly, then, upon coaxing, will giggle and run towards you with their own small bucket to splash away at your knees and ankles. This is the cutest thing in the world and would be more fun if the whole process didn't leave your backside facing the street making you an easy target for...<br /><br />-...the ice water. Oh lord the ice water. In most of the trucks that drove around, the occupants had large barrels that they filled with water and giant chunks of ice. These were the "atom bomb" equivalents of the weaponry used. When you saw anyone with a fiendish gleam in their eye, brandishing a bucket high above their head and looking right at you, goosebumps running up and down their bare arms, you knew that you were done for. And holy wow was it cold. The only payback was to flood the backs of the trucks, which we did frequently, usually under a barrage of cold water dousings. It was like storming a hill with Teddy Roosevelt and his Rough Riders, except...not at all like that.<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/sangkran-festival-17-small.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/sangkran-festival-17-small.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">People leaping off of the moat...into water that was "Level Green"...yeah maybe not</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />-Being <em>farang </em>(pronounced "fah-lang" and meaning "white guy"), we were obviously targets throughout the entire event. This is not to say that we didn't hold our own. Rather, there were consistent, good-natured give and takes, in which we'd scream our battle cry of "<em>Farang!</em>" and the surprised looking Thai people would go "<em>Farang?" </em>and have to quickly prepare themselves for our onslaught. Then everyone would get a lot wetter and shared beers.<br /><br />-If you're noticing that drinking is a large part of this event, then you are somewhat observant. To put it mildly, people drank...A lot. The subsequent displays of behavior, given the unusual circumstances were something to behold. I distinctly recall watching one man drink his bucket of water as he tried to throw his beer at people. When confused at the non-alcoholic taste of the water, he looked at both can and bucket with a knitted brow, and finally solved his problem by pouring the beer <em>into</em> the half full bucket, then throwing it at someone. When I walked away, he was looking at his empty can with an expression of "hey, where'd my beer go?"<br /><br />So despite all of this madness going on, you are probably asking yourself, "but Norm, wasn't his during the Jewish holiday of Passover? What did you do for a <em>seder?</em>" Well gentle reader, I'm impressed that you are so up on your Jewish holidays and when they occur. Allow me to put your mind at ease.<br /><br />I attended a <em>seder, </em>in Northern Thailand, during the Thai new year, with approximately 250 other people. This is pretty much where the interesting part of the story ends, as the thing lasted for 4.5 hours, was conducted entirely in Hebrew (as it was being organized through <em>Chabad, </em>an international Israeli organization that puts on such events), the food was terrible and I paid far too much. Still, a Passover <em>seder</em> in Thailand. Craziness.<br /><br />When it is not the Thai New Year, Chiang Mai is also a highly visited place for it's laid back nature, excellent food, interesting architecture, and night life Without boring everyone to tears, lets focus on the night life.<br /><br />While at the seder, Stephani (who knew about the thing, where it was etc. She was like a walking Lonely Planet but only for things that I was actually interested in. Very helpful!) and I had met a nice woman from the US who worked in Chiang Mai as a jazz singer. So of course, we went to hear her, and she was fantastic. There was tons of live music, most of it occurring at restaurants that were set alongside the river. These could have been jazz joints in Chicago or New York or anywhere that good music is heard. Dim lighting, overpriced drinks and the musicians right in your face as you sat around the "stage."<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/Picture%20002.4.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/Picture%20002.4.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Jon is focused on the music <em>man</em>. Stephani notices whats going on...</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />A bar that we spent a great deal of time at is known as Brasserie, one of the most popular bars in Chiang Mai. At first I couldn't figure out why the place was packed, then the sweaty musicians began their second set and it became immediately apparent: these guys were <em>good</em>. Really, really good. The highlight being the lead guitarist, Khun Took, who wailed out Credence, Doors, Pink Floyd, Eric Clapton, and, most impressively, painfully superb Jimi Hendrix covers. If Jimi had looked even <em>slightly </em>Thai, this guy could have been his twin. The band clearly plays together often, as they were always tight and together, lots of improvisation that the rest of the musicians followed flawlessly and a real understanding of the music that they were playing. I also have to give special recognition to the drummer, who basically kicked ass.<br /><br />The nights were <em>almost</em> as fun as the days.<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/sangkran-festival-26-small.0.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/sangkran-festival-26-small.0.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Not too shabby when it's quiet either</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />As all good things must end, so did <em>Songkran </em>come to a close. It was also time for Jon and I to separate, as he was moving on to Japan, and I to Laos. It had been a mad, wild two and a half randomly found weeks and I was (and continue to be) thankful to him for his suggestions along the way, his consistently manifested insanity, and his memory for Eddie Murphy <em>Raw </em>quotes which kept us in stitches during many an otherwise quiet moment.<br /><br />Safe travels Mr. Gui-<em>droz</em>.<br /><br />So I found myself alone again as the city emptied, and dried, out. When not crowded with revelers, it is a quiet, peaceful city, with a luminous night market and a vibrant local community. As I began again to enjoy my solitude (as one must), I knew that it was time to move on. The travel bugs which have infused themselves into me began to gnaw at my feet again, and the bold maps of South-East Asia in the guidebooks were looking too much like promises not to try and ensure that they were kept.<br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/1600/Picture%20006.6.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/594/1930/200/Picture%20006.6.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">The moat 2 days later. Bit of a change.</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><em>Next: </em>Trouble on the Mekong, more unbelievable hospitality, and the slow sleepy ways of Laos<br /><br />*BIG ASS DISCLAIMER! Almost none of these pictures are ones that I took. Due to the extremely wet and relentless nature of Songkran, I didn't want to risk the itty-bitty digital-ness of my camera. All of these pictures were taken of Songkran in Chiang Mai (where I was) in the past two years. I wanted to give an idea of what it was like*Norman Henry Pentelovitchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12390155598607641087noreply@blogger.com3