I'm Getting Married!!!

in 2008 . . . at least according to Madame Har, Geomancy, Palmistry & Fortune Teller in the Central Market in Kuala Lumpur, or "KL" as it is referred to by locals. "Kuala" means bank or confluence (where the Klang and Gombak Rivers meet) and "Lumpur" means mud. Ever since I first traveled to Europe and watched the airport destination boards flip in Frankfurt or Paris, I was intrigued by the city's name. I couldn't tell you where it was or what it meant, but I wanted to visit, perhaps because I knew so little.

Twenty-five years later, I was wide eyed on the express airport train into mud bank city. The night before I met friends of friends in Singapore at a fashion show for a new urban clothing line. The show was held at a trendy nightclub that was bursting at the seams with people. For the first hour, the show was center stage, but soon after, the evening turned into a mega dance party. Champagne and shots were flowing like they were being poured from a tap, which was not necessarily a good thing, as my new friends hospitably urged me to drink. But the drinks were a bit rich for my tastes so I handed them to a nearby woman in our group who was more than happy to dispose of the excess. At 3 a.m. I was "fashioned out" and tired from touring all day in the heat. My cue to exit stage left was unmistakeable when one of the guys that had been encouraging everyone to drink lost his cookies (and I don't mean chocolate chip) in the bar, and worse yet, on my shoe.

Back on the train into KL, the brightly lit interior of the train made it difficult to see the scenery passing by. Out of the station, I grabbed a cab to my hotel situated only blocks from the famous Petronas Towers. Billed as the "tallest twin towers in the world", the 88 story towers were actually the tallest buldings in the world until 2003 when the 101 story "Taipei 101" was completed in Taiwan. Nearing the hotel, the commanding towers came into view, illuminating the night sky. They were not only tall, but also architecturally pleasing with a sky bridge connecting them at the 41 and 42 floors.

Traffic delayed my arrival into KL as Saturday night meant that the locals and visitors alike were out in full force. Before leaving for KL, I tried my luck surfing, couch surfing that is. An up and coming website, growing in popularity by the month, couchsurfing.com connects travelers around the world with other like minded people who are willing to let strangers crash on their couches when passing through their home country. For those who don't want to crash on a couch, there is the "have a coffee or drink" option, which was my choice for KL.

I couchsurfed Devid and Lu Yen, a married couple, living in KL. They were in their late 20s and early 30s, professional and had traveled and worked all over the world. Arriving at my hotel after 11 p.m., I phoned Lu Yen to apologize and said that maybe we could exchange e-mails on what to do in and around town since it was so late. She and David were heading to Penang, Malaysia the next day for the Labor Day weekend so would be unable to meet in the days following. But moments after hanging up, the hotel phone rang. It was Lu Yen saying not to be worried about the late hour and to meet them at Qba, a salsa bar at the Westin Hotel. I gave her a brief description of my hair color, height and told her I would be wearing a striped shirt.

Walking into the Westin lobby, it appeared the evening festivities were over, but that was only the tip of the lobby iceberg. Two stories below, Qba was just getting warmed up with a latin band belting salsa sounds into the cigar smoke filled room. A sea of bodies twisted and turned on the dance floor, while hundreds of others looked on or circled the bar. It was happening, but my couchsurfing experience was in jeopardy.

When I gave my physical description earlier, I did not foresee the likelihood that just about every other guy in the place would have stripes on his shirt, be about my height and have similar skin and hair tones. I did not know what Lu Yen and David were wearing or what they looked like, so I circled the bar once hoping to find someone else looking equally lost, or at least searching for someone else. Of course, that is usually everyone in a bar, and Qba was no exception. Like a page torn from the book of "As Luck Would Have It", I stood on the perimeter of the bar near the patio, scanning the crowd, catching the eye of one girl who seemed to be staring back. There was no one else with her and I since I was expecting a couple, I initially disqualified her. But as I continued to sift through the grooving crowd, I continued to glance in her direction, until finally the stares were awkwardly long. "Lu Yen?" I asked from my high position above the patio. "Yes, Todd?", she said smiling out of relief.


Lu Yen and I reintroduced ourselves and instantly hit it off. Moments later, Devid brought drinks from the bar and we were mired in conversation ranging from KL to lifestories to global politics. David is an expat from Italy, half-French and half-Italian in the wireless telecom business serving as CTO for a division of Ericson. Lu Yen is a native Malaysian of Chinese descent. It was social butterfly Lu Yen who joined the couch surfing website earlier in April. We were all first time couch surfers and the dividends were huge (for me at least) as the duo let the info on Malaysia flow. From KL day time activities to nightlife to other areas of interest in Malaysia, I left our meeting with two pages of insider tips. We capped the night off with a visit to a local hawker stall where Malay, Indian and Chinese food is served 24x7. By the time we left the stall at 3:30 a.m., cars were double parked in the adjacent lot and all of the seventy-five tables were taken.

Sunday morning was a slow starter for me after the late night. List of "To See" and "To Do" in hand I was out the door at noon. First stop was the ever popular, Petronas Towers. Standing before them, listening to other visitors talk about the "Twin Towers", I couldn't help but reflect on the twin towers I knew, the World Trade Center. Craning my neck to take in full scope of the buildings, I squinted to see if I could imagine the former World Trade Center instead. I recalled visiting the WTC observation deck and restaurant as a boy, in awe of the towers' massive scale and the expansive city views. Significantly different than the WTC, the Petronas Towers were designed by a US based Argentinian architect, who adopted an Islamic pattern based on an eight-sided star. Each tower has five tiers, representing the five pillars of Islam. Interesting to note, the Petronas Towers are physically taller (with the use of 241 foot spires) than the WTC, but the WTC had higher occupied floors.

(Petronas Towers)
From Petronas Towers, I headed to the Merdeka Square, where on August 31, 1957, Malaysia claimed its independence from the British. Within blocks of the square, buildings of Victorian and Moorish architecture, Chinatown, the Central Market and three religious temples, a Buddhist monastery, a mosque and a Hindu temple can be found. While not quite as retentive as Singapore, KL is clean and efficient with an overhead monorail moving people across the sky from mall to mall. And a visit to the mall is as much a part of the cultural experience KL as a visit to the National History Museum.

As much as I avoid malls and shopping in general, shopping in KL is a mind blowing hyper sensory experience. Malls are connected to more malls as tens of thousands of people move about like ants on elevators, escalators and monorails. It's been a long time since I got lost in a department store staring through teary eyes looking for my Mom or Dad. But one hour in the Sungei Wang Mall and I was literally lost in the maze of two million square feet of retail. I was in retail hell, my worst nightmare.

I didn't know North from South, East from West, day from night. I might have tried to use "Famous Amos" as my landmark, if there weren't at least three Famous Amos' in the mall (I guess he's really famous in KL too). Or maybe I could have tried using one of the eight watch stores or twenty CD/DVD shops selling recent albums and titles for $1 each. But everything looked the same. Where is the floor that exits onto the street? On which side do I exit? Where the heck is a door? These were the questions going through my inquiring mind. Sure I wasn't solving a cure for global warming, but I reconfirmed my commitment to internet shopping.

Blurry eyed and stupefied, I stumpled down Jalan Sultan Ismail Road past five or six more malls to the retail safety of my hotel, which not surprisingly housed a few boutique shops selling overpriced local goods. Sunday evening was another night out on the town, this time solo, with lots of people watching, men, women, couples and "ladyboys" as they are referred to by the locals.

For about $8K US, men can go to Thailand and get the gender bending works, enslaving them to high heels, panty hose, lipstick, hormonal imbalances, and pricier hair cuts for life. At night, they stand in groups on street corners or bus stops licking their chops offering "massage" and "freaky time" to passing men. Taken in the right light, it's all fun and games, as long as caveat emptor is employed by the customers (including a big risk STD factor). For those who are unsuspecting, they will be in for the surprise of their lives, especially if one of their "dates" hasn't made the trip to Thailand yet. Some might call that getting more for your money (more bang for the buck?), while others would call it getting more than you bargained for.

Walk the Line

To get to Dolphin Lodge, I would have to go through Singapore, self styled, self restrained, self contained city, state and country. An island off the southern coast of peninsular Malaysia, Singapore is the epitome of tidy urban living to some and a sterile, over involved parent to others. In 1994, Singapore made headlines worldwide as the corporeal punishment of caning made news when an American businessman's son was caught tagging cars. Michael Fay, was caned four times, a reduction in his sentence after a request from President Clinton. Let’s just say, I haven’t seen a lot of tagging around town.

Twelve years later, Singapore still means business and the rules are no secret. Chewing gum is not on store shelves. Trash cans are abound and litter is surprisingly minimal for the country’s four million plus residents. Fines from $500 to $2,000 Singaporean Dollars lie in wait for litterbugs and public smokers. Jaywalk within fifty feet of a crosswalk and more fines stand to be collected. Singapore has a diverse population of Singaporeans, Chinese, Malay, Indian, Indonesians and other Asians from neighboring countries. My sense is that most enjoy the order, safety and unparalelled cleanliness in Asia and perhaps the world.

Singapore also has a large western expat community as it is a gateway for the west to the east, a stable economy in the midst of less stable and predictable countries (e.g. Indonesia, Myanamar (formerly Burma)). One recurring story told to me is of the many UK citizens who have settled in Singapore permanently because they enjoy the warmer weather, the slower pace and the “order” of the city compared to non-stop London. One relocated Brit, who declined a position at Cambridge to stay in Singapore described the city as, “what London would be if everything worked.”

Arriving Saturday night, I was curious to see how “clean” Singapore was in reality. Was it really a city of retentives that walked the line day in and day out with universal conformity? Under cover of darkness, the taxi ride from the airport had my neck craned upward as skyscraper after skyscraper came into view. The streets below were “sanitized” as I stuck my nose to the window scanning the highway shoulder for litter with none in sight. The lack of litter was pleasing to the eye and contrary to any country I had visited thus far. In a strange way, it gave me more peace of mind. Perhaps its less clutter outside, less clutter inside?

I checked into my hotel that I had booked off the internet from Cambodia. The “Hotel 81” chain was advertised as Singapore’s premier budget hotel with lots of awards. Walking into the lobby, my spidy senses went off immediately as young women ushered significantly older men arm in arm into the elevator. While I had reserved the room for the night, they had it for the hour.

Thoughts of checking out crossed my mind as I weighed the options, paying more than $160 US night or paying $60 at Hotel 81. Factored into my equation was the fact that it was almost 11 p.m. on a Saturday night and I wanted to explore. Dropping my backpack in the room, I ignored the mystery stains on the sheets and crusty bathroom sink. The sheets and sink would wait, Singapore nightlife would not.

The man behind the front desk directed me to Zouk, a three tiered bar/nightclub/lounge. At 11:30 on a Saturday night it was fairly mellow as groups milled about seated on red cushioned cubes in dim lighting sipping on 2 for 1 drinks. By this time in Cambodia or India, the bars were closing and the streets were empty, but Singapore was just getting warmed up. By 1 a.m., crowds were pouring in and the dance floors were in full swing. Good music and a diverse, trendy crowd was grooving to hip hop and techno hustle. Only a two and a half hour flight from Cambodia, I might as well have flown in from Mars. It was momentary and very short lived culture shock.

By three or four a.m. I called it quits and headed back to the no tell motel. But before meeting my bug mates, I headed to a “hawker” stall where food from all over the map is served 24x7. Ironically, I chose a veggie Vietnamese dish, solid late night carbo loading. And no night out is really complete in Singapore without hitting the 7-11 that can be found on every block. I’d place a modest bet on the fact that Singapore has more 7-11’s per capita than any other country in the world. And these aren’t just any 7-11’s, sure they have slurpees, but they also have chocolate croissants and a half dozen other fresh baked pastries. This was 7-11 gold.

In bed as daylight cracked the darkness, it would be just a few hours of shut-eye with the bed bugs before I would change hotels. By mid-morning the next day, I even contemplated just staying to avoid hassling with the move, but since the people showering down the hall sounded as if they were using my shower, I decided to move. Sure, there were still high heeled hourly hook-ups strutting through the revolving doors, but the walls were thicker.

Sunday in Singapore was a return to an old pass time I enjoyed as a kid, the long lost art of flea market haggling. A local taxi driver dropped me off at a local market where old, new, working, broken, junk and treasures were bartered, traded and sold. It was just what I loved about such markets, you never know what you’re going to find. Unlike the massive malls lining each block of Singapore, the flea market had little order and to find any treasure, the eyes had to focus intensely at each table or blanket on the ground. There were items from all over the world, watches, cameras, computer parts, jewelry, knick-knacks and coins (mostly counterfeit). It was a potpourri of junk. And for once, sanity prevailed as I walked away empty handed.

Post vagabond shopping, I navigated through Little India, grabbing a bite of the much missed spicy and flavorful Indian cuisine. For a few hours I flirted with franchising a business with 3D holographic art. A father and son business, Tushiv is a company that has been exporting edible products such as soybeans for fifty years, but recently stumbled onto an art process that they have now patented. I toyed with the idea of running the summer art festival circuit in California selling out their stock presently sitting in storage in NY, but was not able to get approval from the trip gods, despite another meeting with the owners resulting in reduced pricing today. (There’s a business owner somewhere inside me waiting to get out.)

Singapore is not for the adventure traveler, but if you like shopping and a large variety of international cuisine, Singapore has something in store for you, just don’t spit out your after dinner mint while crossing the middle of the street.

Deep Down, Man's Best Friend

Before my voice changed as a teenager, I used to mimic the dolphin laugh fairly well during and after episodes of Flipper. (Hey, I was an only child so I had to entertain myself somehow.) Flipper was like the Lassie of the sea. Somehow he always knew when trouble was brewing and practically managed to fire a flare gun warning of danger in virtually every episode. If Flipper were alive today, he’d probably be using his own "flip" cell phone to place 911 calls. Maybe Hollywood played a part with some low tech tricks, but nevertheless I was convinced that a pet dolphin would be a solid friend and playpal. But since we didn’t have a pool and a routine delivery of 8 kilograms of fish per day, it never seemed to pan out.


Some of the most enjoyable and memorable moments in life are those that come least expected and with little adieu. Today I experienced one of those moments, I danced with dolphins. Mouth to mouth, hand to flipper, eye to eye with a sea creature, the land equivalent being a combination of a dog’s good nature with an elephant’s native intelligence encased in slick skin made from the finest silk, I was underwater with Pluto, Eddie Murphy, Bim Bim, and three other friendly porpoises for an hour and a half.


Earlier in the morning, I began to wonder if I was jumping through a circus of unnecessary hoops, passing through immigration, as I boarded the Penguin Express, departing Singapore for an unscheduled trip to the island of Batam, Indonesia. A little more than an hour later and I was forking over $10 US to obtain a 7 day visa at the port. The immigration official carefully inspected my US Dollars, twice rejecting the currency tendered, the first time claiming that one of the Five Dollar bills was not clean enough and the second time claiming that the serial number on my ten spot was not acceptable. Fortunately, I had a few ten’s leftover from my ATM visit in Cambodia and was able to produce an approved serial number.

On the other side of the customs control, a mustached man with mirrored sunglasses asked me if I was there for “Dolphin Lodge”, to which I replied affirmatively. We hopped in a waiting Land Cruiser and headed to pick up three other porpoise seekers, a family from Australia, David, Jenny and their 10 year old daughter, Zoe. For forty-five minutes the four of us got acquainted as the Land Cruiser crossed the island to yet another, much smaller waiting “speed” boat, a gratuitous adjective with no correlation to the actual velocity at which the boat traveled. The trip to Batam and the private island situated a twenty nautical minutes from it was looking more like Gilligan’s Island and less like the three hour tour I expected.

But my doubts and fears would be put to rest just minutes after setting foot on the small island of 18 human and 10 dolphin inhabitants. On approach to the island dock, I could see a small bus load of Korean tourists standing on the wood planks peering down into the waters below snapping photos. My hopes of a small intimate meeting with the dolphins was fading, until the spring of hope sprung and I learned that they did not have their swimming suits, and thus, would not be partaking in porpoise pleasure.

Catering to my vacation attention span, the instructions about swimming with the dolphins were completed in less than three minutes. “Don't touch the tail, the blow hole, don't move quickly,” yadda, yadda, yadda, “let's get in the water already.” A release of all liability form was served up for signature, and giving it the old lawyerly review, I glanced only to see where to pen my signature. We suited up and headed down the 100 foot wood plankway on stilts fifteen feet above the water. On approach, chatter erupted from below, as three dolphins looked skyward to inspect the approaching visitors. High pitch tones and guttural clicks were conveniently interpreted as invitations to join them in the salt water below.

With two trainers, the four of us made our way down to a dock as we “oohed” and “awed” at the up close and personal meeting with the creatures from another world, water world. I hopped in as fast as I could hand my camera to the trainer and immediately began reaching out for a connection. And unlike my experience at school dances in the eighth grade, my advances were well received.

Zoe might have been considered the only “official” kid in the water, but submerged with the dolphins, all of us became kids again. It was Cocoon, the Indonesian version. For forty-five minutes, wonderment and magic filled the transoceanic visitors. It was a meeting of two worlds. The dolphins kissed, hugged, rolled over for belly rubs and performed tricks. Gently rubbing the underside of the dolphin, the trainer paused my hand next to the dolphin's right flipper, “Feel his heartbeat?” Indeed I did and I was hooked, line and sinker for these incredible creatures.

Only nets between the open waters and their swim areas kept these rescued dolphins from heading out to sea. For one reason or another, these dolphins would no longer survive in the wild and “Dolphin Lodge” was a refuge created as their “retirement home” to live out the remainder of their years. They were well fed and cared for by a staff of eighteen, whose sole purpose on the island was to tend to their needs and facilitate the visitor's swim program.

Lunch was served after our first session. An hour and a half later, we were back in the water with three different dolphins, this time taking our experience to another level. We started with the usual general frolicking, but then we moved to deeper waters and I was set up in the middle of the swim area on my stomach as everyone else looked on. I had no idea what to expect as I was first, but my guessing was over when two mouths (I call them noses) pointed into the bottoms of my feet and proceeded to propel me to shore. Pluto and Eddie Murphy (their actual names) were both putting their four hundred pounds of pure dolphin flesh to motor me like Superman across the top of the water.
The stunt was repeated three more times with the Australian family as ear to ear smiles crossed their faces. And because we were such a small group, the tricks continued. We were taught to deliver hand signals for flips, dancing, jumping, kissing and hugging. Soon, we were holding the dolphin high bar event as we each took turns holding a bar above our heads as two dolphins shot over us. Next, I found myself in the Olympic ring toss sending multi-colored rings as far away as possible only to have them fetched and “hula hooped” back around their mouths. Finally, it was world cup soccer time as I threw a soccer ball over my head for the old “put it between your flippers” and return trick. Wonder if they could do that with the newspaper?

Today time stopped, at least my perception of its movement. It was one of the few experiences thus far where I've had the hands on opportunity to connect with a creature normally found exclusively in the wild. And there is something incredibly powerful when that connection is forged. For me, it is a greater sense of interconnectedness of all living creatures on the planet. There is no malice, no intent to harm, just unconditional childlike playfulness.

All I could do to communicate was use my touch. Matching their sounds must be next to impossible for the unassisted human vocal chords. But if I could have spoken their language, I would have apologized for man's poor stewardship of the oceans. While today was an amazingly positive experience, in the back of my mind the destruction and disappearance of dolphin habitats and entire dolphin species reared its uncomfortable head.

So I have a brief, but important earth service message, if you eat tuna, please make sure it is “dolphin safe” by reading the label and boycott shops selling shark fins or shark fin soup (Don't worry, WalMart doesn't carry shark fins . . . yet). Maybe it's just the dolphins using the Vulcan mind meld talking through me, or perhaps I swallowed too much salt water, but these steps, while small, lead in the right direction and the long haul starts with baby steps. Whole Foods has a list in stores and several websites discuss all of the endangered fish (some of them on the verge of extinction forever) if you are feeling like Aqua Wo/Man and want to learn more.

Anchor What?

Or rather Angkor Wat, one of the Seven Wonders of the Modern World. Before the new millennium I would have given you a quizzical look at the mention of the name. More than thirty years of conflict with wars between the Khmer Rouge and the government and against the Vietnamese and the French curbed Cambodia’s tourist appeal. The country was perhaps better known for it’s “Killing Fields” as was first detailed in a non-fiction book and later dramatized in a Hollywood film of the same name. Today, Cambodia (mostly Siem Reap) is a new hot spot attracting over a million tourists annually and climbing.


Boarding the first available flight to Siem Reap from Ho Chi Minh City, my Fokker 77 departed at 3:40 in the afternoon. Given the late time of the departure, I was relegated to the day being one of pure transit and preparation for the coming visit to the temples. An hour and some rocky turbulence later, I was pleased my Fokker landed safely on the ground and hurriedly completed my visa application for entry into the country. The process was surprisingly smooth and I was out the door, luggage in hand, in less than 30 minutes.

Moving out of the terminal I presented my prepaid taxi voucher to a driver waiting nearby. The center of Siem Reap was about six kilometers from the international airport, the existence of which can be exclusively attributed to the Angkor temples. Just past the airport perimeter, I asked Thy (Pronounced “T”), my driver, if he would take a detour before going to my hotel. The sun would set in less than thirty minutes and I was hopeful that I could reach the main temple, Angkor Wat, at the end of daylight when it would be less crowded. For a steep $10, “half day charge’, Thy agreed and we drove past the hotel on the busy road to the main temple of attraction.

Pulling in front of the temple, there were a few hundred people returning from the main Angkor Wat temple to the road. I grabbed my camera bolting out of the car into the temple hoping I would be able to sneak my way past the guards, or at worst, resort to compensating them for staying past closing. Across the first causeway spanning a moat that was once 21 feet deep and today is more than forty yards wide, I caught my first glimpse of the main Angkor temple stuppas. Much like the Taj Mahal, a visitor’s first glimpse of the main attraction is through a door way, in this instance the perimeter wall around the temple.

The temple was clearing out as the sun set and I zigged and zagged my way around “security” ushering people on their way out of the temple courtyard. As light was swallowed by darkness, the shadows on the temple sandstone, comprising most of the exterior, revealed twenty shades of gray. Soon, I was alone in the temple courtyard snapping photos freely sans unknown random tourists in my viewfinder. “Beginner’s luck,” I thought to myself, as I was able to shoot the temples unobstructed, albeit in increasingly dim light.

Originally, Angkor Wat was known as just Angkor. “Angkor” literally translated means capital and “Wat” means temple. Commissioned by King Suryavarman II in the 12th century, the largest religious structure in the world took 38 years and more than 30,000 laborers to complete. It was not until the 16th century that the compound was put to use as a Buddhist shrine. Interestingly enough, there is a tremendous Hindu influence with carvings of Hindu gods Vishnu, Brahma and Shiva appearing throughout. For hundreds of years during the Spice Trade, Indians traveling to the Far East frequented the land known today as Cambodia. The resulting Buddhism practiced in Cambodia maintains heavy overtones of Hinduism.

(View of Angkor Wat at sunset from Phnom Bakheng)

When the last bit of light succumbed to nightfall, I found Thy, who returned me to a guesthouse of his choosing and subsequently a restaurant he recommended. Feeling he was not trying to scam me, I agreed to have him drive me to the temples with a guide friend of his the following day.

The following morning, Thy was prompt and his friend, Kham Rint, was ready to guide me through more than six centuries of Khmer history. Attempting to miss the tour bus crowds we started with west facing Angkor Wat as it was usually on the sunset agenda for large groups whereas Angkor Thom was east facing better for morning visits. As I had already been to Angkor Wat in the evening, visiting in the morning was a non-issue.

Khemrint, 27 years old, was not alive when Pol Pot, with the tacit (or perhaps explicit) permission of the King, was busy with the mass genocide of 1.7 million Khmers. From 1975-1979, Pol Pot's Khmer Rouge terrorized the countryside with brutal violence, and after he was pushed out of the country from international pressure, he continued his terror rampage for the next 20 years from his compound near the Cambodia/Thai border. Khermrint, who grew up outside of Siem Reap, recalls vividly scattering through the jungle behind his home as bullets whizzed by him hitting leaves within feet of him. His boyhood home, like many others in the rural communities, had a deep hole behind it for hiding during attacks from the Khmer Rouge. His father worked as an accountant for the government so he was in a persistent state of worry that his father would be singled out by the rebels for regularly occurring assassinations. Fortunately, his father was never targeted.

Today, Khemrint no longer lives in fear, but he does not believe Pol Pot is dead and he is not alone. Many Cambodians remain unconvinced that Pol Pot died in 1998 despite being shown pictures of his body. The air of Siem Reap is non-violent for the moment, thanks in large part to the large influx of foreign money to the province. Interest from abroad is so strong that Japan has taken a vested interest in Cambodia’s national monuments and pride.

In 2005, a Japanese company entered into a 30 year lease for the Cheung Ek Killing Fields at the absurdly low sum of fifteen thousand US dollars per year. And it is rumored, although I have been unable to confirm that Japan has also leased the Angkor Wat temples and collects a large percentage of the $20 per day tourist charge. By next year, a larger airport with new terminals and a longer runway will be completed permitting larger planes from international destinations to land. And who funded this large scale project you might ask? You might have guessed it, Japan.


(One of 216 faces at Bayon)

There are more than three hundred temples in total throughout the Siem Reap region. Only thirteen are open to visitors. At the present and growing rate of mass tourism, the monuments are in need of a lot of maintenance and protection from further looters. Already the heads of most of the buddhas, gods and demons have been removed, some for private collections and others for museum displays in France and Phnom Penh (Cambodia's capital). Still, if you are heading to SE Asia, Siem Reap is a must see destination as the temples magically transport you 1,000 years back in time.

("Band of Monks")

Roopa Update

Good news from Bombay. I received e-mails from both Shubi and Roopa. Shubi explained that the doctor has permitted Roopa to return to all of her normal daily activities, including walking and yoga. Her chemo treatment for April 12th was postponed until April 19 due to low hemoglobin. All told, the doctor is pleased with her progress.

Roopa e-mailed me herself which is also a good sign. Before leaving Bombay, she was pretty much residing in her room, not moving about to the upper floor of the condo where the computer was connected to the internet. Today, Roopa will likely receive another chemo treatment. As Roopa put it in her e-mail, "my tools have started working miraculously." She is meditating and listening to mantras from the Art of Living on a daily basis. I will follow-up with any more news as I receive it.

Cherish everyday and life will be full of beauty and enlightenment. It is free to all who desire it because it is a state of being (mind).

Next stop, Siem Reap, Cambodia, home to the lost, but since found, temples of Angkor Wat.

The Remnants of War

War. It has plagued man as long as man has existed, whether in hand to hand combat for the "rights" to a cave woman or the seemingly polite and formal British firing lines of the American Revolution or an aerial bombardment from 40,000 miles above the ground. Despite the fact that humans have the unique ability to foresee the outcome, each day around the globe, at least a hundred wars continue. For me, the past few weeks has been an unexpected up close and personal view of war.

Fortunate not to be drafted into service and even more fortunate to visit Vietnam thirty years after the war, my entire understanding of war was shaped by books, photos and the Discovery Channel, KQED and National Geographic. Yesterday, I had the unexpected and bone chilling experience to spend several hours at the War Remnants Museum in Ho Chi Minh City to add to my education. Disappointed from a failed visit to the Reunification Palace, the former "White House" for the South Vietnamese government, which remains largely untouched from the day it was abandoned in 1975, I went to my back-up plan, the War Museum. (Note: The Reunification Palace is scheduled to reopen in June 2006 after renovation.)

("Reunification Palace")

Expecting a propaganda fest at the War Museum (formally known as the Museum of Chinese and American War Crimes), I anticipated breezing through the museum in thirty minutes or less. Already, I had visited the Vinh Moc tunnels, the Citadel in Hue, Khe San and many other sights of military significance. As the moto driver pulled up to the front gate, I could see the familiar US war tanks and planes parked in the front. I paid my 15,000 Dong ($1) admission fee and blazed in, ready to make a sweep in record time.


A spin through a few tanks and a Howitzer artillery gun, I moved inside to a thick wave of heat where a hundred plus on-lookers gazed at the walls in complete silence. Any description I attempt here is no substitute for an actual visit, putting faces to some of the more than 58,000 names of US troops killed or missing in action at the Vietnam War Memorial in Washington DC. In three rooms, there were mostly black and white photographs on every wall, some detailing the French conflict, but most highlighting the American War.

The most touching part of the memorial had never occurred to me before yesterday. One large room was dedicated to the journalists who covered the war, and in the process lost their lives. Fifty-four in all, pictures of the photographers killed in the field hung next to their "last photograph" plucked from their camera after their demise in a helicopter crash, or when their plane was shot down leaving Khe San, or after grabbing a gun and leading trapped troops out of harm in the thick of the jungle. The stories were incredible, exemplifying true bravery, conviction and mission. All of them were driven to report on the actual events so that the rest of the world could safely see the fear, ugliness and horrors of war.

It is their front line images of pained faces, mangled bodies and decimated landscapes that serve as grotesquely vigilant reminders that the battleground should be avoided where diplomacy and compromise still have a seat at the table. Thirty one years since the war concluded, the Vietnamese still live with geographic (dioxins in the soil from Agent Orange and unexploded mines and ordinance still embedded in the ground) and human scars as do many American veterans. There are lessons to be learned from the war, many of which were taught to me in college, but despite the lessons and losses, war continues like a bad roller coaster ride where no one can get off. Perhaps it is driven by DNA or superego or a bad childhood, whatever it is, there are few signs that man is actually learing from history, rather just repeating it.

The Vietnamese government still considers the "American War" as its greatest achievement since the Communist Party was founded by Ho Chi Minh during the Cold War era. Pictures of Marx, Stalin, Lenin and Ho Chi Minh hang in shops and on billboards throughout the country. There is a great deal of pride associated with the defeat of America, the Superpower. Diplomatic relations between the US and Vietnam resumed in 1993, President Clinton visited in 2000 and today Vietnam hopes to become a member of the World Trade Organization in 2006 The scars are slowly healing on this wound, but unfortunately it seems that the lessons too are fading with time.


(Saigon by Day)






(Saigon by Night)

Saigon, Easter Sunday

("Chanh")

No Easter eggs to hunt, I set afoot to explore Saigon (now referred to as Ho Chi Minh City). The city maps and lonely guide in hand, I plotted the sights of interest and areas of cultural richness. Flying into the city on Saturday night, my head was spinning from all of the bright lights and city slicker action. My experience in Vietnam thus far had been tame with early restaurant and shop closures mandated by the government, but Saigon seemed to have an immunity, or at least a longer leash, from such restrictions.

Saigon, city of almost seven million people, is no stranger to capitalism, in fact, it may be more capitlistic than the economies of the West, as the US Dollar is king. Bribery is abound in the government, so much so, that seats in the ministry and parliment are actually bought and sold behind closed doors. You want to be Minister of the Interior? Pay $1 million US Dollars and you may just be able to buy the necessary votes from the powers that be. It may sounds like a stiff price tag, but over the course of five years, you are bound to make at least $1 million each year.

The difference between Hanoi and Saigon reminded me of the development differences between Western and Eastern Europe during the Cold War. Hanoi is a tame controlled kitten compared to the giant tiger of Saigon. With the likes of shops such as L'Occitane, Tods, Prada, Addidas, Nike and Rolex, Saigon's residents are more fashion and brand conscious than one would expect in a communist country. But as I've come to learn, about the only thing communist about Vietnam is the politics, not the economy. Vietnam's largest city, Saigon, is an emerging market with a cheap labor force and a lot of resources and cash.

Easter under full swing in Saigon, I left the hotel planning to walk much of the city on foot, but within steps outside, I was approached by a cyclo driver offering to peddle me around the city for 50,000 Vietnamese Dong ($3.20) per hour. His price was too high and I wanted to walk which I did for several blocks, until I was approached by another cyclo driver, this time for 30,000 Dong the first hour and 25,000 Dong each hour thereafter. Desiring to walk, he handed me a laminated piece of paper with broken english typed onto it. It stated that he fought in the Vietnam War for South Vietnamese Army next to Americans. When the Americans left in 1975, he was imprisoned for nine years, during which he was tortured at various times.

Chanh (last name withheld to protect his identity), now 52 years old, was skin and bones weighing no more than 135 lbs and missing most of his teeth. His story was compelling and I had heard that some Vietnamese veterans were cyclo drivers as that was all the government would permit them to do. To this day, those identified as S. Vietnamese supporters thirty years ago are not permitted to live in certain Districts of Saigon, nor are they permitted to obtain a license to drive a car or motorbike, less strenuous and higher paying options.

Chanh began peddling me about town, talking non-stop about the war, the communist government and his life since the end of the war. It was a brutal story, losing his parents while he was imprisoned, losing all of his possessions and being relegated to a cyclo driver as the police would not let him do anything else. I wanted to understand every bit of his story, but it was difficult to make out what he was saying as he repeated every word twice and spelled every third word, sometimes correctly, sometimes not. It felt more like 1976 than 2006, the war was still fresh in his mind as if he relived it everyday.

("Chanh" looks at city map to plot our next stop.)

He peddled me through several districts of Saigon pointing out Pagodas, China Town, and buildings where significant events took place during the war. I was surprised at the strength and skill he demonstrated maneuvering the cyclo through intersections where motorized vehicles appeared from all directions. Riding in a cyclo for a few hours in Vietnam is a must as you get a front seat view of the action on the streets with motorbikes, buses and cars whizzing by.

However, a few hours into the ride, I was tired just from trying to make sense of his tour chatter and we parted ways. I didn't get to walk as much as I wanted, but I got a lot of mileage in understanding the Vietnam War from the South Vietnamese persepective, one of great suffering and enduring consequences for decades, or perhaps a lifetime.

(View from the cyclo.)

Easter dinner found me in an Art Gallery Cafe feasting on a Caesar Salad and Veggie Sandwich. Just outside the cafe, thousands of motorbikes with men and women locked in arms rode past. Sunday nights were big for getting out and about with your girlfriend, boyfriend or spouse. The city was alive with motorbikes buzzing around the streets of District 1 as if circling the hive. It seems cruising on Sunday nights is a favorite city passtime.

Before retiring to my hotel, I went to a Western style bar, literally Western, like cowboy shoot 'em up. Inside a travelling Phillipino band belted out solid cover songs spanning 50 years. The crowd was a mix of expats and locals. One man came in with his laptop case, taking one of the few empty seats near me. Now a big fan of the nationality guessing game, I thought he might be American. Curiosity driving me, I asked him where he was from. Turns out he was American, last place of residence, Boston, but moved to Vietnam one year ago to start his own securities firm. Steven was about my age, and as he explained it, was pursuing a career in the Wild West. By his estimates, the Vietnamese economy is getting hot and his research is being used to attract hundreds of millions of dollars.

Steven gave me some inside scoop on the country, the culture and the government. He is careful with what he writes in his e-mails and has a local Vietnamese person engage in the normal course of bribery to make things happen. Sometimes he knows he is followed, other times he is not sure. As he explained it, it all has to do with the "high profile" nature of you or your actions. With a new business budding, he intended to play the "party" line to capitalize on the booming market. He was taking a lot of risk in starting a business in a country where the government has complete autocratic control. But the Wild West had its challenges and the potential for another gold rush was too good for him to pass up.

Greetings from the South China Sea

Moving around day to day is par for the course in seeing bits and pieces of the world, but once in awhile it’s nice to take a break from the constant packing and repacking and the repeated bus/car/train/moto/plane/cyclo rides. For those wishing to get away from it all in Vietnam, Hoi An offers a beautiful beach setting and town on the South China Sea.

Known for its tailors and art galleries, five hundred fifty kilometers south of Hanoi, Hoi An has many spots for vacationers looking to get away from it all. The upside is that you can bring your family, kids et al, the downside is that you can bring your family and the fact that if you do not leave your beachside hotel, you could be anywhere from Hawaii to the Carribean to the Greek Isles. Step into any one of the beachside resorts and a polite service oriented atmosphere with an infinity pool set ten meters off the beach awaits.

Traveling through India and Hanoi on a lower budget, arriving in Hoi An at the Victoria Resort was reverse comfort shock. As if finding an oasis in the desert, my eyes and stomach feasted upon the trays of fresh fruit, the varied Vietnamese and western breakfasts, beyond Pho and Mi Tom (local noodle dishes) and the multi-stationed dinner buffet. With temperatures ranging from 90 to 95 degrees with what felt like 100% humidity, the AC, pool and private beach provided welcome relief. I was happy to kick back for a few days finding a mini-vacation from the road before Jason returned to the states.

But staying in comfort has its drawbacks too. Thus far, for most of the trip, my days have been packed full of seeing points of interest, visiting historic sites and navigating my way around a new unfamiliar city/town/village. Presented with all of the creature comforts, our motivation to spend 4+ hours in a car to see the tourist spots dwindled to a standstill in exchange for some visits to a tailor and many art galleries. Still thirsty for our independence, we rented two motorbikes for the duration of our stay in Hoi An, a respite from putting ourselves at the mercy of many unknown drivers carting us hundreds of kilometers throughout the country.

Prior to our 130 kilometer ride to the edge of the S. China Sea, the former imperial seat of Vietnam, Hue (pronounced “Who way”), served as our home for touring historic military sites from the Vietnam War. The city of Hue itself was the stage for one of the bloodiest battles during the war, the Tet Offensive. It was the only S. Vietnamese city to be occupied by the N. Vietnamese Army for more than a few days during the war. Under twenty-five days of occupation, the N. Vietnamese Army conducted house to house searches pulling more than 3,000 suspected S. Vietnamese government supporters from their homes resulting in their clubbing, shooting or live burial in mass graves.

(Partial view of former Imperial Palace.)

It was also from the streets of Hue that the first images of Thich Quang Duc, a Buddhist monk, setting himself ablaze in protest of the religious persecution by the S. Vietnamese Diem government (supported by the US) that caught the attention of the world media circuit in 1963. Such images were seen around the world and later would be copied by others monks and nuns across Vietnam more than a dozen times, sometimes in protest of the war and other times protesting the lack of religious freedom. Regardless of the motivation, pictures of the flames engulfing the robed bodies would become permanently emblazoned in the American conscience.

(Thich Quang Duc immolates himself.)
More than forty years later, Hue is now a town of commerce and tourism, drawing hundreds of tourists to the old Imperial Palace (mostly destroyed by bombs in the war with the French and later US) each day. The scars of the war may run deep, but they are not visible at the surface or in the kind smiles of the city's residents. And as for Thich Quang Duc, there is no memorial or marker at the intersection where he took his own life, all that remains is the dramatic image in the collective mind's eye of the world.

Khe Sanh and Vinh Moc

(Khe San US chopper crash)

Less than a week ago, I might have thought the title to this blog entry referred to a tasty Vietnamese noodle dish, but after today, I know differently. Setting out on motorbikes with a "guide", Truan, who we met at a restaurant a day earlier, we left our hotel in the early morning hours for the hundred plus kilometer trip. Our goal was to see a bit of the war history and get off the beaten tourist path, if at all possible.

After two days on Ha Long Bay with 17 other tourists on the "Dragon Pearl" (our boat)and twenty other boats around ours, finding unchartered waters was proving a challenge in Vietnam. And at all of the tourist stops, the environment was being taxed by the reckless handling and overuse of natural resources. Ha Long Bay is comprised of more than 3,000 islands of varying sizes. Because of its rare beauty, it has been identified as a World Heritage Site, which has the unfortunate effect of placing it in the eye of the tourist storm.

In that storm, trash and gasoline carpet the surface of the water tarnishing nature's invitation to swim in the aqua green water. In Vietnam's rush to usher in tourist dollars, the past ten years has seen dramatic growth in the industry, but with little or no environmental safeguards or regulation. Ha Long Bay is certainly no secret and it's continuing demise reminded me of the many short sighted decisions humans often make. Ha Long Bay is not so long for this world. A few more years of daily visits hundreds of tourists staying on heavily polluting diesel powered Chinese junk-its and the bay's ecology and beauty will be lost forever.

Following that experience, Jason and I agreed that we would not take another tour while in Vietnam. Instead, we would search for areas not on the tourist hot spots. Finding those spots was reasonably easy, getting there was another story. Already reminicsing about our Easy Rider days in Sapa, we were eager to relive the freedom of the open road. No more mini-van or mini-bus, it was motorbike time.

Hopping a flight from Hanoi to Hue, Vietnam, Jason mapped out a few areas of military significance during the Vietnam War. Stopping for lunch at a cafe in an alley in downtown Hue, Truan welcomed us to his restaurant and immediately pulled up a chair to join us. Within minutes he had handed us a book with recommendations for on other travelers he had taken on tours. His English was not great, but we understood his points. Explaining to Truan that we wanted to do a motorbike tour, he said, "no problem" and gave us a "complete package" price of 640,000 Vietnamese Dong (or $40 US).

As planned, Truan delivered us to two motorbikes. Getting out of Hue was our first foray into seeing Vietnam at the ground level. Throngs of motorbikes, bicycles, mini-vans and taxis jockeyed for position along each inch of the road and merged like a drunk basket weave at each intersection. It is an experience unjustly served by words, but more aptly felt with your left hand thumb on the horn, your right hand on the throttle and front break, your left foot on your gear peddles and your right foot manning the rear brake while you search for your lane in a sea of moving people. It was exhilarating.

Reaching the city limits, bike traffic dropped off, but was replaced by a larger menace, massive dump trucks and passenger buses traveling from Saigon to Hanoi. On a two-lane road, one lane for each direction, whether you understand physics or not, one quickly learns the force of wind displaced by the front grill of a very large object moving at 65 kph as it is passing. Also not going unnoticed is the very loud sounding horn, seemingly borrowed from the Dukes of Hazard set, blaring in your ear and squeezing your chest as your eyes desire to shut in avoidance of the potential ugly and losing outcome from an unsuccessful pass. And even if the pass is successful, you are then left to choke on black fumes blowing from the tailpipe and chew on road dirt stirred into a small tornado awaiting your entry as you trail behind. Yes, this was the taste of freedom.

An hour into our ride, we stopped for a quick drink (non-alcholic of course, unless we were on a suicide mission). Truan mentioned that we were 16 km from Khe Sanh, a former US military base Jason had read about. 16 km seemed like a breeze and we returned to the road anxious to get to our first designated stop. An hour and a half plus a fuel stop later, we were still 10 kilomters from Khe Sanh soon realizing that Truan had said "60" and not "16" kilometers.

We had journeyed for almost three hours, there was no turning back. Without fanfare, Truan turned right onto a small one lane road with 5 foot green shrubbery on either side. One kilometer down the roughly paved road and we parked in front of a house with a large gate to the side. There were no cars or motorbikes in sight. It looked as if we perhaps Truan had made a wrong turn. Truan spoke to the man at the house and 50,000 Vietnamese Dong later, he was opening the side gate, a gate that at one time lead to a hell on earth, Khe Sanh firebase.

Khe Sanh was the northernmost US combat airbase in Vietnam during the war, situated 7 miles from the Laotian border and approx 40 kilometers south of the 17th parallel, also known as the demilitarized zone ("DMZ"). In 1968, the North Vietnamese army launched an offensive on the base using 20,000 troops. The Battle of Khe Sanh lasted months, with both sides taking heavy casulaties. In the end, it is reported that the People's Army of Vietnam suffered more than 9,000 casualties and the US casualties ranged from 205 to 500 (depends on source).

Standing in the middle of the remanants of the base in the blistering sun with 95% humidity, surrounded by green mountains everywhere the eye could see, I wondered what we the US military was thinking when it stationed soldiers in the middle of nowhere to hold a piece of hill top. Driving in the heat of day passing tiny villages in the last 60 kilometers on Highway 9, thought to parallel the famous Ho Chi Minh Trail, it was difficult to believe we were heading to a site of strategic importance. Having no military background, I don't know the "ins and outs" of war, but armed with a noodle of common sense and an inkling for the pragmatic, it was surprising that experienced generals would focus so many resources and attention in the middle of the jungle.

The terrain was thick with foliage, most of which grew back after being exposed to napalm (fire bomb) and agent orange (deforestation chemical). For years, the US struggled to find the N. Vietnamese Army's supply lines and tunnels. An hour trekking through the Vietnamese jungle would prove challenging for the experienced jungle ranger, much less the conventionally trained soldier. The N. Vietnamese knew the terrain as it was their home. They had the support of the local villagers and craftily constructed tunnel networks and hid in old mines to escape harm by massive US bombing raids.

Our visit was during a pleasant time of year, no monsoon and not yet the hottest month of the season. Imagining long term exposure to the heat, humidity and mosquitoes without air conditioning was bad enough, add to that incoming artillery, rocket, mortar, machine gun and small arms fire aimed at your demise made it pure hell. Thirty plus years later and Khe Sanh is generally viewed as a military blunder by the US. The theory behind the base in the middle of nowhere was to search and destroy the N. Vietnamese supply lines, but the base was too far from US supply lines and in unfamiliar terrain for the conventionally trained US troops.

The N. Vietnamese Army's seige on Khe Sanh is credited with weakening the American people's support of the war as images from the base were televised on the nightly news. Ultimately, after many casualites and loss of aircraft trying to land and resupply the base, the US pulled out of the base, which began the slow withdrawal from the war altogether.

During my visit to the barron base where little vegitation grows today from chemicals in the soil, a Vietnamese man approached with a knap sack bag, the contents of which he emptied onto a wood board. He thumbed through the metals holding pieces up for my inspection while he said two words, "Viet Cong". He was a local villager and had searched for scrap metal from the soils of war. Offering to sell me the metals, I scanned the scraps and found five US dogtags which hit the pit of my stomach. The skeptic in me questioned their authenticity, but the realist in me knew that they were probably harvested from the battle lorn soil. I held each of the tags in my hand, reviewing the name, blood type and religion of each man's tag. Holding the tags was an eery feeling that brought the past suffering of other's to the present.
Anger and sadness filled me as I believed the tags already belonged to the families of the fallen soldiers and that this man was now trying to profit from their sale.

Forty-five minutes into our tour of the old base, Truan motioned that we had to leave in order to see the remaining sights. We motored off the base, down the nondescript road, in the middle of nowhere leaving a dusty trail of red soil behind. Cruising what turned out to be sixty kilometers each way down Highway 9, we passed small villages, beautiful streams and scenic mountains. It was hard to believe that the area had once seen the ugliness of war.

After a fresh vegetarian lunch in a small town near the DMZ and one hundred kilometers of countryside later, we arrived at the village of Vinh Moc. In the mid-1960s, the village was comprised similar to the nearby villages in Vietnam today, thatch roofs, bamboo walls, raised on stilts five feet off of the ground. North of the 17th parallel, the village was located in N. Vietnam. In an attempt to fight the N. Vietnamese Army, the village sustained massive bombing raids. Resilient and hard working, the villagers constructed many kilomters of multi-storied tunnels for sleeping, eating, medical care, meetings, school, all the ongoings of daily life.

Massive bombing raids overhead left huge craters on the surface, the scars of which can still be seen today walking above the tunnel network. Arriving at 4:00 p.m. in the afternoon, Jason and I were introduced to Minh, our guide for the tunnels. Minh's english was good and his knowledge of the village and war was excellent as he was personally familiar with both. Thirty-four years old, Minh did not have any memories of his father as he was killed in the Vietnam War when Minh was a few years old. Minh's family was from Vinh Moc and as a little boy he had spent many days in the tunnels, most of which he did not remember.

(Underground mock up of maternity ward where 17 babies were born.)

Touring the tunnels where 94 families had lived for years with Minh was educational and touching. Minh explained that the Vietnamese people like the American people, but not the US government. He was friendly, warm and responsive to our barrage of questions attempting to grasp the essence of life in the tunnels. Descending into the tunnels, Jason and I hunched over, our backpacks scraping the tunnel ceiling. We passed sleeping quarters for families, the size of which were three feet by seven feet with a height of perhaps three feet. The tunnel network was elaborate with air shafts, underground wells and a smokeless kitchen.

(High point in tunnel where I could actually stand up.)

While some of the tunnels remained undetected during the war, others collapsed under heavy bombs dropped from B-52 bombers. When caught in a collapsed tunnel, people often died from lack of oxygen if not killed in the initial blast. Crouching through the tunnels for twenty minutes and I was already missing daylight. It was difficult to imagine living each day in darkness with only kerosene lamps and lard candles as the only source of light for days on end. Soon enough though, Jason and I would have our own lighting issues.

(Jason ascends out of tunnel.)

As 5:30 p.m. rolled around, the sun began to set and we asked Truan if we should get started on our return to Hue, approximately 100 kilometers from Vinh Moc. In spite of his lack of concern for driving home after dusk, Jason and I, hands, feet and bum still vibrating from our first 150 kilometers on the motorbikes passing and getting passed by gargantuate vehicles, were eager to cover as much road in the remainder of daylight. We raced back across the 17th Parallel, marked by the Ben Hai River, as the sun set over the green rice patties to our right.

Running low on petrol and sun behind the horizon, Truan and I switched bikes at the gas station as my lights were not working, apparently not of concern to him as my "new" bike did not have functioning tail lights either. With sunglasses and bright sunlight, the constant moving obtacles in front, behind and around you were easy to spot and take evasive action when necessary, however at night without sunglasses blocking the dust and wind, new challenges were before us.

On the motorbike, your face and chest become the windshield, deflecting bugs, gravel and soot from the truck and bus exhaust. Pedestrians and cyclists jutted out from unmarked side roads into the narrow bike lanes in the pitch black of night. Trying to keep the bike tires on the white line separating the road from the graveled bike lane was our best and only navigational tool. I kept a steady eye on my rear view mirror as fast approaching vehicles with a grill of lights approached. As they neared, they sounded their crazy horns as if I didn't know they were already on my tail. Without the need for convincing I pulled over into the narrow margin on the side of the road and reduced my speed as the vehicles swung out into the opposing lanes to ensure they missed clipping my bike.

After twelve hours and several hundred kilometers later, we rolled into Hue. In the mirror of the elevator, I got the first glimpse of what looked like a firefighter returning from battling a blaze for days on end. My face was covered with black dirt which, when combined with sweat took on a grease like appearance. But the dirt was of no concern as we reflected on the historic and moving sights of the day. Afterall, we were lucky, coming back to air conditioning, a warm meal and a comfortable bed.

Looking Back From the Moon

(Ha Long Bay, Vietnam)

The Information Highway is paved for all to use, but in some stretches it is heavily patrolled with occasional roadblocks. In less than a decade, the internet has revolutionized the world, connecting major cities first, and then second world countries and now the third world. One flip of a 20th century switch and, as Walt aptly predicted, the world has become small after all.

Traveling with my Wi-Fi capable laptop in tow, I’ve been fortunate to find limited Wi-Fi access in both India and Vietnam. Surprisingly, the access speeds in Vietnam surpass those I located in India, with its red hot IT sector. Having Wi-Fi meant easier access to write and post to this blog. It also led to my discovery that within an hour of being on-line in Hanoi, the ability to view my blog was blocked by a mysterious firewall message. Initially, I thought it might be the result of a server error or some malfunction with the site. After trying to access the site through several other computers on different days, I realized I was experiencing a government imposed IT roadblock.

Frustrated, surprised and dumbfounded, I sent e-mails to friends and family inquiring as to whether they could access my blog. They confirmed they had no difficulty doing so. To my naïve disbelief, Big Brother is alive and well on select routes of the IT superhighway. I began to take it personally as if the government wanted to restrict my thoughts, but after some percolation realized that it was much larger than my stories from the road, it was everyone living in Vietnam’s way of life.

Imagine searching the web for information on a political candidate only to have spin stories from the government show up as the search results when other media articles, critical of the candidate, do not appear. Or how about having the government monitor your web searches and telephone calls? As an American, these notions offend the very liberties that shape our national character, the right to be free from government intrusion where government is by the people for the people.

In Vietnam, the government also believes it is for the people, the workers, farmers and emerging middle class. As the course was set by Ho Chi Minh in the 1940s, the Communist Party in Vietnam believed it was protecting its citizens from imperial powers like France and the U.S.. So who is(was) right? Are Communism and Capitalism really that much different?

As I wrote in my first blog from Vietnam, I was curious how the citizens would react to me as an American thirty years after the conclusion of the war. A week later and now I have to come to understand the Vietnam War from another perspective, that of fear, the fear that if Communism came to a country near you that the liberties Americans take for granted would be marginalized or erased altogether. Not being able to read my blog is frustrating, not because I want to read it, I already know what it says, it is the feeling that something or things are being kept from you. If I cannot read my blog, what else can’t I read? I tried to access a few other news websites, some of them were blocked and others were not.

So while some of the theory and idealism behind Communism is to create more of an equal economic playing field for all citizens, the practical effect of governments leading countries like the former Soviet Union, present day China and Vietnam has been one of a police state, monitoring its citizens, restricting access to information and the world. The governments mentioned above claimed and claim to be working for the people, improving their lives.

And that brings me to the irony of the present day administration in the US, “working for the people”, protecting its citizens from each other (e.g. Schiavo legislation) and terrorists. The United States of America was founded on principles that liberties were god given (“inalienable”) and could not be taken away by any man or group of men. But reading the headlines in the US today and the parallels with what we feared most during the Vietnam War and Soviet days are unnerving.

Is the government wire tapping its citizens far off from the KGB stories we heard from the USSR in the 1980s? Is the White House restricting access to documents written by Supreme Court nominees in their prior civil service roles significantly distinguishable from Vietnam limiting information on the IT highway? Or how about awarding large government contracts to companies like Haliburton without submitting to the normal bidding process? Or allegations of campaign fraud at some of the highest levels of government?

The above is not meant to suggest that the American government has gone commie, but sitting in Vietnam, there are some disturbing similarities. Whether you label it communism or capitalism doesn’t matter to me, what matters is that in pursuing liberty, justice and happiness, the heralded essential elements to our independent free thinking national character, is not quashed under the guise of providing security, effectively throwing the baby out with the bath water.

Traveling the past seven weeks has reconfirmed for me that the US is a charmed nation and I am fortunate and proud to be a citizen, but looking back at my country from what might as well be looking from the moon to the earth, the headlines streaming across the BBC World channel are disturbing. Is it possible that by trying to protect us from the outside world that we become cell mates with those who we sought to avoid becoming?

In my final analysis, I wonder if the Vietnamese people care they cannot access all of the information on the net (assuming they know there are restrictions in place)? And then I wonder if Americans care about the politics in our country? I mean do we really care? Election year after election year, stories of apathetic voter turnout roll off the wires as the final sub-par numbers are tallied. At the deepest levels I think we do, unfortunately, I think push will have to come to shove before any marked return to a government run by the people for the people is again held in highest esteem. Out here on the edge of the South China Sea, I suspect there are 82+ million people (minus the body politic and hard line communist party members) that would give up everything for a chance for the American Dream.

Let us never forget from where our ancestors came, whether it be England, Italy, Ireland, Russia, China or Vietnam, all of them were pursuing something more than they had, and let’s not also forget the sacrifices made by many since who have fought to preserve the liberties that we enjoy today. Sometimes you have to lose something before you can find it again, but it’s always best if you just keep your eye on the ball, then you never have to go searching for what you already had.

And now I haven't fall off the deep end and I didn't hit my head on the pavement, just like to switch it up a bit. More on Vietnam travels tomorrow.

Easy Rider Meets Vietnam

(Early morning train arrival in Lao Cai.)

Just after sunrise, before the birds finished their morning song, our train pulled into Lao Cai, a few kilometers south of the Chinese border. For 6:30 a.m., the station was alive and kicking with buses, vans and taxis in the lurch ready to whisk tourists away to the town of Sapa, 45 kilometers into the nearby mountains. Ten years ago, before satellite television and tourists, Lao Cai was a sleepy border town still recovering from a Chinese invasion in 1979. Today, it is a boomtown supported by the regular influx of tourists and trade with the Chinese.

A bit dazed and tired from our ten hour train ride, we searched for a sign with our names from that mandatory reception crowd at all third world points of tourist transit. No such luck, we resorted to our back up plan, find a bus headed in our direction. We located a mid-size bus already packed full of glassy eyed tourists heading to Sapa. The driver and helpers were eager to load us aboard, but we stalled thinking that maybe our van was running late. No van in site, we boarded the bus to Sapa on two “jump” seats folding out into the middle isle. These were the seats occupying the entrance and exit aisle of the bus, no one would exit or enter without going through us and about ten bags leaned against the bus door.

The bus ride began like any other, soft rumbling of discussion amongst different groups in varied languages and everyone peering around to guess from what countries others were visiting. I was in the mix with a group from France and Jason was blocking the exit for some Aussies. Climbing out of the valley several thousand feet, the bus raced around hairpin curves passing the occasional slow poke truck blowing black smoke from its tail pipe. Seated in the middle of the sizeable bus, I relaxed into my chair and reached for the non-existent handles to keep from bumping into those seated next to me as we rounded the curves.

Unfortunately as the bus climbed and gripped the curves, some passengers began to reach a low point in any traveler’s experience, vomiting into bags two rows ahead and two rows behind me. Their low point was quickly becoming mine. As I searched for an escape, Jason continued to focus his concentration on the Aussie with whom he was speaking to take his mind off of the unsightly moment. The bus stopped and one of the sick passenger’s boyfriend pleaded with the luggage man seated near the door to open the door and let her off. He refused, instead offering to let her sit in the front seat. The girl was a trooper and the bus continued onward for another thirty long minutes to our final destination, but not without the man seated next to Jason first opening a can of tuna and eating it during the remainder of the ride, apparently unphased by the displaced stomach contents sitting in bags on the floor.

If nothing else happened that day, getting off the bus would be a highlight. We checked into our hotel on the outskirts of town and met our guide, “Dan”. Thirty years old and eight days away from an official “Catholic church engagement” to his twenty-one year old girlfriend, Dan was a quippy jokester with very good English and six other languages under his belt. The plan sketched in Hanoi was to trek and visit a few of the tribes located in the hills surrounding Sapa. When we discovered “trekking” really meant visiting the tribal peoples that received tourists on a daily basis, the “trek” lost its charm and we fished for alternatives.

Always appreciative of our freedom to go anywhere, anytime, when mention of motor bikes fell on our ears, a deal was in the making. We could cover more ground, see less touristy areas and stop and go whenever we wanted. Within an hour, Dan had three motorbikes in front of our hotel. One quick lesson on shifting the four geared engine later, and we were footloose and fancy free, free birds on the open roads of the Lao Cai Province.


Wind at my face, sun beaming on my shades and terraced mountain and valley panoramas around every corner, I repeatedly blinked, seizing and savoring each passing moment. Motorbike is the way to go in Vietnam, provided you are ok with the occasional confrontation with the grill of a large oncoming Russian or Chinese made cargo truck. Dan brought along his girlfriend and the four of us wound our way out of Sapa to visit three different tribes, stopping to have lunch with one of them.

The H’Mong tribe was first on our list and in retrospect, retained the most native means of life and dress. The two tribes we visited later, the Zay and Zao, were already fitted with satellite dishes on some of the homes and electricity. The Vietnamese government, tourist dollars or both, had brought the window to the world to the hill tribes. In fact, while we had lunch at the Zao tribe village, kids and adults were glued to a television with what appeared to be a Vietnamese soap opera. I couldn’t help but think, as the world turns, it is getting smaller day by day.

Tribal Fact of the Day: The H’Mong have a unique twist to courtship, or as the FBI calls it, kidnapping. At the age of 12 or 14, H’Mong girls go to town for Saturday night markets. If a boy sees her at the market and wishes to pursue her, he must follow her home without her knowing. Assuming he accomplishes that mission successfully, he will then tell his family that he wants to marry her. If they approve, his family then plots and participates in a matrimonial abduction. The family then goes with the boy to lie in wait outside the girl’s house where they hide waiting for her to come out. When she leaves the nest to do chores, go to town or work, the boy jumps out from behind a tree or a rock and grabs onto her wrist professing his intentions. If the girl hocks a loogie, the harsh sound of rejection, he must let her go.

(H'Mong women weaving clothes on hilltop.)

However, no loogie flung, the family will assist him in getting her out of the village back to his room where he will feed her for three days. If she eats the food for three days, then they will be married, if not, then she will be returned to her village. When her family discovers she has been taken, they may attempt to rescue her, especially if her father does not approve. Ultimately, if the girl stays with the boy, she has agreed to marry him and the boy’s family will then approach her family to discuss payment, MasterCard and personal checks not accepted. The girl’s father will set a price and the boy’s father will try to negotiate him down in price. When and if the price is agreed upon, the wedding is set.

And don’t worry about finding a priest, rabbi, minister or preacher, the village witch doctor will marry the kids. To signify the beginning of holy matrimony, the good doctor will smear goat’s blood on the girl’s back, basically symbolizing that the girl now belongs to the boy, like he would own a goat. Who says we have nothing to learn from the hill tribes in Vietnam? Think of the savings on the big day, no Vera Wang, no 2 carat platinum ice rings, no church fees, no overpriced photographer and no wilting flowers. Makes a lot of sense, dollars and cents.

Walking through the H’Mong village, the kids would approach within ten feet of us, but when the camera was pointed at them, they ran for the hills. I’m not sure if they were shy or if they were expecting money from previous encounters with tourists. The kids were sweet to each other and they played the simplest of games with rocks and lines drawn in the cement porch of their homes, climbed trees and helped carry on daily chores for the household.

In one home, we found two women weaving hemp fabric for clothing while the children looked on as understudies. The three room home was constructed of a thatch roof, a hard mud floor and basket woven like bamboo walls. One room served as a kitchen, one for sleeping and one general purpose room, i.e., dining, working and living. By most western standards, the home was basic, but the people seemed just as happy if not happier than many people I have known with greater material resources.

When the sun neared the mountain tops in the West, we headed back to Sapa on our motorbikes. There were many good reasons to return before dark, we didn’t know if our headlights worked, there were no street lights, it was difficult to see vehicles moving ahead on the road and it was difficult to even see each other. Sapa often experiences dense fog similar to San Francisco minus the cold temperatures. We rolled into town, like Peter and Dennis (minus the American flagged leather jacket), just as the sun set.


P.S. The next three days I will be unbable to post as we are heading out to Ha Long Bay on a Chinese junk it boat, doubt they have internet access. Back at the blog on Monday. Have a great weekend!

Second Train a Charm?

(Descending into the Perfume Pagoda).
The Perfume Pagoda, a Buddhist shrine in the Huong Tich Mountains of Northwest Vietnam, is not particularly well known for its enlightening lessons in economics. However, a valuable reminder would be proferred on our second day when we traveled to the Perfume Pagoda 60 kilometers outside of Hanoi. On our first day in town, we visited a few tour companies, all of whom offered the same trip for around the same price low low price of $15 per person including lunch. Seemed like a low output for high rate of return, generally good economics.

However, at 7:30 a.m. the following morning, a more valuable life reminder would trump the economics principle, time is money and sitting like cattle for six hours is no fun. A van that would comfortably seat ten in the US arrived at our hotel with two passengers already loaded. We climbed in and took our own bench. What we didn’t know is that we were only the second group to be picked up and would spend the next 45 minutes stopping at other hotels around the city. Slowly our van filled and the space between unsuspecting tourists disappeared and international borders of personal space were crossed. By the time the van was fully loaded, fifteen passengers total, the “English speaking” guide, Doang, introduced himself supposedly in English, but no one on the bus was sure. While Doang seemed to understand English, his tongue was not as learned as his ears. Fortunately, he was very kind and he tried very hard so everyone worked with him. Later we would learn that many guides are trained on this particular day trip.

For two hours, the van load of tourists unwillingly played chicken with oncoming traffic on a two-lane road into the countryside surrounded by green rice fields as far as the eyes could see interrupted only by the occasional outpost town or village. Arriving at My Duc, a small town on the Zen River, the van unloaded and the group shifted onto a long wooden boat powered by two oars in the hands of two women at each end of the boat. Apparently, most of the boats on the river were driven by women who were widowed or orphaned during the Vietnam War.


Coasting along the tullied waterway, limestone cliffs rose on both sides of the river creating a majestically serene setting. An hour down the river, we pulled off to a village of sorts seemingly supported by the presence of the tourist traffic journeying to see the Perfume Pagoda. Our group was presented with a choice of an hour plus walk to the pagoda or a tram ride for $2 each way. Most of the group, including Jason, chose to walk the pagoda path, I on the other hand, chose the tram as I was not feeling up to speed for the first time on my extended trip.

A modern clean well built tram suspended over lush foliage, the tram way seemed misplaced in the middle of a mountainous jungle with shacks and huts strewn below. Hoisted four kilometers over the pagoda path, I arrived less than a kilometer from the scented pagoda. I climbed and then descended the remaining thousand steps into a cave where hundreds of Vietnamese pilgrims were offering flowers, food, money, incense and milk to the candle lit Buddha statues inside. Men and women stood before the Buddha, hands in prayer formation in front of their face, eyes closed, chanting silently, but moving their lips. It was especially congested as our visit coincided with an annual festival taking place during the second lunar month when pilgrims make a special journey to the pagoda.
(Further down in the Perfume Pagoda.)

As in India, faith again surrounded me. Cooling off from the humid heat outside, I sat in the cave as part participant, part observer, marveling at the rituals and conviction of the praying pilgrims. Some of the faithful were women and men in their 70s and 80s, who traveled long distances from their villages to pray for healing, fertility for their grandchildren and harvest prosperity. They offered what little they had, even if only 200 Dong (Mere cents if even one cent). Faith was fast at work in the Perfume Pagoda.

Jason and I both returned on the tram where the tour group reunited for lunch. After our midday meal, we were treated to another nearby pagoda, but again due to the guide’s limited English it was hard to know the difference from one pagoda to another. It began to feel like “you’ve seen pagoda, you’ve seen them all.” Doang had lost his audience. Another hour boat ride back to the van and a two hour sardine ride back to Hanoi, we were ready for our first Vietnamese massage.

We walked into to the place closest to our hotel, a massage studio inside another hotel. Cognizant of stories of “extra service” massages, we inquired about the massage at the front desk. Figuring it was a hotel with legitimate frontage, we agreed to part with $5 each for the one hour massage which later would remind me of the adage, “you get what you pay for.” It wasn’t for lack of trying, but instead of deep tissue, every joint in my feet, legs, hips, back, fingers, shoulders and neck was cracked whether they wanted to or not and I wasn’t going to be let off the table until the masseuse was certain I could crack no more. It was more Mohican chiropractic session than massage as I lay on the table pondering my twisted fate, partial or complete paralysis or worse, death from cracking. My tombstone would read, “Here Lies Todd. Wasn’t All He Was Cracked Up To Be.” Good fortune on my side (and lots of bone fortifying milk as a young boy), I walked away without any permanent damage . . . I think.

Perfumed Out

One day in Hanoi under our belts, we were on to the tour circuit and we knew we wanted to get off. Sitting in a cramped van for hours with pre-planned tourist stops was not our cup of Vietnamese tea. No longer twenty years old and on a shoestring budget, we decided to seek a private tour and real English speaking guide. It was not difficult to do, and in fact, not much more expensive, however we still had to travel across a quarter of the country by train.

Visiting hill tribes in the northernmost Vietnamese province would require not one, but two overnight train trips. Vivid memories of overnight train travel in India fresh in my mind, I encouraged Jason to go first class to which he quickly obliged after my brief sorted sleepless tale. Ultimately, for peace of mind and rest, we bought four first class train tickets so we would have our own berth and get our best shot at some uninterrupted sleep.

Plan firmed with a booking agent and train not departing until 10 p.m., we had the afternoon and evening to see more of Hanoi, Vietnamese style. Jason and I would put ourselves at the mercy of two local moto drivers whose names we will never know. Five hours of swerving, threading between cars, buses and trucks was the best way to see the city. It was the “on-deck” circle of the baseball field, in the action, but not the center of attraction. Smiles involuntarily took over both of our faces as we sped around town stopping at points of attraction. We stopped only where and when we wanted, no guide, no bus tour, no nonsense. Sometimes the best experiences are unplanned. (Cruising in Hanoi.)

As train time approached, we headed to the station, packs in tow. Immediately there were differences between the Hanoi and India stations. The Hanoi station was orderly, uncrowded and clean, the eternal spring of hope had sprung. This was not going to be a repeat sleepless performance.

Finding our car was a cinch and it was even easier finding our berth. The berths were smaller than those on the train in India, but they were well appointed with wood paneling and mattress pads on the benches that were made after WWII. And we had the all important locking door, providing peace of mind from prospective bag snatchers while we slept. The train departed the station at the exact scheduled time and we made ourselves as comfortable as possible in our mobile hotel room for the night.(Hotel on Wheels)