Willa World

December 10 - Delhi, India

2007-12-15T22:38:00.000-08:00

We’re in Delhi for 9 days, waiting to catch our flight to Singapore, which connects to our flight to Los Angeles, which will connect to our flight back to San Antonio. The days and nights feel interminably long.

If we could blink ourselves to the tropics and beaches of South India, we would. Blink away the $700 airfare or the 50+ hour train ride. There is nowhere in India we want to go that we can afford financially or physically, so we are waiting in Delhi for our flight. Waiting in purgatory.

Our guesthouse room has no windows, no natural light. Fluorescent white bulbs highlight our pallor. When the lights are turned off or the electricity goes out, our room is pitch black and we know it’s morning only because Willa’s internal clock wakes her and, in turn, us.

Our guesthouse is like a college student lounge with activity around the clock. There is always someone yelling at someone, someone murmuring intimately with someone, someone talking, an alarm going off, a cell phone ringing a ring or a song and we hear it all echoing through the concrete building walls like a gymnasium.

Smoke from the hundreds of cigarettes smoked in the downstairs restaurant wafts up the stairs and fills every cranny of air that isn’t already taken by incense and diesel fumes. We cough at night, in our sleep, and our snot is black. We no longer crack a smile when the other says, “Has Willa been smoking again?”

We all three play with Willa’s plastic animal figures and draw spirals and flowers, animals and cubes with her crayons. I catch myself trying to teach Willa how to write her name. She’s not even two-years old yet and still sometimes likes the taste of colored wax.

We are irritable and have been around each other with no breaks for too long. Johnny and I argue over everything about nothing. I am not being a good mother to Willa or a good wife to Johnny and I feel sorry for myself.

Willa is restless and crying to go outside, having long ago grown bored with our dodge ball game with the blow-up Fanta ball. We must brave the noise and pollution and crowds outside and get this child to a park where she can run around before she forgets how to. It’s bad enough that we are not encouraging her efforts to toilet train herself, but there have been just too many unsavory squat toilets and long bus and train rides in our lives for this to be a realistic endeavor at this point.

We step out of the guesthouse and into the fray of Delhi. The cacophony of motorcycles, touts, beggars, horns, dogs fighting, men yelling, horns and more horns envelops us. Added to the aural melee is the scratchy music played at top volume from the loudspeakers hung on telephone poles.

Touts are relentless - pushing incense, henna, bindis, jewelry, bags, saris, shoes, CDs, hippie clothes and designer knock offs, restaurants, auto rickshaw rides, cycle rickshaw rides, guided tours, postcards and maps, jewelry and pashminas - viewing tourists as dollar signs, cows to be milked.

Indian and Israeli tourists ignore them completely, or brush them off with a flick of the wrist, as though they are mosquitoes.

Non-Indian tourists’ are mocked for their seemingly excessive use of “Please,” “Thank you,” and, finally, the passive-aggressive, “No, thank you!”, accompanied by tight, insincere smiles.

Women in burkas hold my attention and I envy their anonymity. Their screens that keep people and pollution out and their private selves in.

We sidestep people, trash and food, giant cows larger than horses, puddles of mud and urine, piles of poo - dog, cow and human, and try to keep elbows in from the passing motorcycles, cars and auto-rickshaws. I’m not quick enough and a motorcycle runs up on my heel. When I turn around, the driver looks at me blankly before turning and driving off.

Beggars, children holding babies, mothers holding babies, old and handicapped tug on sleeves and arms. “Hallo, pleeeazzze! Madam, Madam, pleeeazzze!” Pitifully holding out empty cupped palms, gesturing to their mouths for food, pleading for money.

There is a man whose legs are both broken and grotesquely bent. And another with an open sore so deep I could fit my fist into it. I give both of them money and hope they will spend it on alcohol or drugs to escape.

The streets are filthy and a street sweeper sweeps black water and trash onto my feet and those of others I’m fighting for space with on the side of the road. Willa is coughing from the pollution and anonymous hands grab at her feet and hands and cheeks. A car goes by and blares its horn for so long that I feel it blast my soul. It’s all I can do not to cry.

We give up on our ‘walk’ and hop into an auto-rickshaw. We are going to the India Gate war memorial, where there is a large playground, and the ride takes us from roundabout to roundabout, out of the congested city and to the wide, tree-lined streets of the suburbs. There are no crowds here, but it is still impossible to see more than three city blocks ahead through the haze of pollution.

At the park, Willa climbs the ladders and slides down the slides, sits on the seesaw, runs around, and studies the mongooses (mongeese?) and chipmunks with long tails. We muster as much enthusiasm as we can, but we’re tired and the park guard wags his baton at us every time Johnny or I sit on a swing or the other end of the seesaw. The equipment is for children only. No exceptions.

Several buses pull up and uniform-clad children spill out, shrieking and laughing, taking over the playground with their bodies and their energy. Seizing the moment, a little boy and girl in worn, dirty clothes, bare feet, dirty hair and dirty faces, slip through the park gates. (The park guard has also chased out several urchins. No ragamuffins. No grown ups.)

The girl runs over and scoops Willa up in her arms with a “Whee!” Willa has finally recovered from her stomach bug and I’m hesitant about this, but she is so happy in this girl’s cheerful presence, so grateful for the company of someone besides her parents that I relent.

The girl and the boy take turns picking Willa up, swinging her on the swings, helping her through the monkey bars. They work their way through every single piece of playground equipment, shooing away the schoolchildren when they don’t vacate a ride quickly enough or play too roughly too close. They are protective of Willa, fussing over her and encouraging her. Willa chortles and readily lets herself be carried around by these children who are barely twice her size.

We finally say our goodbyes over an hour later and they hug and kiss Willa, asking us to please bring her back.

We are walking away when I hear little feet running behind us.

“Hallo! Hallo, pleeeazze!”

We turn around and the little boy runs up and hands us a metallic green yo-yo. We are speechless. He gestures with his hands, up and down, to show us how to play with it. Johnny tells him that we know how. And thank you. Thank you very much.

The boy turns and runs back to his sister. He twists around once and gives us a thumbs up and a brilliant smile. His face is full of light and largesse of spirit. My eyes prick with tears and I turn away.

November 23 - The Train to Varanasi, India

2007-12-15T22:19:00.000-08:00

The train from Siliguri to Varanasi travels west across central India. It’s a beautiful route, crossing wide rivers with equally wide dark sand beaches, fields of crops and tilled soil, undeveloped plains and small towns with whitewashed mud houses and home-made tile roofs. Clusters of women in bright saris of marigold yellow, turquoise blue, hot pink and emerald green blur by. Cows and water buffaloes sift through piles of smoking trash for food.

Pakorrrraaa! Chai-iiiii! Men selling fried, spiced potato fritters, roasted peanuts, fresh bean sprouts coated in sliced green chilis, lime juice and masala, and pouring mini cups of chai from large kettles walk up and down the aisle. Beggars board at every stop, singing for money, sweeping the floor for money, or simply tugging on sleeves and staring you down for money.

The windows are open and the wind blows through the train. We befriend and talk with a young Nepali woman traveling with her mother and uncle to visit more family in Jaipur. Willa loves the train and she climbs on and off the berth in our compartment, watching the country rush by through the bars of the window, waving and calling out, “Bye!,” to the children, cows and water buffalo we pass. She naps for a solid two hours, lulled by the rocking of the train car.

We had braced ourselves for the train ride, but it’s a pleasure.

Night falls and brings surprisingly cold air. We shiver and contort our bodies horizontally on our narrow berths and try to sleep, starting every time a passing train screams by. A large family boards the train at about 2AM, talking and bickering with each other in loud voices, arranging and rearranging luggage, as they settle into the berths directly above us.

I’ve fallen back to sleep when my leg is grabbed and roughly shaken. I sit up alarmed. We’ve been cautioned about ‘bandits’ on the trains, but the hand belongs to a transvestite standing over me. He’s attired in a fancy sari and a thick layer of full face make up. In a gruff, deep voice, he orders me to give him money His friend behind him, also in drag, sings and harasses other passengers for money. He persists with this shake down until Johnny jumps up and chases him off.

I later learn that transvestites and eunuchs are thought to bring bad luck. They prey on wedding parties, baby births and the masses stuck on public transportation, threatening to touch you and show their penises (or remnants from their removal) if you don’t give them money.

In the morning, men and women line up to use the sink at the end of the car, each holding their toiletries of a bar of soap, toothbrush, toothpaste and tongue scraper. Morning ablutions are lengthy and vigorous. The toilet I couldn’t will myself to use last night for the dark, stink and liquid on the floor now empties out women immaculate in unwrinkled saris, beautiful make-up and thick, black hair neatly pulled back.

All of the filth in this country seems to be relegated to the public, common areas. People’s houses and yards are swept daily, potted plants lining the roofs and balconies. Motorcycles and cars are kept shiny. Bodies and faces scrubbed forcefully in public sinks and in the rivers.

Back in our berth, the Nepali family generously buys chai for everyone and shares with us the food they’ve brought in a metal tiffin carrier. The noisy family that boarded late shares potato chips and we share Marie biscuits and oranges.

(Johnny has identified our most American trait as ‘the last-minute purchase panic’ that takes over just before boarding buses and trains. We buy snacks and supplies that we don’t normally eat or use as though we’ll never see land again. Despite the fact that there is no public transportation in Asia that travels more than 20 kilometers without stopping for food, restroom, new passengers, tire change, talk on cell phone, checkpoint or because we’ve gone too long without a stop.)

Willa and the noisy family’s two children play together, climbing on and off the berth, laughing themselves silly spinning and slapping the wall of the train.

Now 21 hours into our 17-hour train ride, we have consumed an inordinate amount of deep fried snacks and cups of chai. Willa is beyond manic, whining into my chest with intermittent unintelligible yells. Johnny is staring out the window without seeing. I’m mentally walking through the produce section of Whole Foods, back in Austin, filling my cart with clean, crisp lettuce, plump, ripe tomatoes beaded with water and other fresh vegetables.

We have still not arrived in Varanasi, what is to be the first of many stops on our travels through India. Worse, we are still in the same region. We have not even progressed beyond the state of West Bengal.

November 19 - Sikkim, India

2007-11-18T20:44:00.000-08:00

One reason we saved India for our last stop in Asia was to give ourselves the option of taking a boat from Southern India to Africa and winding our way south. We fantasized about finishing our trip in South Africa for the 2010 World Cup.

We didn’t then know how much the value of the dollar would decrease, how difficult it would be to find simple stretches of trash-free grass to play on, how much Johnny would miss skateboarding, how dreadful the pollution would be and how much we would miss our friends and family.

We also saved India for last because, though excited, I was a bit anxious about visiting this country. I’d heard tales about how overwhelming India could be - the poverty, crowds, pollution, mechanics of travel and society - and figured that our introduction would be easier after having traveled through Southeast Asia.

We arrived in Kolkata on November 1st, with a connecting flight to northern India. So, our first, brief glimpse of India, as we transferred from the international terminal to the domestic terminal, was rows of yellow, vintage taxi cabs and clusters of frangipani trees. The mingled scent of incense, spices and urine in the air. The snack counters at the airport selling samosas, fried flat breads and Coke and Fanta in glass bottles.

It faintly reminds me of Africa - the scents and sounds, British accents and large Indian population. It’s exactly as I hoped it would be.

***

We are in North India, in the state of Sikkim, bordered by Nepal, Bhutan and Tibet and in the foothills of the Himalayas. Early in the mornings, when the air is coldest and clearest, Johnny goes up on the roof and stares longingly at the snow-covered mountains. Unfortunately, they will have to wait for another trip. The altitude, cold and arduousness of the trek would just be too much for Willa.

No trains or planes run up here, so unless one can afford to charter a helicopter, transportation is by landrover taxis called ‘share jeeps’ that depart when full. On average, it takes about one hour to cover 30 kilometers, as the roads are dreadful, filled with gaping potholes (we can sometimes see the ravine hundreds of feet below) and the single lanes are shared with military jeeps and trucks, tarted up with colorfully painted flowers and heavily made up eyes. Golden tassels and tinsel fringe hang above the windshields.

The concrete block guesthouses we stay in are so cold we sleep with all of our clothes on. We have no hot water and sometimes no cold water and our first bath comes after a week when we get a bucket of hot water from our guesthouse manager. Electricity frequently goes out and every town has at least one dog that barks non-stop through the night. The towns are built on steep mountainsides, meaning every venture outside holds a challenge, either coming or going.

We take hikes every day, starting out early in the morning bundled up against the cold and returning hours later in the heat of the afternoon sun, hats and jackets removed and down to our T-shirts. The air is free from pollution, clear and thin. Puffy, cotton ball clouds drift in the startlingly blue sky. I wish we could lift the roof from our guesthouse during the day and let the warm sun shine in.

We walk along mountain ridges and through tall forests. Follow barely there dirt paths through dense thickets of plant overgrowth and emerge in villages. Willa calls out, “Moo,” to the cows and hairy yaks, “Bok, bok,” to the chickens and, “Daw!,” whenever she sees one of the many mangy dogs that roam the streets.

In a large field of grass, a man in uniform sits in a chair at a large wooden desk. The desk is bare save for what looks like a large stamp and a stack of papers that the man is rifling through.

Men walk on the muddy roads in cream slacks, somehow managing to keep them clean and free of splatters from passing vehicles. Women wear saris of rich colors - pink, green, yellow, orange - vibrant and beautiful in the setting of dusty roads and woods.

A procession of about twenty men walk down the road, singing and carrying a dead man above their heads, headed for his cremation. The dead man is dark skinned and dressed in white with yellow flower petals scattered on his head and chest.
We squeeze through the crowded market where stalls display tin boxes and gunny sacks filled with colorful spices, fresh produce, soaps and incense, sari cloths and plastic shoes. ‘Fast Food’ shops offering samosas, meat patties, chow mein and momos, steamed dumplings filled with vegetables or meat. Sweet shops with bright orange, yellow, pink and green confections made from sweetened condensed milk, almonds and cardamom.

Mountaintop monasteries are restful with their smooth, worn wooden floors and lit candles. Buddhist prayer flags flap in the wind and we spin the prayer wheels when we leave. Though a different form of Buddhism is practiced here from that throughout Southeast Asia, I am happy to see that the same offerings are made to the figures of Buddha: packages of cookies and chocolates, bottles of Fanta (thoughtfully opened with a straw inserted), cigarettes, plates with donuts and bread rolls. Items that would certainly make me feel benevolent.

There is always music in the air. The garbage man banging the side of his truck to announce his arrival every morning at 5AM. The propane man singing. Cell phones are everywhere and songs played on them like transistor radios (Linkin Park and Avril Lavigne are especially popular.)

One afternoon, we run into a group of Nigerian men wearing jackets with ‘Nigerian Eagles’ printed across the back. They are the Nigerian soccer team, here for the 29th All India Governor’s Gold Cup Football Tournament.

The next day, the stadium is full and the decks of the surrounding tall buildings crowded with people. These are the Semi-Finals and the Eagles are playing against N.R.T. Nepal. It is so wonderfully bizarre to be in India watching a soccer match between Nigeria and Nepal and I can’t believe our luck. We cheer like crazy for Nigeria and Johnny teases me about my continental patriotism for Africa. Unfortunately, it is not enough to carry the team and Nigeria loses.

We’re back the following day for the championship, N.R.T. Nepal vs. Three Stars Nepal. Local students have been given the afternoon off to attend and they sit together according to school, rows of red uniforms, pale blue uniforms and rows of dark blue. Clusters of monks are easily spotted in in their dark burgundy robes.

At half time, young boys and girls run up and down the stands carrying trays of sweet, milky masala tea in Dixie cups and banana leaf bowls of fried spicy potatoes. Indian pop music blares from the sound system and Willa wiggles her body and head, clapping her hands and dancing to the music. She is a charmer and everyone wants to pat her head, pinch her cheeks, touch her.

A young girl, about 11, and her younger brother sit with us and take turns holding Willa on their laps. They share roasted peanuts with us and we share tangerines with them. Like many Indians we talk with here, the young girl’s English is so formal it sounds almost foreign. Offering us more peanuts, “Don’t you find them pleasing?” Indeed.

The sky is clear and blue and the bright sun warms us. Willa is happy and laughing with her new friends. The crowd is in high-spirits, cheering, yelling and singing. N.R.T. Nepal takes home the cup, again winning 2:1.

I can’t imagine the Word Cup being any sweeter.

October 1 - Laos

2007-10-05T22:37:00.000-07:00

“Love is... Two souls inhabiting the same body.”

This is one of the more interesting messages we’ve seen stenciled on T-shirts. I love what is sometimes gained in translation. Like multiple-personality disorders.

***

Willa’s just fallen asleep and Johnny calls me out to the deck of our bungalow. We’re in the small, quiet riverside town of Nong Khiaw in Northern Laos and, with the exception of a few lights from houses on the other side of the bridge, the only light outside comes from the millions of stars and galaxies above us. Looking across the river, the silhouette of the giant, craggy mountains delineates where the sky begins and the Milky Way - something I don’t think I’ve ever seen before - shines brightly, following, or perhaps directing the path of the river. It’s idyllic here.

Actually, it’s idyllic almost everywhere in Laos. It’s a beautiful country of mountains, jungles, fields of rice, fruit orchards, wetlands, waterfalls and sprawling rivers. Beautiful people who smile and greet you. Children in school uniforms of white blouses and dark blue sarongs or pants who wave as we pass by in buses. They race their bicycles down the road, steering with one hand while holding umbrellas to shield themselves from the sun in the other. Even in the cities, people are relaxed and friendly. Except for the literature and occasional posted warnings about UXOs (unexploded ordnances), there are no indications that Laos is famous for being “one of the most bombed nations on earth,” as Lonely Planet guidebook states.

We arrived in Vientiane, the capital of Laos, on September 28th, by bus, crossing the Mekong River on the Thai-Australian Friendship Bridge. It’s a short ride from Nong Khai, a border town on the Mekong River in Northeast Thailand, about an hour, even with two stops at immigration. The distance and time seem too short to be leaving one country and entering another, but almost instantly we feel and see differences in the two countries.

The French colonial influence is pervasive in Vientiane and throughout Laos. There are two-story buildings with balconies on each floor, wooden shutters and overgrown plants and trees neighboring manicured gardens, both rich and green. The paint on the outside walls has faded to pale and chipped yellow, green and white. Glowing golden wats (temples), ancient, crumbling stupas growing grass and flowers and an arc de triomphe with a giant fountain decorate the boulevards.

From Vientiane we head north by bus to Vang Vieng, a small, flat town just off of the highway. In the center of town is an enclave of tourist-geared outfits offering tubing and kayaking, backpacker cafes and guesthouses with TVs blaring episodes of “Friends” and “The Simpsons.”

Our guesthouse sits on the Song River with an incredible view of the rushing, rising water. It rains heavily every night and sometimes during the day, flooding the grass and gardens of the guesthouse where Willa plays with the owner’s four kids, wrestling, chasing and taking turns trying to pick each other up.

On the far side of the river, men and women cast fishing nets from boats and from the shore, laughing and shouting to one another as they fish and exclaiming over catches. Beyond them, bright green rice fields stretch out and beyond those, karsts reach up to the sky, their peaks concealed by clouds.

One morning we bicycle across the river and down the red dirt road in search of one of several caves housing Buddha statues Vang Vieng is known for. The air is clear and cool from the rains and herds of small, brown cows share the road with us, the wooden bells around their necks resonating.

We walk our bikes across several small, rushing rivers. When the water rises too high, we park our bikes and follow a woman who, like a guardian angel, spotted us on the road and motorbiked to meet us. We trek up river, against the strong current, making paths through tall grabbing weeds, over rocks and muddy paths. Stopping to catch our breaths at a lean-to, the woman walks behind it and comes back with a handmade sign, “10,000 kip for guide.” Ahhh.

While we usually prefer to make our on way and really prefer to know in advance if someone’s expecting a fee, there is no way we would have found our way to the hidden cave with the giant seated Buddha and, more importantly, back to our bikes without this woman.

We head north for Luang Prabang by bus, departing from the pot-holed tarmac airfield strip that serves as Vang Vieng’s bus station, a meeting ground for the town dogs and a driving course for would-be licensed motorcyclists.

The mountains our bus slowly climbs around are stunning, awesome, breathtaking. We compare them to Hawaii, New Zealand, Montana, and finally concede that they can be found only here, in Laos. Though we do see some evidence of deforestation - and Dr. Seuss’ The Lorax springs to mind - the beautiful, mostly undeveloped country seems to go on forever.

Small mountain villages sit right on the highway’s edge and children, ducks, pigs and dogs amble cheerfully in the road. One cow lies on the median line, traffic swerving around it. Drivers use their horns sparingly, if at all, and defer to animals and people.

Most of the houses and shacks have satellite dishes. Everyone seems to have access to transportation - bicycles and motorcycles, if not cars. We do not see people hitchhiking or walking long distances. There seems to be plenty of fresh food available - rice, fruits and vegetables, fish and healthy, if small cows.

There must be extreme poverty in this country, but we don’t see much evidence of it. There are few beggars and they look more in need of a shower and clean clothes (and, in some cases, psychiatric help) than they do food. I can count on two hands the number of children I’ve seen obviously suffering from malnutrition.

The smooth road now descends, and our bus gains speed as it winds down the mountains. The bus driver’s assistant hands out plastic bags to those who need. Willa gets sick once, but we’re prepared and the mess is contained and cleaned up in seconds (sticky rice goes down in clumps and comes back up in clumps.) Johnny and I are almost manic in our attempts to entertain Willa, joined in our unspoken and irrational belief that if we can keep her mind distracted by good cheer, her stomach will forget it’s doing somersaults. Somehow it works.

Six and a half hours later we arrive in Luang Prabang and it is even more charming than the guidebook photos convey. Luang Prabang is a growing tourist destination and while there’s development, it complements the surrounding temples, trees and rivers. Teak wood homes line brick paths behind short, tidy wooden fences and courtyards are filled with bouganvillea, various palms and potted plants. There are none of the cement-block high rises popping up all over the rest of South East Asia’s towns.

“I could summer in Laos.” I’m joking, knowing this comment will make Johnny roll his eyes. He’s already heard me remark countless times how this hall of trees and flowers over the sandy dirt path remind me of Martha’s Vineyard or those cottages remind me of Cape Cod, but it’s true. This country is absolutely beautiful. It’s taken the best of rural life and city life and magically, seemingly successfully, combined them.

All over Laos, even in the cities, it’s silent by 9PM. Save for the lights emanating from homes and restaurants, streets are dark, stars and moon clearly visible in the night sky. The few street lights are a dim yellow. There are no horns blowing, no fluorescent shop signs or karaoke blaring from bars. Delicious fancy restaurants with chic decor and flattering lighting share sidewalks with small noodle soup cafes and food stalls grilling whole fish stuffed with lemongrass. Wide, tree-lined avenues and dirt paths for biking and walking follow the river. The cities and large towns provide all amenities and comforts like great bakeries and internet, disposable diapers and French wines.

There is more wrong than right with colonialism, but I am completely beguiled by the charms of French colonial architecture in Asia. And baguettes.

Pakam Guesthouse has only six rooms, all immaculate with private bathrooms, dark hardwood floors and a balcony with a sitting area just outside our room. My mom takes the room next to ours and I think we’re the only guests here. We keep our doors open and Willa has her run of the upstairs. In the evenings, we have picnic dinners on the balcony of grilled fish, barbecued pork sausage, sticky rice, and spicy green papaya salad.

A week later, we take a songthaw, a pick-up truck with two long covered benches down the length of the bed, north to Nong Khiaw. The songthaw is packed with people, all Laotians save for us and a British guy, and bags, both inside and tied on the roof. We pick up other passengers along the way and they somehow squeeze in, or stand on the back bumper and hang on to the rail. If the driver brakes short of someone’s stop, the passengers rally and call out good-naturedly until he relents and drops each person right at their door.

Unlike the larger, air-conditioned buses used mostly by tourists, there are no signs of inward groans or rolled eyes from other passengers when they see us boarding with a baby. People hold Willa’s hand, offer her sweets and gesture for me to let her legs stretch out onto their laps when she’s sleeping. I don’t blame fellow tourists for not wanting their travels marred by a crying kid, but I welcome not feeling guilty when we board the bus.

It is hot, breezeless and the sun is relentless when we arrive in Nong Khiaw. Our legs are stiff and we move unsteadily in the heat under the weight of our bags which seem to grow heavier with each leg of our trip.

In the late afternoon, after reviving cold showers and colder Beer Lao, we walk across the bridge to the small town consisting of a tiny post office, some lackluster restaurants, guesthouses, and shops selling shampoo, toothpaste, candy, chips, etc. At the boat dock, cement stairs lead down to the river and young women and men bathe and wash dishes and clothes while little children play. Chickens run loose and Willa follows the chicks following their mother hen.

The next morning we walk to a cave where Laotians hid during the Indochina War. The paved road is shaded with overhanging trees, lush and green, and runs along a river. The air is loud with the buzz and whirring of insects. We could be on a country road in Virginia or North Carolina and I love that places and experiences can feel universal.

The boat back to Luang Prabang is five of the best hours we spend in Laos with the good company of three Australian women we befriend, children waving and yelling to us as they jump en masse into the river, bright yellow butterflies dancing above the water, limestone cliffs that reach straight up from the river and the breeze off of the river tempering the late afternoon sun.

Suddenly, time is passing too quickly. We have only two weeks left on our Laos visa and so much of the country that we still want to see.

We catch a flight south to Pakse, covering in one hour what would have taken about 30 hours by bus. In dusty, sprawling Pakse we go to the post office, bank, market, grocery store, health clinic, hospital and pharmacy (my mom’s had a terrible sinus infection which develops into the flu), and sporting goods store (to buy a badminton set which we play with while my mom recuperates) over the course of five days. I’ve spent years in cities and not been to all of these places.

When my mom’s sufficiently recovered, we continue south to Kingfisher Eco-Lodge, where elephants roam the mountain paths and giant, black water buffalo wade in the wetlands. They follow each other, a string of water buffalo, along a water path through the high reeds at dawn. White egrets alight upon their backs as they wallow in the marsh. In the early evening the young tenders glide out in shallow wooden boats and in singsong, call the herd home.

Further south still, we take a boat from the mainland to Si Phan Don, Four Thousand Islands. We play badminton on our guesthouse lawn, eat spring rolls, and look at trees. Take bike rides and look for dolphins in the river. Listen to monks chant in a temple lit by candle light. Read and sleep.

Willa has learned to wai, the prayer-like Buddhist greeting of placing palms together in front of your face. It’s delightful to behold, but even more wonderful is what she chooses to wai to. Temples and photographs of temples, the moon, early morning coming in through the curtains, water buffalo calves nursing and, as she lays in bed in the dark, to herself and the day’s end, waiting to fall asleep. All wai-worthy.

August 8 - Hanoi and Sa Pa, Vietnam

2007-08-07T23:58:00.000-07:00

The bus has pulled up to the station in Hanoi and I’m the last one off, struggling down the narrow aisle with Willa and two bags, rushing to claim my backpack from the bus’ undercarriage before someone else does. I stumble on the last step and as I right myself, women surrounding the bus shove cheap jewelry and trinkets in my face, “You buy from me!”, “You buy something!” Moto drivers grab for my bags, trying to convince me to go with them, that they have a good, cheap guesthouse for me. I’m too tired to put Willa, myself and the bags onto the back of a motor bike in the middle of Hanoi traffic, so I pick a driver who has a car - there’s only one - and ask him to please take me to Camellia 3 guesthouse. He recommends a better, cheaper guesthouse, but I insist, telling him that my husband is going to meet me at Camellia 3. I hope this will be so.

We had just visited Cat Ba Island in Ha Long Bay, renowned for its mythically beautiful limestone outcroppings in aqua waters. We arrived around noon on Monday and by Tuesday morning we were ready to leave.

Our bus from Ninh Binh dropped us off at the Haiphong ferry dock where we paid an exorbitant amount of money for an air-conditioned fast boat to Cat Ba Island leaving right then. (The alternative was waiting on the sweltering dock for three hours to take a slow, non-air-conditioned boat.) The boat was already packed with Vietnamese tourists and tons of luggage and we grabbed the last two seats in the back. We were the only Westerners and, undoubtedly, the only people to pay as much as we did for our tickets.

We twice offered to switch seats with the woman next to us, so that she could sit with her family, but she declined. We later figured she must be viewing the ride as a mini-vacation from her husband and four children, who talked loudly, ate messily and got seasick for the duration of the trip. Just about everyone on board was sick - save us, fortunately - and we were appalled when exiting to see bags and bags of vomit amidst the crumbs, spilled sodas and trash that people had left behind on their seats and the floor.

On Cat Ba Island, we checked into our guesthouse and the bed crashed beneath us when we sat on it. At lunch we were overcharged for warm water, shrimp that had gone bad and old steamed rice. The two small beaches were so crowded with people we only got glimpses of sand and the ocean’s surf so strong we never considered taking Willa in. We walked around the somewhat depressed town, had two more underwhelming, overpriced meals and were given the directive “You buy something!” every 3 feet. We finally did: our return ferry tickets.

Gazing out the window of the boat, watching the brown water that surrounds Cat Ba Island, a thought occurred to me. “Johnny, did you get our passports back from the front desk?”* Shit. We quickly made the plan that Willa and I would continue on, taking the bus to Haiphong and from there, another bus to Hanoi. Johnny would go back to Cat Ba on the next ferry, take the bus back to the guesthouse, get our passports, take the journey again and meet us in Hanoi tonight at Camellia 3, a guesthouse hurriedly selected from our guidebook.

Now, in Hanoi, the taxi drops Willa and me off at the hotel and it’s lovely. Friendly staff, buffet breakfast included with the room, WiFi and a large exchange library in the lobby. Unfortunately, the cheapest room is $22, beyond our budget. I figure we’ll indulge ourselves for one night after a hectic day of travel. Unfortunately, it’s not available. The hotel’s completely booked, as is just about every other hotel in Hanoi. It seems ‘high season’ has officially begun.

The hotel manager kindly lets us hang out and store our bags in the lobby, as I try to figure out what to do. A new manager comes on shift and tells me that he owns a hotel nearby and has a room available for $18. It’s still above our budget, but we need a room and I rightly figure that the manager’s connection will help guarantee that Johnny gets the note I leave for him at the front desk and that he’ll be able to find us.

Many hours later, after Willa and I have checked in and unpacked our bags, walked around our neighborhood, eaten dinner, after Willa’s had her bath and we’ve read and played 52-card pick-up, after she’s gone to sleep, Johnny walks in the door. Over the past five months, we have not been apart for more than a few hours at a time. It feels as though we haven’t seen each other in days and our words rush out, detailing what we’ve been doing since we last saw each other. I am so relieved to have him back with us. With our passports.

We take long walks every day. Around the lake in the center of town, along the wide, tree-lined streets of the wealthy French Quarter, to museums and galleries. The work on the first floor of the Fine Arts Museum is especially impressive and we play ‘picks,’ amassing quite a collection to decorate our future home with. We go to see Ho Chi Minh’s embalmed body at the Mausoleum, but the line wraps around the block and we don’t feel like waiting. On our way back to our guesthouse, we come across Mondo Gelato and have the most delicious, creamy gelato, which becomes a diet staple.

Another day we take a cyclo to the massive Reunification Park where children ride go-carts, men and women play badminton, and a miniature train runs in loops. At one of the several playgrounds in the park, Willa climbs the steps and slides down the slide so many times I lose count. She shrieks with glee each time, as though it is her first.

A woman with a bundle of mylar balloons in the shapes of rabbits, fish and circles follows me, “You buy from me!” I decline several times and she then squats down to Willa’s height, holding the balloons out to her. “You buy for baby!” I pull a Linda Walker, calmly telling her, “Lady, if my daughter takes a balloon I won’t make her give it back and I won’t pay you for it, so unless you are prepared to give it to her for free, I recommend you move on.” Somehow this message is understood and she leaves us. Linda Walker is my mother-in-law and she similarly reproached a grocery store manager when Johnny, as a young boy, took candy from the shelves strategically placed at small child hand and eye-level.

We ride the merry-go-round again and again at Willa’s insistence until, beyond tired, she breaks down, staggering in tears from horse to sleigh, a character in her own melodrama. We go home.

We are staying in the Old Quarter, the ancient, merchant’s quarter. It’s packed with markets, cheap guesthouses, all manner of tourist-related shops - travel agencies, souvenir and guidebook shops, trekking outfits, etc. - food stalls and beer stands. In the afternoons, we sit at one of these popular beer stands, Bia Hoi, sipping cheap, pale beer and watching traffic.

Late one morning we stop around the corner from our guesthouse at one of the sidewalk cafes and feel like we’ve joined a kindergarden group for lunch. The brightly colored plastic chairs and stools are so small and the tables so short, we have to sit parallel to the table. I offend a woman by having my back to her, but we are squeezed for space and can’t figure out how else to sit at the table. We are amazons here.

A young woman in pajamas sets down a bowl of freshly washed greens - lettuce, bean sprouts, mint and basil - for the table and, for each of us, a plate of rice noodles, a small bowl of pork-broth based soup with grilled meatballs of ground pork and chopped scallions, slices of barbecued pork and slices of cucumber. As is the custom, we wipe our chopsticks down with small napkin squares. On the table are jars of chopped chilis, a garlic and chili-flavored vinegar and fish sauce to add to the soup to taste.

We take a bite of noodle with our chopsticks, dip it into the soup and then into our mouths. In between bites of noodles, we eat the meat and tear off more pieces of greens, adding them to the soup. A plate of cut up spring rolls is set down in front of us and we dip those in the soup before eating, as well. The soup gets drunk from the bowl last.

Garlic and Chili Vinegar: In a jar put sliced red chilis, sliced garlic and top with white vinegar. Let it sit for a few hours, days. This condiment is on every Vietnamese table and is fantastic on top of fried egg on rice, fried noodles, bowls of noodle soup.

Hanoi is infinitely more enjoyable and sophisticated (despite there seeming to be almost as many women with hickies on their necks as without) than Ho Chi Minh City, but we tire of the ceaseless traffic, heat and “You buy something from me!” cries that begin the moment we step outside our guesthouse.

We take the overnight train up north, to the town and mountains of Sa Pa where we will spend our remaining two weeks in Vietnam here. We know this from the moment we step off the train into the crisp, chilly air. From the dizzying, twisting drive up into the breathtakingly beautiful mountains. The decision is cemented the moment we see our room at Cat Cat guesthouse with a balcony that looks out to the mist-covered mountains above and valleys terraced with crops below. Our room with its fireplace and comfortable beds, plush with white cotton duvets.

It rains almost every morning and we huddle and cuddle together in our warm bed until the thought of the guesthouse restaurant’s rich coffee and crepes with lemon and sugar persuade me to get up. We walk through the market and around the small town, to the oval cement park where Willa runs from puddle to puddle, splashing with her new purple rubber boots. Around the park’s perimeter, women tend charcoal fires, roasting and selling ears of corn, sweet potatoes and whole eggs. Mobile carts selling baguettes circle the park blaring techno-ice-cream-truck versions of “Jingle Bells,” “Auld Lang Syne,” and “Happy Birthday.”

Women and girls from the ethnic minority hill tribes, mostly Black Hmong and Red Dao here, hover outside the guesthouse front door with baskets and hands full of souvenirs to sell: blankets and pillow cases made from embroidered and woven cloth, hats, woven and silver bracelets, necklaces. They comb the streets and the park for potential buyers, ambulance-chasing the buses and mini-vans bearing tourists from the train station. “You buy me!” and “You buy something!”

Some of the young girls walk and talk with you, often adept at both English and French, asking about your homeland, your baby and your travels, finally wrapping up conversation with, “So, maybe before you leave Sa Pa, you buy a small something from me?” They’ve grown up in a free market economy, as opposed to their mothers and grandmothers for whom it is still new. For whom “You buy from me!” is not just the only sales pitch they know, but often the only English they know.

The faces of the Black Hmong and Red Dao are brown from the sun and free of make-up, unlike the pale, covered faces of most Vietnamese women. Long, thick, black hair hangs loose or in a ponytail down the backs of young girls and swept up in ornate twists and buns held with silver combs on the women. Silver bracelets run up their arms and large, silver, hoop earrings hang from their ears. Their hand-embroidered and woven tunics, pants and jackets are dyed from indigo and their fingers and hands seem to be permanently stained. The women wrap black velvet cloth around their legs secured with ribbon and somehow pull off leg-warmers with panache. Probably because they are really worn to warm the legs.

We take walks, down winding roads, to waterfalls and up mountain paths. Passed Red Dao women with their bright red headdresses selling souvenirs laid out on blankets by the side of the road. An old man in a traditional indigo tunic and a young boy wearing a jacket with Dolce & Gabbana splashed across the back, both with pants rolled up to their thighs, herding their water buffalo up the mountain. An albino water buffalo and its baby grazing on the roadside. Motorcycles climbing the mountain, beeping their horns and revving their engines. Motorcycles descending the mountain, rolling silently with engines turned off. One man shouts out “Beep! Beep!,” as he rounds the bend. We laugh and call out that his is the best horn we’ve heard. He and his passenger laugh and “Beep!” in response.

Late at night, the teenage Black Hmong girls in their traditional clothes use the computers in the guesthouse lobby, chatting on-line with friends, watching videos and looking at photos of celebrities. Their fingers fly over the keys, simultaneously working and chatting in numerous windows. Their passwords are staggeringly long with hyphens in between letters and numbers. And yet, there’s no compunction about reading e-mails over someone’s shoulders. When checking e-mails, I’m not infrequently startled to hear, “What does _____ mean?” When Johnny asks around about the availability of WiFi in Sa Pa, he’s told there’s none in town, only in the mountain villages.

Our visa expires on August 10th, when we will fly back to Bangkok. We’ve frequently been perplexed and frustrated by the Vietnamese we've encountered. People’s social graces elude us with seemingly common courtesies coming few and far between. And yet I feel melancholy about leaving.

The people who have been kind have been exceptionally so. We’ve made fast and good friends with fellow travelers. And, of course, the country itself is stunning in its natural beauty and diversity - chilly mountain regions, beaches, sand dunes, lush rice paddies. For all of our complaints, it hasn’t escaped our notice that on this journey we have spent more time in this country than in any other.

* All guesthouses and hotels require that you leave your passports at the front desk as insurance against guests running out on their bill.

Tam Coc, Vietnam

2007-08-06T23:54:00.001-07:00

July 15 - Hue and Ninh Binh, Vietnam

2007-08-06T23:43:00.000-07:00

Early in the morning, when it’s just starting to get light, I hear Willa wake up on the other side of the room. She scoots to the end of her bed, climbs down and pads over to my bed where I’m half-sleeping, half-feigning sleep. I can feel her eyes and hot baby breath on my face. She gently pokes at my eyelids and cheeks, “Ma?” I really dislike this name and don’t know how she came upon it for me. “Ma?” I open my eyes and she’s smiling, beaming at me. I lift her and roll over, laying her between myself and the wall.

Willa plays quietly, singing softly, making up signs with her hands and fingers. Sometimes she turns her head and watches me. Sometimes she leans over and kisses me. I’m tired, but I can’t pretend to sleep through such tenderness and love.

Our room in the Binh Duong III guesthouse has the luxuries of a bathtub, room service and hardwood floors. Most guesthouses, actually most buildings in Southeast Asia have shiny tiled floors that become lethally slick when wet and we’ve had more than our fair share of accidents stepping out of showers or on puddles formed under dripping rain jackets and condensation from water bottles.

We order french toast and when it arrives, Willa jumps from one foot to the other in excited anticipation, barely able to wait for me to cut it into squares. She holds her little plate with both hands and carefully walks it over to the table between the beds. She wiggles her butt and hums as she chews, loving her food. We realize that Willa thinks we’re saying “french toes” after the third or so time she squats down and touches our toes when asked if she’d like more.

We are in Hue, the former capital and third largest city in Vietnam. Despite its size, Hue is charming and reminds us of Austin. It is home to five universities and long parks with sculptures, trees and gardens. Several bridges cross the wide river that separates the citadel containing the old Imperial Palace from the rest of the city. Many women wear the traditional dress of ao dai, a long, silk, slit tunic over pants. Far more elegant and beautiful than the nylon pajamas so popular in the South.

Though we have decided to eschew tourist ‘sites’ - usually disappointing and entrance fees cost too much; even Johnny is templed out, tired of seeing where rich people used to live and where their dead bodies are kept - the citadel intrigues us with its high stone wall and the amount of space it takes up on the city map. Vines and shrubs grow out of the stone wall and the surrounding moat is filled with lily pads and flowers. Behind the walls, the Imperial Palace’s dark wood floors and walls are soothing and wonderfully uncluttered. (Other royal residences we’ve visited fill rooms with furniture and ornaments.) We walk from royal building to royal building until the heat and crowds of Vietnamese tourists with sun-protecting umbrellas at eye-gouging level force us back to our air-conditioned guesthouse.

We rent bicycles and ride the flat road along the city-side of the river. Out of town, beneath the highway underpass and around the large bend, to the rice paddies and villages that lie in the city’s outskirts. The road turns from pavement to dirt. We follow it, passing houses and waving hello to children who run out to the side of the road to watch us. “Hello! Hello! Hello!,” they shriek, trying to out-yell each other, not bothering to wait for a response from us.

We stop at a large watering hole where several water buffalo are cooling off, some almost completely submerged. They sputter as they come up for air and we’re enthralled by their beauty. Far apart eyes, dark charcoal grey hides, rippled horns arching back. They look like they belong in another time. Willa loves to watch them, especially the calves nursing and bonking their mothers’ teats with their heads. Though immense in size, with giant hoofed feet, they are gentle and graceful.

We ride on the elevated concrete paths through the rice fields, stopping to photograph the family cemetery plots. They rise out of the paddies, giant stone gardens surrounded by planted flowers.

On our ride back to town we pass baguette carts and stands selling steamed dumpling buns filled with minced pork, steamed and roasted ears of corn. Near our guesthouse is Minh & Coco, a cafe run by two sisters. Minh is bawdy and Coco all about business. They are rather irreverent toward their customers and we love their familiar, hands-on treatment that makes us not feel like foreigners. We also love their french fries with mayonnaise.

The sleeper bus to Hanoi (we’re only riding it as far as Ninh Binh) is a mobile dormitory, outfitted with about 25 bunk beds. It’s surprisingly comfortable. I should sleep, and I’ll pay for this later, but the night sky and the rice fields lit by moonlight are so quiet and beautiful that I stay awake, watching the country rush by. Having Johnny and Willa so close to me and this peaceful, starry night outside my window makes my eyes tear up. As though sensing my emotion, Johnny, lying down in the bed in front of mine, reaches his hand back and clasps my foot, “I love you, My-My.”

Hours later, the bus jerks to a stop and the bus driver yells out. It’s not quite pitch black outside, but close, and everyone around us is asleep. We’re disoriented, not sure what’s going on. “Is this our stop?” It can’t be. We’re not supposed to arrive in Ninh Binh, just south of Hanoi, until 7AM. Johnny gets up and goes to ask the bus driver. He races back, “This is our stop!” The bus driver rushes us and we scramble to put our shoes on and get our things together, grab Willa and run off the bus before it takes off, praying we haven’t forgotten anything crucial.

It’s 4 o’clock in the morning and we’re standing on the side of a highway, watching the tail lights and breathing in the exhaust of our receding bus. We’re a bit stunned, not sure what to do or where to go. This is, of course, the one time in all of our travels that there isn’t a throng of moto drivers shouting for our business. In fact, the road is deserted and the only light provided by the moon and a dim yellow lamp post.

“Hallo! Hallo!” A flashlight’s spotlight bounces, approaching us. “You come to my hotel!” We don’t bother consulting our guidebook marked with the names of guesthouses to consider. We follow the man and he leads us down a side street, into a building and up the stairs. Outside of a room, he knocks on the door. Receiving no response, he calls out something in Vietnamese and bangs on the door. A girl with sleep-filled eyes opens the door, mutters something and turns back to quickly straighten the room and bed. Minutes later, she pads out, followed by three other young women. Our room is ready. We stagger in, drop our bags, climb into bed and are asleep in seconds.

Ninh Binh doesn’t make much of a first impression with it’s dusty brown highway that runs through town’s center, paltry market with wilted fruits and vegetables, and a surprising amount of traffic and pollution given its small size. When we awaken for the second time that morning, we borrow bicycles to ride around town and are back within the half hour. We eat lunch and go back to sleep.

We came to Ninh Binh to see Tam Coc, “three caves”, the limestone outcroppings made popular by the film Indochine and described in our guidebook as “a miniature landlocked version of Halong Bay.” Determined to accomplish this and not linger in Ninh Binh, we rent a motorbike that afternoon and head out to the caves. Just a couple hundred meters down the road and a turn to the right and we are in the most beautiful land of Vietnam we’ve seen yet.

Brilliant green rice fields stretch out for miles, interrupted by giant limestone rocks jutting up and the mountains beyond them. Young boys languidly herd their cows and water buffalo with sticks and wave to us as we pass. The motorcycle creates a fantastic breeze, cooling us.

We park our bike at the river and take out a sampan, slowly drifting along the river. Gliding through the caves (where Johnny gives me a refresher course on stalagtites and stalagmites), the only sound is that of the oars paddling through the water. The ceilings are low and the caves are long and so dark that our eyes squint against the sunlight as we come out. In between the caves, weeds, rice shoots and water lilies surround the bases of tall cliffs bordering the river. Up on the ridges we spot mountain goats watching us. One of the two sampan rowers speaks French and we converse about our children. The late afternoon sun glimmers off of the water and mellows us.

Back at the guesthouse for dinner we are asked if we are 30,000 dong hungry, 40,000 dong hungry or 50,000 dong hungry. We haven’t ordered this way before, but we’re pretty hungry, so we go for the 50. What follows is a culinary feast. Large bowl of steaming white rice. Platter of shredded sauteed vegetables, plate stacked with crispy spring rolls, and two bowls of chicken curry. It’s fantastic and we can barely finish it. Willa eats everything on her plate and grabs food off of our plates when we’re too slow at refilling hers.

Later, as we’re hanging out on the front steps talking with other guests, Willa runs back into the kitchen. She reappears minutes later in the arms of the owner’s wife who’s feeding her rice and chopped chicken from a bowl. The woman looks at me disapprovingly, “She hungry! Baby very hungry!” I try to tell her that we fed her two platefuls of food, but I can see that she doesn’t believe me. Willa hums and wiggles in her seat, wolfing down each bite that’s offered to her. I foresee future family roadtrips with Willa’s handwritten sign, “Help! I’ve been kidnapped!” held up against the rear window.

The next morning we head out on our motorbike and ride along dirt roads through rice paddies, mountain ranges, passed cemetery gardens and water tanks. A zig-zagging stairway has been built into a mountain, leading up to a dragon-guarded pagoda at the top. We make the long climb, stopping to catch our breath on the landings. At each one, the view spread out below is even more incredible than the last. It seems we can see across the entire country.

On our way back we crash our motorbike, swerving to miss a man coming around the corner. Fortunately, Willa’s wearing her brand new shiny red helmet. Even more fortunately, she and I are completely untouched and she doesn’t even cry. Johnny and the bike have a few minor scrapes, but we’re all well and hope that we’ve gotten our bike accident out of the way.

The guesthouse owner couldn’t be kinder, telling us to never mind about the bike, just wanting to be sure that we are okay. Willa is taken into the kitchen and fed a warm baguette with honey. We go upstairs to our room to clean up and come back down for another delicious dinner. One of the guests we’ve befriended has bought a large carton of chocolate ice cream to share and we join him with our spoons on the front stoop, talking and watching Willa and the kids from next door play as the sun sets.

Ninh Binh and our guesthouse have turned out to be one of the brightest spots on this trip.

July 6 - Nha Trang and Hoi An, Vietnam

2007-07-17T22:54:00.000-07:00

The road from from Da Lat to Nha Trang twists and winds down, through pine covered mountains. The road is narrow with sharp curves and vehicles overtake each other, seemingly regardless of blind spots. Several people on our bus throw up and the bus driver’s back-up blithely hands out plastic bags and collects the full ones, chucking them out the door and onto the side of the road.

We arrive in Nha Trang, a fishing town on the South-East coast of Vietnam in the afternoon. Nha Trang is in many ways like most of the cities we’ve visited. It has the ubiquitous book exchanges carrying the ubiquitous books: The Life of Pi, Mr. Nice, The Beach, A Chef’s Tour, countless Dan Brown novels, Bill Bryson books, The Killing Fields, First They Killed My Father and worn and marked up Rough Guides and Lonely Planets in English and French and, on occasion, German.

There are the shops peddling pirated DVDs, including the ever-present Tomb Raider, The Killing Fields and Without Borders. Souvenir shops hawking postcards, Tin Tin books, fatigues-like hats and pants, T-shirts and tank tops with the slogan “Same, Same But Different”, the large gold star that is Vietnam’s insignia, and an outline of Vietnam with the name of the city we’re in emblazoned across the chest.

Street stands tout packets of Oreos and Ritz crackers, Snickers bars and Mars bars, M&Ms and cigarettes. Drink stands sell Mirinda, Coke, Sprite and local sodas that seem to have no flavor beyond sugary sugar. Baguette stands and carts offer baguette with pate or baguette with Laughing Cow cheese. Sidewalk cafes serve pho, noodle soup for breakfast and grilled pork chops and fried eggs over rice for lunch. This last one is our new favorite meal.

Children and women holding babies beg and sell cheap jewelry and postcards. Tuk-tuk and moto (motorcycle) drivers try to pick up fares. Restaurants called El Coyote, Why Not? and Good Morning Vietnam advertise Vietnamese and Western cuisine, catering to tourists homesick for a burger and fries or cottage pie, fish and chips or a banana split.

Nha Trang has all of these components, but it is slower and more relaxed. There’s less traffic and people are friendlier. When we decline their offers, tuk-tuk drivers slowly putter alongside us, giving directions and making conversation.

Our guesthouse is a block from the beach. The rooms are more expensive than we’ve budgeted for, but Willa is so happy playing on the beach and the adjacent park with its climbable stone sculptures, that we commit to staying for a few days.

The first morning, Willa wakes up at 5:30AM and we head out so Johnny can sleep in. Expecting a deserted town, we instead behold people taking their morning constitutionals, walking briskly up and down the streets in pajamas and sneakers and some in fancy slip-on shoes. The park is filled with people performing calisthenics and stretches. The beach and ocean crowded. Breakfast picnics are taking place, bikes are laid on their sides and stacked haphazardly, teenagers play and flirt, chasing each other into the ocean. Women and children swim fully clothed, men in trunks and babies and young children swim naked. Even more striking than all of this activity at 5:30 in the morning, is that it’s so quiet. To have this amount of people and so little noise is surreal. It’s beautiful.

We go to the beach every morning and afternoon. The ocean is placid and dark, like lake water. The sun is silvery and the air foggy; discombobulating and we have no sense of the time.

Wave runners and wakeboarders zip back and forth on the water in the afternoon, but it’s the para-sailers down the beach who pique our interest and we each take a spin out over the ocean. Similar to a pony ride, with every person taken the same route for the same short amount of time, para-sailing is nevertheless exhilarating. To be ‘free’ in the air with the ocean, beach, town and mountains spread out beneath you is incredible. We can’t wait to do it again.

We rent bicycles and ride along the beach and out of the city to the base of the cable cars that travel over the ocean to Vinpearl, an island that’s been transformed into a resort theme park. The cable car ride looks beautiful, but the entertainment portion of our budget went to para-sailing, so we head back to the beach. Willa is fearless in the water and has almost learned to dog-paddle.

Every morning the tide brings in piles of trash that get raked up by the beach cleaners. At breakfast we overhear someone say that the city loads all of the trash onto barges, takes it out to sea and dumps it in the ocean. We don’t know for sure if this is how Nha Trang manages waste but we’re happy to be leaving the next day.

The twelve-hour overnight bus ride to Hoi An is physically excruciating and renders us useless for the next day.

Hoi An is quaint, a historic port town with most of its downtown center mercifully blocked off to cars and trucks. The architecture is a mix of French colonial, Chinese and what Johnny calls ‘emerging nation,’ concrete block architecture. Vegetable garden plots take up several blocks within the city. Potted plants and flowers crowd entry-ways and balconies. Covered wells serve as roundabouts for bicycles and motorcycles. Hoi An is quite charming. It also seems to be almost entirely dedicated to tourists and shoppers.

There are literally entire city streets dedicated to tailors and dress shops and shoe shops. Clusters of stores selling lanterns and boutiques with ethnic fans, conical hats, dishware, artwork and clothing. The market takes up several city blocks, but is the least impressive one we’ve been to, geared as it is toward tourists.

We happen upon a fantastic pho cafe. We sit down at one of the many round communal tables and within minutes each have a steaming bowl of noodle soup with grilled beef in front of us. No menus and no ordering. This is the only item served. We return several times, afterward stopping at a sundries stand to buy the wrapped frozen ice cream sundae-in-a-cones we’ve become addicted to.

We bicycle out to the beach and play hide-and-seek with Willa between the coconut trees. It starts to rain, then pours and we get drenched on our ride back. It’s a great relief from the heat, the cool air and rain pelting us.

We bicycle across the river to the residential section of Hoi An, down the sandy lanes between rows of cottages. We park our bikes and walk across a bamboo footbridge. In the late afternoon sun, giant fishing nets in the river, like trapeze safety nets, are slowly lowered and raised by a manual wooden wheel. Old women pass by on the bridge. Their bodies disappear into the high grass on the other side until only their conical hats bobbing above are still visible. The sun is starting to set and we collect our bikes and head home.

Willa in Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam

2007-07-17T22:44:00.000-07:00

June 28 - Chau Doc, Can Tho, Ho Chi Minh City and Da Lat, Vietnam

2007-07-17T22:13:00.000-07:00

It’s nine o’clock in the morning and Willa has just passed out. She’s sprawled across the foot of the bed, wearing my underwear around her neck as a scarf. She’s been doing this lately with my swimsuits, undergarments and the chitenges we use for slings. We sleep family-style, cramped in beds that are twin or full-size and Willa wakes up several times a night, each time wanting to nurse for what seems like hours.

It’s hot outside. The trees are sparse and scraggly, and though we’re by the river, there is no breeze. The parks are almost exclusively concrete, the few ‘grass’ sections mostly dirt with cigarette butts and rubbish. Willa’s getting over a cold that I now have full-blown and we spend most of the days in our air-conditioned hotel room. We are irritable and tired, bored and boring.

I feel guilty for taking Willa away from her grandmothers and neighborhood playmates. I miss my friends. I miss my mom. I miss having a good park, playground and front yard for Willa to play in and a swimming pool in walking distance. A kitchen in which to prepare healthy meals for her. A bath. A bedtime routine and the same bed to sleep in every night.

Johnny and I take turns being alone - going for bike rides, reading books, checking e-mail - but it’s not always enough. And we miss being together and having conversations that aren’t about travel logistics or Willa.

This is the difficult part about traveling with your family. Making a home, a comfortable space for yourself and your family and finding time to be alone, all while moving through foreign places.

***

We traveled down the wide, brown Mekong River from Cambodia to Vietnam. Our boat dropped us off in Chau Doc, a small southern city on the river’s edge where wooden box houses on stilts squeeze each other, taking up every breath of space, their television antennas crowding the sky above.

A port town with business starting before dawn, Chau Doc’s streets are dirty, loud and congested. The ever-present street carts crowd the dock selling rice noodles in banana leaves topped with shaved coconut; noodles, watercress and pork wrapped in rice paper; baguettes filled with sliced roasted pork, cucumber and chili sauce; peanut bars made from cooked condensed milk and chopped peanuts. Women wear conical woven hats and form-fitting synthetic pajamas with psychedelic and floral prints (the Cambodian version of this casual wear is the checked kroma cloths wrapped around their heads to protect from the sun and loose cotton and flannel pajamas with anime-like characters.)

According to our guide book, Chau Doc’s two main sites of interest are the market, supposedly the largest in the Mekong Delta, and Sam Mountain.

As with most of the sites we visit, the best part is the journey there and Willa and I relax in our cyclo, passing fields and fields of rice paddies, tamarind trees, and giant water buffalo. Sam Mountain, actually just a hill outsde of town, turns out to be so tacky, crowded and geared toward tourists that we turn around before finding out what it’s famous for. I think for making offerings based on all of the stands selling joss-sticks, spirit money, candy, plastic toys and flowers, but don’t know why this location.

Early in the mornings, we walk through the giant, crowded market by the dock, wondering at the ingredients of the sweets and pastries and hurrying passed the dried fish and wet market sections. When we reach the produce hall we still for a moment to breathe in the heady, earthy scent of freshly picked lettuce, limes, cilantro, spring onions, carrots. We sit on tiny plastic stools at a food stall and a woman presents us with a bowl filled with chopped crispy spring rolls and barbecued pork, ground roasted peanuts, fresh cilantro and chili sauce on a bed of vermicelli noodles. At another stall we have a bowl of noodles, grilled beef and prawns in a rich, spicy beef and lemon broth. Vietnamese coffee, served short, sweet and all day long, is so strong it’s medicinal. This is the best Vietnamese food we’ve ever had.

Walking around town, women scold us for having Willa outside without a hat while giving sweets to their children whose teeth are brown and absent from rot. We are asked how we can afford to travel by men who sit in coffee shops smoking and drinking pale Chinese tea with their friends all day long. People seem unfriendly and my fever and the heat makes them appear even more so.

We’re slowly working our way north to Hanoi and our bus to Can Tho is uneventful save for the breakneck speed at which we travel. For four hours the driver tears around slower vehicles, so narrowly missing oncoming traffic that the bus shudders.
Can Tho is another port town, a large one with traffic-filled, multi-laned streets, tall concrete buildings and more guesthouses than we can imagine guests for. Hotel touts comb the streets and camp themselves in the doorways of other guesthouses trying to lure potential customers with cheaper prices. This is how our guesthouse manager hooks us. His hotel, like most others, is one bedroom-wide and several floors tall and the ground floor restaurant doubles as a staff bedroom and motorcycle storage room at night.

On our second morning, we hire a longboat and drift through the floating market that Can Tho boasts. Large boats are piled high with produce - pineapples, potatoes, squash, watermelon, cabbage - so weighted down their decks just skim above the surface of the water. Small, longboats cruise by serving noodle soup and coffee and tea. On top of each boat, the fruit or vegetable being sold dangles from a tall pole as advertisement. We spot the glow of a television inside a boat cab and realize that the other poles sitting on top most of the boats are antennas.

We continue on our river tour, under foot and traffic bridges and along narrows leading to areas free of development and overgrown with vegetation. The driver cuts the motor to clear the propellor of weeds and plastic bags and we glide in silence, surrounded by bamboo forest.

In this brown, sprawling river children play and people bathe, boats and barges pass through, animals and people defecate, trash is thrown, commerce is done, clothes are laundered and dishes are washed. The communal river is both repulsive and wholesomely attractive. Generations of families have been served by this river.

We walk along the river front to the statue of Ho Chi Minh. The giant silver Uncle Ho looks jolly and welcoming, smiling as he waves. Conversely, we find many of the people of Can Tho indifferent to the point of seeming rude. We’re ignored by market vendors, people scowl at Willa when she crosses their path in the park and our smiles and attempts at Vietnamese are met with blank looks.

We search for a bakery I’ve read about and when we finally find it, they don’t have donuts, the raisin rolls are disappointing and the pigs-in-blankets have hair on them. There is nowhere for Willa to play other than our hotel room. We are tired of carrying her and she is tired of being carried.

In the morning we crowd into a bus to Ho Chi Minh City, formerly Saigon. The bus drivers are either the best stock car racers in the world or psychopaths. I’m so tense from fear my body is sore. I ask Johnny how he can bear it, but the only thing bothering him are the polyester pants of his neighbor that rub against his bare knee.

In Ho Chi Minh City, the streets are overflowing with motorcycles, almost exclusively Hondas. They drive through the parks’ and markets’ walkways and park in tight rows on the sidewalks, forcing pedestrians to walk in the street. While riding, men slouch and women sit rigidly erect, their lower faces covered with surgical masks or bandit-style, with pastel-colored cloths to keep out pollution and sun. (Dark skin is considered unattractive to many Vietnamese and women wear long gloves, long sleeves and wide-brimmed hats to keep from tanning. Pharmacies dedicate whole shelves to whitening creams and powders.) Mind-boggling loads are carried on the backs of bikes: whole hogs, propane tanks, giant plates of glass, entire families.

For the first time on this trip we see black people. French and African men hanging out in the park. I don’t know if they are tourists or living in their guesthouse. They eat their meals together in their guesthouse’s downstairs restaurant and spend the days leaning against the pond rails in the park across the street. We see only two black women, both American tourists.

We take walks whenever the daily rains let up. To war museums, in search of bakeries, to Diamond Plaza department store where I try on make-up at the fancy counters. We walk down alleys that lead to small cities within the city, tucked away and complete with markets, cafes, benches and guesthouses.

We search for trash-free grass for Willa to play on. There are several parks in the city, but they don’t permit walking on the grass. Concrete paths outline square plots of thick, green grass; more park showrooms than parks themselves. We get lucky on the lawn of the Reunification Palace and Willa is ecstatic. She runs and explores until the rain chases us home.

We catch up on sleep, watch movies and recover from colds. Our guesthouse is run by a friendly woman and the room rate includes a simple, delicious breakfast of rich coffee, warm crusty baguette with butter and strawberry preserves and a banana. The hospitality helps mightily in changing our opinion about Vietnam. It also helps that we realize the brusqueness with which we’ve been treated seems to be the manner here and is not directed toward us personally, as Westerners.

We see people nudged and hit with bags, brooms, by other people and even by motorcycles and there’s no acknowledgment by either party. It starts to border on comical until we see a couple of bad accidents, people hit by cars and barely given a glance by passerby (Willa attracts more of a crowd in her carrier on Johnny’s back.) In one case, a couple of men run out to the man on the ground, but it is only to clear the street for traffic. Some time later, a pickup truck drives up, the man is tossed into the bed, and the truck drives off.

After a week in Ho Chi Minh City, we are ready to move on, exhausted from the pollution, heat and the Matrix-like awareness and focus needed to cross streets swarming with vehicles. We skip the six-hour bus ride and fly to Da Lat, in the Highlands. Thirty minutes later, we land in a Vietnam we never expected.

The temperature is cool and Da Lat is surrounded by pine tree forests and mountains. The air is clean and crisp with traces of pine scent and wood smoke. Men and women wear zip-up jackets and sweaters and we wear long-sleeves at night. It’s wonderful and invigorating.

Da Lat is especially chilly in the morning and we’re enticed by the steam rising from the bowls of pho, spicy noodle soup, at the crowded cafes that spread out along the sidewalks and almost into the street. People huddle on stools around the long aluminum tables, doctoring their soup with the communal condiments of various chili sauces, white vinegar, fish sauce and plates of fresh mint, basil, greens and bean sprouts.

The town is reminiscent of a small European village, so quaint it’s kitschy. (Johnny says it’s just like Switzerland except here people eat noodles for breakfast.) French colonial-influenced homes and buildings line the steep hills and narrow, curving streets. Small bakeries sell fresh baguettes, fried donuts and ornate pastries; cable cars disappear over the mountains, horse-drawn carriages circle the town’s pristine lake. People are friendly and indulgent of our butchered attempts at Vietnamese. The shopkeeper I buy ice cream and water from treats me like a regular after one visit.

The city market spreads out from one of the towns many roundabouts. Stalls of freshly cut flowers, orchids and succulent plants. Baskets filled with regional passion fruit and strawberries. (I love that we're eating foods grown and raised locally. If it's not in season, it’s not available.) Sweet, ripe bananas and oranges with deceptively green skin. Giant avocados, dark purple cabbages, bundles of watercress. Barrels of rice and noodles looped and folded like ropes. We wander through the aisles taking photographs, tasting samples of dried fruit and roasted nuts, and prying items from Willa’s hands and returning them to their owners.

There’s a park just off of the lake, near a dock with swan-shaped paddle boats. We walk there in the early mornings, before breakfast, and Willa runs and plays, sucking in her prodigious belly to squeeze between the giant rocks on the lawn. She tries to help the workers laying a stone path around the park and is learning not to eat trash.

Families and couples having portraits taken in front of the lake ask if Willa can join them and she obliges with posed smiles we’ve not seen before. I’m curious about these family portraits that later generations will look at. Won’t they wonder why this little Western girl is in their family photograph?

We are staying at the aptly named Dreams Hotel and the woman who runs it, Madame Youn, greets Willa with a hug every morning. Together they play the piano and make cell phone calls and she shoos Johnny and I away to enjoy our breakfast. We enjoy conversations with each other and fellow travelers at the large, wooden communal table in the kitchen over platters of fruit, yogurt, sliced avocados and tomatoes, eggs made to order, baguettes, soft cheese, butter and strawberry preserves, freshly-squeezed passionfruit juice and endless cups of dark Vietnamese coffee.

Madame Youn has set up in our room a small mattress, stuffed animals and bedding which her niece has outgrown. Willa sleeps through the night. In her own bed.

Every day we decide to stay another day.

June 11 - Siem Reap, Phnom Penh, and Sihanoukville, Cambodia

2007-06-10T19:53:00.000-07:00

Willa has a fever for the second time in two weeks and I’m missing the convenience of having a trusted, English-speaking doctor we can call.

We were lucky the first time as we were in Phnom Penh and had met Isaac just that morning. Isaac is a medical student and runs a mobile clinic out of his tuk-tuk. He was born in Cambodia and raised in California by an adopted family after his parents were killed by the Khmer Rouge. He moved back here a few years ago and has now adopted two kids of his own, abandoned babies from the hospital. He’s fluent in English, Khmer and the medical resources in Phnom Penh.

So, when Willa had a fever, Isaac took us to a good, private clinic and thirty minutes and $4 later, Willa’s blood had been tested and found negative for dengue and malaria. This would have required paperwork, insurance filings, a $20 co-pay and a two-week wait in the U.S. Her fever was gone by morning and we figure she was teething as her fever went away and a new bottom tooth showed up.

But now we’re in Sihanoukville, on the southern coast of Cambodia, and I could barely make myself understood ordering lunch today.

Cambodia feels more foreign than any other country we’ve been to on this trip. We felt it as our plane descended into Siem Reap and saw the flat countryside through the window. Dirt roads and red dust between squares of crops and water waiting for rice shoots. Palm trees in thick, jungle-y clusters or sometimes standing solitary in the middle of a field. Tall, white brahmans walk along the edge of the roads and dark grey, mossy water buffalo wallow in dark pools.

The history of Cambodia is palpable in Siem Reap. On every block there are amputees, begging children, and begging mothers with mentally and physically handicapped children on their laps. Cambodians give money to the amputees and elderly, not the children, and we follow suit. Several organizations are working to defuse landmines (supposedly, there are still many thousands buried, waiting). Our guidebook cautions not to stray from well-marked paths. We’ve never been in a place where so many people have been so directly, physically affected by war and its aftermath.

Our guest house in Siem Reap rents out bicycles and we ride to the ruins of Angkor in the mornings. It’s a half-hour ride along the Siem Reap River and we pass vegetable markets, baguette carts, school children in their uniforms riding two and three to a bike or motorcycle, and stands selling petrol in glass liter-bottles.

The temples themselves are, as expected, magnificent and awe-inspiring. But to experience them in their jungle-setting - hearing the gongs and bells from the nearby, smaller Buddhist temples; catching sight of the rich gold robes and umbrellas of the monks as they walk through the stone halls; being invited to kneel, light an incense and make a prayer - this is what makes the temples unforgettable. Dark, giant, gentle elephants lumber down the wooded paths and water buffalo and brahmans wander, loose, with low-ringing bells announcing their movements.

In the food department we struck gold at our guest house as the couple who own it make us their taste testers for the adjoining restaurant they are about to open. We eat several meals with them and are introduced to an outstanding array of traditional Khmer food.

Sauteed giant prawns in garlic, ginger, chilis and butter. Fried whole fish with a chili, fish and ginger sauce. Spicy cucumber, chicken, glass noodle and carrot salad. Cold vermicelli-like rice noodles, fresh basil and crunchy bean sprouts wrapped in lettuce and dipped in sauce. Pumpkin and tofu curry soup. Fish and long, green beans in coconut curry. And mounds of steamed, white rice. Short-grained and a bit sticky, it has a totally different fragrance, flavor and texture from Thai rice, which resembles basmati. Khmer food has taken the very best influences of Thai and Vietnamese cooking and is delicious.

We spend almost two weeks in Siem Reap. It’s one of our favorite cities on this journey, but we only have two more weeks on our visa and want to see more of Cambodia.

The 5-hour speedboat across the Tonle Sap Lake to Battambang takes 10 hours. We chug past whole towns floating on the brown lake water. Floating schools and a floating gymnasium, a floating police station, floating houses and floating flower gardens tied alongside the houses, old fish traps piled on a boat, bundled stacks of firewood held high above the water in forks made of huge branches, a bicycle leaning against a house rail just above the water. Cats peek out from behind doorways, empty hammocks hang in rows, and metal cooking pots cover outside walls. A boy paddles out to us in a small, metal bucket, spinning at times as he heads towards our boat. We give him some money and with a nod he’s off. The towns are fascinating and romantic in a fairy-tale-ish way and I wish we could spend time drifting around.

We head down a tributary river and children wave from the banks, bathe in the water, and ride bikes along the shore, keeping up with our boat before falling away. A few times, our boat slows to a stop, picking up more passengers delivered to us in wooden longboats or rowboats.

In Battambang, Johnny gets a 50-cent barbershop haircut and shave, we take a tuk-tuk ride around the small city, eat our fill of crusty baguettes, ice cream and fruit shakes at the White Rose, and dodge the kooky men who act as volunteer car parkers and restaurant greeters on our block. Battambang feels like a ‘passing through’ town and we are ready to move on less than 48 hours later.

Arriving in Phnom Penh by bus, we are a bit shell-shocked by the size and congestion of the city after the comparative quaintness of Siem Reap. That moment of stepping off of the bus or boat tends to overwhelm, with the crowds of tuk-tuk and moto drivers yelling for your business, hands grabbing for your bags (and sometimes baby), each trying to secure you as their passenger.

Phnom Penh takes its time showing us its charms. The city is hazy with pollution, hot, varying shades of grey and brown from the dust, and the street food looks sketchy and unappealing. We take walks in the early morning and late afternoon and can’t quite get our bearings even though the city streets are laid out in a grid. We miss riding bikes in Siem Reap.

I’m reading The Killing Fields and it is both surreal and resonating to see the places mentioned in the book: Siem Reap, Battambang, Monivong Boulevard, the French Embassy, and so on. All around Phnom Penh are residuals and influences of the forces that have sought to control it over the course of its history. French street names, colonial architecture, crepes and baguettes (there are two types of baguette street carts: one that sells baguette with pate, chilis, sliced cucumber and spring onion and the other that sells baguette with scoops of ice cream and condensed milk and crushed peanuts on top. Both are delicious). Thai and Vietnamese restaurants and lots of Vietnamese and Chinese people living here.

It surprises me to see so many Khmer wearing the red and white checked krama, the cotton cloths that serve as sarongs and head wraps to protect from the sun and dust, as this was part of the uniform of the Khmer Rouge. These red and white krama on their heads and black pyjamas on their bodies. I think the Khmer Rouge wore it as a symbol of the peasant farming class. There are many other colors to choose from, but the red and white is the most popular.

Early one morning, we walk to Tuol Sleng, S-21, a former high school the Khmer Rouge turned into a detention center in 1975, after the fall of Phnom Phen. This is where the Khmer Rouge tortured people before sending them to the Killing Fields. Many didn’t last long enough to make it to the Killing Fields, so S-21 is a cemetery, as well.

Standing in the courtyard, looking up at the former school and torture chamber; walking down the halls of rooms, bare except for a metal bed frame, chains and shackles; seeing the rows of photos of prisoners and Khmer Rouge (some just children) - it’s harrowing and unfathomable to read and see what people have done to each other.

One of the prisoners in the photos is wearing a polo shirt. One of the women has a short bob haircut and is wearing a t-shirt with little footprints printed on it. Their modern looks are especially distressing. It feels obscene that the morning we visit, the sky is clear and blue, the sun is shining, and the scent of frangipani fills the air.

Another morning we go out to the Killing Fields and, again, the sky is cloudless, birdsong is in the air and trees and grass are lush and green. There is a white stupa at the entrance, towering high with shelves of skulls of men, women, children and babies that have been dug up from the surrounding earth. About 9,000 skulls are collected here, most with holes and cracks from bludgeoning. The Khmer Rouge killed these Cambodians by hand in order to save valuable bullets.

Beyond the monument are dug-out holes that served as mass graves. Some holes are marked as having contained decapitated bodies. There’s a giant tree that the Khmer Rouge chained children to and beat them to death. Another giant tree, called the “Magic Tree”, held a speaker that blared music to cover the cries of people being tortured. At one point we realize that the white specks in the dirt beneath our feet are shards of bone.

We walk the path around the periphery, Willa toddling ahead of us, navigating her way around exposed tree roots and stones. The trees provide cooling shade and in the distance some fishermen wade with their boat across a small lake. Beyond the lake are fields of green rice paddies stretching out for miles. A young boy and a girl run up to us and we talk and walk along the bordering fence. It’s a bizarrely peaceful morning. I don’t know that anyone learns from history, learns not to make the same mistakes, learns not to be cruel, but at least these memorials pay respect to those who were killed.

It seems to be getting hot earlier in Phnom Penh, reducing the hours we can comfortably be outside. Fortunately, our guesthouse serves good, inexpensive food, has a comfortable dining area where we can watch movies. Unfortunately, Meet the Fockers seems to always be playing.

The bus to Sihanoukville, a small city on the south coast, leaves early in the morning. (Heading out of town, our jaws drop when we pass a motorcycle holding three passengers, one connected to an IV that’s hanging from the pole in his hands.) It’s a pleasant 4-hour ride, watching the flat countryside rise to hills then mountains, the first we’ve seen in Cambodia. The air clears, dirt is replaced by white sand and we can smell the ocean.

We’re staying in a rustic, wooden bungalow on stilts overlooking what seems like our own private beach. It’s beautiful; secluded, clean and lined with pine trees. Cows sometimes amble down to the beach and dogs bark and chase them back to the grass.

This is heavenly. To be here with Johnny, swimming every day, watching Willa run around on the wide expanses of sand when the tide is far out and the ocean is flat, being lulled to sleep under our mosquito nets by the sound of the waves.
This is Willa’s favorite part of our travels. Every morning, she points out the window to the ocean and grunts her inquisitive grunt. Willa’s grown so much in just a few months. She studies and bites seashells before throwing them into the sea, squats and follows hermit crabs, and delights in the black and white toucans that fly from tree to tree.

We’re pretty isolated on our beach and food options are mediocre and overpriced (this proves to be the case for us all over Sihanoukville), so we’ve rented a motorbike and pick up sandwich supplies at the market and drive the road along the coastline. There is a large airplane on the beach and we can’t tell whether it’s being assembled or disassembled for parts.

Our bike gets a flat and we are so, so grateful to be uphill from a gas stand that repairs tires. A fierce storm breaks just as we take our seats under the awning and by the time the rain has ended, our tire is fixed. On the way back to our beach home, we see several resort hotels in nascent stages and it won’t be long before this quiet beach is a major tourist destination.

Siem Reap, Cambodia

2007-05-23T02:42:00.000-07:00

Tomb Raiders

2007-05-23T02:29:00.000-07:00

Angkor, Cambodia

May 11 - Krabi, Thailand

2007-05-20T01:35:00.000-07:00

A small, ocean-front town with friendly people, Krabi is idyllic. Time is slow here but passes before you know it.

Our guest house is toothbrush-clean and positively luxurious with a balcony, private bathroom with outdoor shower and sea-side cottage decor. We wander around town and hang out at the dock. Play a pick-up game of badminton in the street. Do laundry. Pity and avoid the mangy dog on the corner who has understandable bouts of viciousness. Take longboats out to Railay Beach, where we swim in the ocean, play in the sand, and lie in the sun. Johnny gets his sports fix watching old boxing and soccer matches on TV. We shop and pretend we live here.

To see the islands off the coast of Southern Thailand we are told that the best, or rather least expensive way is by organized boat tour. We know that we’ll be giving up certain freedoms with our time for on these tours nothing is left to whim, but we write it off as a part of the travel experience. The tour guide blows one long whistle to disembark the boat and two short, shrill ones to return. “If you are not here when I blow the whistle, we leave you.”

There is an interesting collection of people on our tour, including an enthusiastic Canadian woman who’s just finished an intense Thai boxing course and her Brazilian manfriend whom she met scuba diving a week ago; a quiet and intense German who looks like a Cold War spy, brings his own expensive snorkel gear and snorkels too long at each stop, holding up the boat’s departure time (it is to him that our guide’s words of warning are directed); and a young Canadian man and his Thai fiancee.

We learn over lunch that the Canadian-Thai couple met on-line a few months ago and have finally met in person. After one week he proposed. Over the course of our one-day island tour, the relationship passes through several phases: as the tour starts, she sits on his lap, facing him, and they kiss and cuddle. Later, when he snorkles, she feels neglected and hurt but they passionately make up. Still later, they write their names in the sand, an equation equalling “TLA”. Their dynamic resembles those on MTV’s “The Real World” and we can tell there will be more drama in their future.

I wonder how Johnny, Willa and I would be described.

We visit some of the beautiful islands Thailand is famous for: Ko Phi Phi Don, Chicken Island, Bamboo Island. And the ones Hollywood has made Thailand famous for: Ko Phi Phi Le (The Beach) and “James Bond Island” (The Man With the Golden Gun.) Even in low season, the boat-loads of tourists are intense and the experience deflating. But the islands themselves are stunning.

There are islands everywhere, most of them small (one could walk around some in 5 minutes, others in a day) and many of them uninhabited. The water changes in color - jade, emerald, aquamarine, blue, black, and all of it clear. Limestone cliffs reach up to the sky and beaches are lined with white sand and palm trees, pine trees, giant boulders, slab rock and coral.

In Krabi, we sample restaurants and street carts. Walk around the city market and eat mangoes & sticky rice, sketchy fish cakes, and curries so hot our noses and eyes run. Boom Donuts has warm, sweet donuts filled with creamed corn, Dairy Queen (yes) the best sundaes and Muslim Restaurant the best roti and curry.

In Muslim Restaurant, men gather in the front corner of the room, talking and drinking tea, while the women prepare and serve the food. The men wear worn loafers, dress pants and button-up shirts hang loosely over their protruding stomachs. Willa wanders over and they laugh at her audacity in reaching for their cups of tea and she laughs at them laughing.

In the evenings we walk down the street to the Night Market, which serves up grilled whole snapper rubbed with salt; salads of spicy onions and string beans; curried crab; Thai ‘boudin’ sausage stuffed with ginger, pork, glass noodles and spices; and fresh fruit smoothies made with stunning amounts of sugar and condensed milk.

We meet and make friends with a young Canadian woman who moved to Krabi last year. She is a fantastic city guide and knows where to get the best tea, the best yellow rice & chicken, the best pharmacy, etc. She gives us new music from her itunes and we are grateful.

Willa and I walk down along the water for a final visit to the fish park. Circling two fountain pools are 3-feet statues of sea life: a sea lion, a mollusk, a crab, a sand dollar, and so on. Willa walks up to each one, studying and touching, moving on to the next.

A group of young boys run by, laughing and shouting. Willa laughs, too, and toddles after them. They ignore her and climb up onto the dolphin fountains, snouts between their legs, and pretend the water shooting out is their pee. I’m crushed for Willa, but she’s moved on and is hugging the shrimp, pressing her face against where its neck would be.

2007-05-15T01:05:00.000-07:00

Coming home from a long day at the beach.

Islands, Southern Thailand

2007-05-15T00:53:00.000-07:00

May 6 - Koh Tao and Khao Sok, Thailand

2007-05-09T00:53:00.000-07:00

It’s the rainy season in Thailand. All of our clothes are damp and most of them dirty, soaked through with brine, blood, or vomit. The insect repellant we slather on is quickly washed away by sweat and mosquitoes bite us, leaving giant, red welts. We are uncomfortable and tired. We are also visiting some of the most beautiful places we have ever been.

We fled the heat of Bangkok for Koh Tao, a small island in the Gulf of Thailand.

Fresh off the boat, we head to the Lonely Planet-recommended beach of Hat Sairee, where the sand is so white and the water so emerald and clear, we can easily spot each beer bottle and plastic bag from yards away. It’s full of dive shops and resorts, Irish and reggae-ish bars, and, of course, tourists. Johnny quickly dubs it “Prom Island”: a place of long-anticipated, un-met expectations where everything costs an arm and a leg.

We rent a motorcycle and squeeze Willa in between us. She stands with her hands on Johnny’s shoulders, her face in the wind. Between the motorcycle, riding in the back of pick-ups and open-air minivans, I don’t know how we’ll ever get her into a baby carseat again.

Riding around the island on the roads our bike can handle and walking the ones it can’t (most of the dirt roads are cratered or even washed out from the heavy rains), we find the Koh Tao from postcard pictures. Small and secluded coral coves. Long, rickety, wooden planks over green-blue waves. Clouds of mist giving glimpses of nearby islands and mountains, covered with dense forests and palm beaches.

We ride into Chalok Ban Kao, a small, quiet town where only a couple of single flip flops and pieces of dead coral litter the beach, the water’s clear and colorful long-boats park along the shore. And there’s the Koppee cafe, serving strong, freshly-brewed coffee (there’s been only instant so far) and fantastic dessert pastries baked by the owner. The caramel bars are so outrageously delicious, we take turns entertaining Willa, so the other can enjoy eating without distraction. We move to a room in Chalok Ban Kao the next morning.

It rains every day of our stay and we welcome it. We read books and e-mail our families. Snorkel through warm and cold pockets of water, looking at coral, fish, sea cucumbers, and anemones. Climb up visually and physically breathtaking mountain paths. Hold Willa’s hands and walk down the beach and out to the long sandbar, swinging her up over boat ropes and large waves. We toss her back and forth in the ocean and she begs for more. She picks up seashells, studies them and tosses them into the ocean. Willa is a beach girl.

The weather forecast calls for another 10 days of rain. We give up trying to wash our clothes in the sink that can barely contain our hands and, anyway, the humidity and rain refuse to let our clothes dry.

The people in the cities and towns we’ve visited up until now have promoted and prided themselves on being good hosts to visitors and we’ve been spoiled. On Koh Tao, relaxing as our stay is, we get the feeling that we are not altogether welcome. It’s a strange dynamic with our dollars wanted, but not our presence.

There is a storm the morning we leave and the wind and waves slam our boat against the ocean. The piles of luggage at the front of the boat collapse and backpacks slide against the walls and knock against our legs. Almost everyone on board suffers from motion sickness, including our small group. Willa rallies and keeps up appearances, waving and smiling at people who greet her. When they pass she collapses her little sick self against me, again listless and sad. Dramamine tablets are passed around 15 minutes before we dock.

We arrive in Khao Sok National Park at night. Through the speeding car window and against the dark sky, we catch shapes of giant mountains, cliffs, and forest. The moon’s light can just barely be made out through the clouds and fireflies flash their lights through the jungle.

We stay in a rustic, wooden cabin, reminding me of Opequon Summer Camp. It’s right on the river, rushing and high, and our windows open out to tall trees, on whose branches monkeys, squirrels and chipmunks swing and run. A giant toad shares our cabin, sitting in an alcove above our beds, and we hear his (her?) deep croaks at night. I lie awake at night, waiting for it to jump on my face, but it never does.

We walk through the park, thick with vines, trees and bamboo forest. The rains bring the larger animals down from the mountains and we look for tigers, wild elephant and boar, hoping to see them without them seeing us. The closest we come, to our knowledge, are the piles of elephant dung on the path and the clusters of bent and broken bamboo trees.

When we return to the room, I remove my shoes and my socks are soaked with blood. I take off my pants and there are rivulets of thick blood coursing down my legs and from my feet. Johnny empties my shoes and finds two large leeches, the size of slugs. He shakes out our clothes and checks our bodies, entertains and changes Willa while I shower, disinfects and bandages my seven bites, washes my pants and hangs them up to dry, feeds me peanut M&Ms and gives me perspective, telling me that these slugs will be able to live for 6 months off of the relatively small amount of blood they sucked out of me. This is the man you want with you when traveling.

We hike again in the park, up steep paths that can just fit our bodies, across a swinging suspension bridge with a rusty wire to hold for balance, and through more bamboo forest before the swarms of leeches - resembling the aliens from War of the Worlds - chase us back to our cabin.

We take a canoe trip down the river and are rendered speechless by the beautiful mountains, limestone cliffs and caves. This is the setting for King Kong and dinosaurs.

Johnny and Willa swim in the cold, rock-bottom river and Willa watches with delight as other children play and swing on the rope swing. We are all three looking forward to the day when she can truly play with other children.

It rains every day. Nothing will dry, not even the clothes we hang directly on the fan. Our frequent showers can no longer combat the funk of our clothes and we are leaving the beautiful jungle for the city of Krabi, in search of the luxuries of a washing machine, a dryer and aircon.

April 23 - Bangkok, Thailand

2007-04-25T19:19:00.000-07:00

We stay in a guest house several narrow, winding side streets off of the main road in Banglamphu, an older, residential section of Bangkok that runs along the river. Almost every other house prepares and sells food: noodle soups, sate sticks of grilled meats with sticky rice, pad thai, omelets over rice, geometrically carved fresh fruit. They sell to their neighbors and trade dishes with each other.

Every morning we buy our sweet, milky Thai iced tea from the family who has taught us how to say “two iced teas, please” and “thank you” in Thai. The tea is served in a clear, plastic bag with handles and a straw and goes perfectly with the crispy, golden chicken fried in a wok by the woman who appears only on the weekends.

We have become familiar faces in our neighborhood. The dogs next door no longer bark at us (though they continue to bark throughout the night) and the old man who sits shirtless in his doorway, reading his paper and scratching his back with a backscratcher when he isn’t napping in his hammock, saves a small mango from his tree for Willa when we walk by.

We are across the canal from Khao San, temporary home to masses of backpackers, crowded with cheap accommodations, street carts, bars, cafes and massage salons. It is Khao San that often represents Bangkok in movies and on television. I imagine that at night it looks as it does on the screen, but I’m on Willa’s schedule and have yet to stay awake past 10PM. The Khao San we see is one of vendors setting up, street cleaners and tourists nursing hangovers with late breakfasts in the cafes that border the street.

Early in the mornings we wander through the giant markets or ride the river taxi to random stops then slowly walk back. We visit museums and temples. Unfortunately for Johnny, both Willa and I have a low threshold for temples and can visit no more than one a day before we get bored and cranky from the heat.

This morning we take the ferry across the river. Walking along the white-washed halls of the alleys we come upon a small temple with no tourists, only Thais who’ve come to pray. We join the line of people and ring the row of bells that end at two card tables where old women are selling lottery tickets. You select your ticket/s from those printed and laid out on the table. We slip off our shoes and step inside the dark temple, cooled by the shade and electric standing fans. In front of the gold statues of serene Buddha, monks wrapped in saffron-colored cloth are gathered, kneeling and chanting. The faint scent of incense floats in from outside as we sit, listening to the monks’ beautiful voices, gazing up at the ornately painted, high wooden ceiling. In the alley behind the temple, a monk tosses handfuls of water at the open hood of a car, blessing the engine. Several other monks stand around watching.

We continue on our walk, in search of drinking water and another temple Johnny wants to see. But even by 10:00AM, it’s too hot to be out. We make our way through a live fish market to the nearest dock to catch the river taxi. Willa screams and cries, worn down by fatigue and heat, frustrated that we won’t stay and watch the fish and eels in the giant tubs. But it is too hot and I can’t bear the smell. At the dock, in the water, hundreds of huge catfish swarm, writhing and splashing, competing for the crumbs being thrown. The scene is surreal and grotesque to me, but Willa quiets. She and Johnny are fascinated by the fish. When our boat pulls away her wails resume.

We seek relief from the afternoon heat in the giant, air-conditioned MBK mall. The mall takes up about two whole city blocks, rises 10 stories high and, still, it’s claustrophobically crowded with people. Clusters of women in burkas, teenage boys wearing tight jeans, rock t-shirts and shaggy, “Klute” haircuts; tiny women pairing peasant blouses with short shorts or skirts and strappy sandals; backpackers, tourists and, here and there, no-nonsense shoppers. Stores selling pirated DVDs and software programs sandwich beauty salons. On display behind the glass walls women lie in rows, receiving facials and eyelash tintings.

We ride the escalators up and down - furniture floor, clothing floor, food floor, electronics floor, make-up floor - looking at ourselves in the ceiling mirrors, getting lost in the mall maze and re-orienting ourselves with the enormous multi-floor poster of the King of Thailand.

The King’s image is everywhere in Bangkok. Photos of him as a young man in the army, older in a business suit and, as he is now, elderly and draped in a silk, yellow robe. Yellow t-shirts and polo shirts with national insignias are very popular and flocks of yellow blur past us as we sit on the bus. We sometimes walk a block and only a handful of people will be wearing non-yellow shirts. I’ve seen several Lance Armstrong books promoted for sale and “Live Strong” rubber bracelets on people’s wrists. I wonder if there is really a large Lance Armstrong fan-base in Bangkok, or is it his association with the color yellow that endears him to Thais?

In the evening, we walk to the park near our house. Sharing the lawns are jugglers, capoeira dancers, children flying cheap, plastic kites; violinists who can’t help but slide into the rhythm of the capoeira drums; an aerobics class with participants drifting off into their own routines when the instructor loses them; and breakdancers, dancing to heavy metal cassettes, incredibly spinning straight on tile with no cardboard. Willa holds Johnny’s hand and they walk in circles. She laughs and runs, chases birds and children. We spread out on the grass, eating mangoes with sticky rice, enjoying the setting sun and the breeze off of the river.

April 12 - Singapore

2007-04-11T22:24:00.000-07:00

We’re in Singapore, a city of clean streets, clockwork public transportation, high-tech gadgetry, video surveillance, high-priced, glossy shopping malls and signs politely instructing that it is our responsibility to keep Singapore safe.

On the subway large, flat screens air PSAs. One we watch flashes horrific photos from the train bombings that have taken place around the world over the past few years. Following is a filmed dramatization of a male passenger stepping aboard a train, exactly like the one we’re on, with a large, black, bulky bag. He looks suspicious. We know he looks suspicious because he fidgets and clutches his bag close to his body. The other passengers eye him warily, as they’ve been instructed to do by our government narrator. He also wears a baseball cap low over his eyes and has one too many buttons undone on his shirt. [As we’re watching, we can’t help but furtively check out fellow passengers and scan under the seats for unattended bags.] The other passengers continue to monitor him and when he leaves his bag and steps off the train, they call out to him, “Excuse me, Sir! You left your bag!” Over his shoulder he replies, “It’s not mine!” But we know it is! One of the passengers, a tidy young woman pushes the emergency call button and alerts the authorities. She gives a detailed description of the man and what he was wearing. She and the other passengers are instructed to exit the train at the next stop. Though the car is crowded, everyone remains calm - no shouting or panicking for this group - and the young woman kindly helps a frail, old woman off the train ahead of herself.

The passengers are departing the station when our narrator warns that terrorism doesn’t just take the form of bombs. No sooner are the words out of his mouth than we see a woman stagger over to the stairs. Gagging and choking, she throws up and collapses. The best part of the film is the ticker tape banner running beneath, which reads: “This train will terminate at Punggol Station.” This “on-site cinema”, as Johnny calls it, a story set in the location that you are viewing it from, is fascinating and we almost miss our stop.

We are staying in Little India and the streets are filled with the scents of curry, spices, flower garlands, incense, money changers, tailors that promise to make saris, business suits and shirts in less than 24 hours, gold jewelry shops, restaurants featuring both North and South Indian cuisine, and Indian pop music stores. Willa bops her head and rocks her body back and forth when we pass the stores’ outdoor speakers. Actually, we have yet to find a type of music that she doesn’t enjoy and physically react to.

Last night we took a walk around Little India after dinner. While there are a lot of Indian men in our neighborhood, congregating heavily around the train station and the market, the number of men out last night astounded us. We walked down streets and to a park, on the edge of which large buses were continually pulling up and emptying full loads of even more men. There were literally thousands of men out: talking, eating, shopping, playing cricket and soccer, talking and texting on cell phones, napping on the park lawn. No women in sight. I wish I had gathered the nerve to ask someone where the women were and/or how this all-male gathering came to be. I’ve never felt so conspicuous.

We’re being true tourists in Singapore, taking the sky tram, visiting the disappointing aquarium, plastic Sentosa Island Beach with its imported sand, playing ‘picks’ in the Singapore Art Museum and Mint Museum of Toys, taking a river boat tour, checking out the lobbies and room rates of expensive hotels, and going to the zoo, which is well worth the price of admission. There are no cages, few enclosures and ring-tailed lemurs, two-toed sloths, monitor lizards, orangutans and other monkeys roam freely around the zoo.

But, of course, the big question every day is, “What do you want to eat?” There is every type of food available here and we have yet to spend more than $10 for a meal that amply feeds the three of us. There are ‘hawkers markets’ everywhere, filled with stands preparing Thai food, Indian food, Chinese food - Dim Sum, Cantonese, Szechuan, Vietnamese food, Western food, Malaysian food and all sorts of desserts, my favorite being Indian pastries and sweets. Thank goodness the food is so inexpensive because nothing else here is.

Our room is tiny, literally the size of a cruise ship cabin, and Willa-scale. Furniture is perfectly distanced for walking, she can climb on and off the bed, cabinets just fit her body. She’s so rightfully proud of her mobility and gets frustrated when we limit her. Unfortunately, there just aren’t a lot of safe places for her to walk and crawl, though I have given up on trying to keep her from the wide floor expanses of airport terminals and museums. They’re just too tempting. So, we wipe clean her dirt-blackened hands, knees and feet and keep vigilant watch over what goes into that little mouth of hers. Oh, a fun new game she made up in Bali: sometimes she puts something from the ground into her mouth and sometimes she just pretends to put something into her mouth. Either way, Mama freaks out and, if it’s a case of the latter, Willa laughs her throaty chuckle.

These battles of wills aside, she’s a dream travel companion: cheerful, laughs a lot, not a picky eater (she will try anything at least once and surprises us with the levels of spiciness she can tolerate in food), friendly and outgoing, initiates conversation and is excited to be a part of things. As long as she gets plenty of sleep, shares the bed with us and doesn't have too many baths, she's happy.

Prambanan, Java

2007-04-08T22:38:00.000-07:00

The Jogja Market

2007-04-08T22:22:00.000-07:00

Johnny & Willa

2007-04-08T21:43:00.000-07:00

Borobudur, Java

2007-04-08T19:58:00.000-07:00

On the Beach in Legian, Bali

2007-04-06T21:34:00.000-07:00

April 5th - Bali & Java, Indonesia

2007-04-05T00:35:00.000-07:00

This entry is long. We haven’t had wireless since we left Ubud in Bali, almost 3 weeks ago. Some of the below is copied from our journals, other parts inserted upon remembering. Please forgive the changing of tenses. Think of it as free time travel.

Our first stop in Indonesia, Purnati, feels as though it was both days ago and months ago. Before leaving, we were fortunate to experience both an oton, a life milestone ceremony, and the Balinese new year of Nyepi.

The oton was for the 18-month old daughter of Wayan Sumadra, one of the managers of Bali Purnati. In Bali, every stage of life is celebrated, from ceremonies marking the third month of pregnancy to death and cremation. Children, especially, are lauded, as the Balinese believe that the younger you are the closer you are to God. In order to keep babies as physically close to God as possible, Balinese babies are always carried and do not touch the ground for the first 200 days of their lives. A baby’s first ceremony, oton, marks when its feet will first touch the earth. Thereafter, otons occur every 6 months and may even go on into adulthood, depending upon the family’s wealth.

Wayan’s house compound was filled with family and friends, tables piled with various fried crisps and sweet coconut treats, and the center pavilion festively decorated with large and colorful offerings filled with flowers and burning incense. Several cocks were in cages upon pedestals surrounding the pavilion and children in shoes that squeaked when they stepped would run up to them, encouraging them to cock-a-doodle-doo.

Following is a description of the family compound from Lonely Planet: Bali, much more informed than the one I gave in our last post: “The Balinese house looks inward - the outside is simply a high wall. Inside there will be a garden and a separate small building or bale for each function - one for cooking, one for washing and the toilet, and separate buildings for each ‘bedroom’. In Bali’s mild tropical climate people live outside, so the ‘living room’ and ‘dining room’ will be open veranda areas, looking out into the garden. The whole compound is oriented on the kaja-kelod axis, between the mountains and the sea.”

A very old priestess, I’m guessing well into her 90’s, agilely climbed up onto the platform atop a table and sat cross-legged to perform the ceremony. For all the production, there was surprisingly little attention paid to the ceremony by the guests, who continued their conversations. At the evening’s end, the young girl we were honoring greeted each guest at the door, pressing her hands together, bowing her head and smiling, “Salam,” and, “Terima kasih,” thank you, to everyone. At 18-months old!

We are continually impressed by Indonesian babies and children. We almost never hear them crying and, even at parties and gatherings with other children, they don’t shout or scream and very rarely act out.

About a week later was Nyepi. After an early dinner, just as it was starting to get dark, we followed the groups of people making their way up the main road to one of the large, public outdoor pavilions. Everyone was out, either walking on the road, or hanging out roadside, chatting and waving. Most of the men had been drinking for the better part of the day and were cheerfully boisterous and in high spirits. Everyone was welcoming and inclusive, ushering us around to better vantage points and explaining what was happening.

The energy was intoxicating and palpable. We heard the gamelan music faintly, looked up the road and in seconds it was upon us. Giant lattice-work frames of bamboo, carried by groups of boys and young men, held each of the ornate, menacing papier mache monsters, the ogoh-ogoh. Flashlights lit the monsters’ faces from below, making them appear all the more scary. The boys would run in unison to the left, then quick to the right, then front and back, shaking the giant ogoh-ogoh above them. It was amazing and terrifying and thrilling to watch. The structure would be coming right for you and turn just inches from colliding. About 5 of these monsters passed by, each one made by a sub-section of our village of Batuan. One was shaken so hard its head came off, and the crowd went crazy, yelling and cheering. The gamelan musicians followed the last one and, en masse, we formed the parade down the road to another outdoor pavilion, where the ogoh-ogoh had all collected. Gamelan music is amazing and to hear it live, loud and in a parade is the best way to experience it.

As we neared the pavilion, a whoosh of flame shot up. The largest and tallest of the monsters had been set on fire in the middle of the road and the flames were as tall as the trees, the embers dancing up into the stars and the clear night sky. Really, one of the most beautiful moments I’ve experienced. One by one, the ogoh-ogoh were set on fire, each representing the evils and sins from the past year. But even the Balinese have their vanity and the better monster heads were cut off as keepsakes and spared the burning.

After the first ogoh-ogoh fire, Willa was ready to go to sleep, so I walked back to Purnati with her, while Johnny stayed on to watch. Batuan is a safe village and the night was perfect - breezy, clear skies and road lit by moonlight. I encountered a family of four and we walked together for a ways, introducing ourselves and talking about our children (a very popular subject in Bali.) How old, how many, names, etc. We both had 14 month-old girls asleep in our arms and the father asked me, “What time she go to sleep?” I replied, “Usually about 8. What time does your daughter go to sleep?” (Sadly, I can’t even speak pidgeon Balinese.) He replied, “Same. About 8.” We walked on for a bit in silence and then, “What time she wake up?” It made me laugh out loud. Even in a village in Bali, I’m having the same conversations.

We headed into Ubud early the morning of the 20th to catch a shuttle bus to Munduk, a small town up north in the mountains, near the volcano Danau Bratan. Upon arrival at the bus station we learned that they were closed, still respecting the holiday, so we checked into a nearby home stay. Our room was pretty depressing with no mosquito net, no hook for a net, bars on the window, and motorcycles vrooming by our window. But, it was cheap, clean and we were only there for one night. What we did get out of our night’s stay was an introduction to the jaffle, a greater appreciation for Ubud and a new destination for the morning. Jaffles, simple sandwiches made in those George Foreman waffle-grilling like machines, are popular and cheap, and come filled with either jam, banana, chocolate or chicken.

Ubud has a wide array of galleries, spas, restaurants and cafes (had one of the best burritos ever at Dragonfly, followed by crepes with roasted shredded coconut and palm sugar syrup and chocolate mousse) and some posh boutiques for clothing, jewelry and home collections. The city is charming with its old architecture, narrow streets with steep, dug-out gutters on either side, beautiful shops and tiled sidewalks. I made Johnny play ‘picks’ with me in the shop windows and while he wasn’t exactly enthusiastic, he grudgingly went along with it.

Checked e-mail and Johnny had received one from friend Ann Graham, suggesting we connect with her friends in Tirta Gangga while in Bali. Consulted our map and the bus schedule and turned out there was a bus leaving for Tirta Gangga the next morning at the same time as our other bus. Took it as a sign and the next afternoon we settled into a room at the home stay Good Karma in Tirta Gangga. Johnny described Tirta Gangga perfectly and I’ll paraphrase: it’s as though someone dropped a giant stone onto the earth; the ripples forming the stunning rice paddies, reaching out in steps up the steep mountain and down across the valleys. In the distance was the volcano Gunung Seraya with smoke gently billowing off its top, and the image was paradise on earth. Tirta Gangga is famous for its rice paddies and the water palace with all of its pools, also spread out in steps descending from the palace. The palace promotes the pools as fountains of youth and we swam in the cold, fresh water one morning while it drizzled.

Good Karma served up some delicious tempeh and vegetables in green curry (we ordered it three times during our stay) and banana pancakes with tea in the mornings.

BANANA PANCAKES
Prepare batter with white flour, whole egg, sugar, water and pinch of salt. (Is all that separates crepe from pancake ingredients the baking soda?)

In a nonstick skillet, on medium/med-high heat, melt about 2 tablespoons of butter, and pour in a thin level of batter. Cover with one layer of banana slices. Flip the pancake (the woman I watched prepare, flipped it in the air and easily caught it in the pan) and cook some more. When golden, flip again onto a plate, so pancake is served banana side up. Eat as is, or squeeze fresh lime juice on top and/or pour some honey.

We visited with Ann’s friends, Bill Seely and Baxter, and enjoyed their entertaining stories of living in Tirta Gangga after expatriating from Boston 17 years ago. They both return to Provincetown, MA, every summer to work as house staff for the wealthy, so that they can support their lifestyle making art and having house staff in Tirta Gangga the rest of the year. They’ve built a beautiful home and studio, covered and filled with Baxter’s mosaics of mirror, colored glass and tiles, which have inspired me to try making some when we one day have a house.

Tirta Gangga was beautiful and we loved the pools, but the tiny town itself depressed me, with people constantly trying to sell us something, anything, a tour, a guide, a ride, and, after two nights, we hired the services of a driver and headed along the north coast of Bali to Lovina.

Hit hard by the lack of tourism brought on by the 2 Bali bombings, the earthquake and the tsunami (as is all of Bali and Indonesia and much of Southeast Asia), Lovina’s a beach-front town that has suffered from neglect. Aside from the black sand beaches, there’s very little attractive about Lovina. Every hello was followed by some offer to take us somewhere, sell us something, give us a massage, to take our money. The clingy-ness and hard desperation of their manner was almost frightening. Even Willa, who by this point reaches out her arms to all passing Balinese women, shied away from people and cried when anyone other than Johnny or myself made a motion to pick her up. Dogs fought in the streets and older people and fishermen walked by us without making eye contact, ignoring our greetings. We quickly grew wise to any gestures of friendliness; everyone’s got a hustle in Lovina. It was so off-putting that we checked out of our home stay the next morning and jumped on the first bus we could find, eager to get out as quickly as possible.

We caught a ride in a red bemo, a public mini-bus, to the port of Gillimanuk to catch our ferry to Java. The ride was one of our most pleasant experiences. The side door and all of the windows were open, filling the cabin with fresh, cool air with warm pockets coming off of the beach and the woods we followed. The driver picked up and dropped off school children along the way and it was relieving and entertaining to be invisible to these teens, so self-absorbed that they barely noticed our small tourist cargo in the back seat.

We arrived at the port in Java at about 3:30PM, walked to the train station, and learned that the next train to Surabaya wasn’t leaving until 10:22PM. Not only did we now have 7 hours to kill in the rain in a port town resembling Deadwood, but the whole point of our taking the train had been to see the Javanese landscape. We waited in the ‘executive’ waiting lounge at the station where a TV played crappy American movies (Vertical Limits and Marines), alarmist newscasts, and shows with teenagers and genies who meet inside of coconuts and other secret locations and fat, shirtless men with midget friends. We traded off taking Willa for walks around the station where cats with short tails prowled in the grass, stalking bugs and lizards and digging through trash. To each one, Willa would wave and call out, “Hi,” in her sweet, high voice. We filled up on cheap packaged snacks of cookies, ‘happy tos’ corn chips, strawberry milk and unidentifiable fried salty things.

The rain finally stopped and a wedding taking place next door to the station went into full gear. They had two towers of speakers covered in plastic. The music was as loud as a jet engine and had been playing since we first arrived. At the opposite end of the station, off in the distance was a mosque broadcasting the call to prayer on a loud PA speaker. It had the tone of a loud transistor radio with a strange mix of Indonesian and Arabic blaring in an off-key, whining, long line of sound. The two sounds met at the train station and the mix was so terrible and the whole scene so bizarre that it made me shake and cry with laughter. Johnny, more kind than me, described it as being so bad it was almost good.

The train arrived early and, thank God, we were at the station and not out strolling around. Had we missed this train I don’t know if we would have mentally survived sleeping at the station.

On the train, now after 10PM, Willa was still awake and a little manic. She stood on Johnny’s lap, pressing her face against the glass. Outside all was black except for an occasional single bulb or fluorescent tube passing in the distance. We were each given a narrow blanket and a foam pillow and not a moment too soon as the AC quickly reduced the temperature to the 40s. We could almost see our breath and were frequently checking Willa. A steward came by to collect money for the pillows and blankets. We couldn’t believe that our ‘executive’ tickets didn’t include the 12,000 Rp ($1.20) charge for the blankets. It was too cold to lose the blankets, though, so we shelled out the money. The bright lights in the car never went off but as it rocked and swayed its way west the three of us managed to get intermittent sleep. At the second to last stop, after every passenger who could be charged for blankets had been, the AC was turned off and we were all sweltering by the time the train pulled in to Surabaya.

Bleary-eyed, we staggered off the train at 4:30AM and were immediately greeted by an energetic man explaining in broken English that he could take us to a clean, cheap hotel. We agreed upon a price, climbed into a taxi with ‘our guide’ in the passenger seat and his silent accomplice behind the wheel and headed to hotel number one, run by his friend. No vacancy. We went to hotel number two. No vacancy. We went to hotel number three, next door to a night market that was just shutting down. The man told us that all would be gone by 6AM, when other business starts. He repeated how Surabaya was a business town, not like a tourist town. At hotel number three, Johnny went up to look at a room. It was grimy and dank, one step up from a cell. We were all three fully awake at this point so we decided this was no place to stay and that we would go back to the train station to catch the next train to Yogyakarta. The man made one last attempt to ‘help’ us, stopping at a private bus company with a dilapidated sign in a tiny alley. He banged on the closed door until a woman yelled from inside. When the woman opened the door, her price was exorbitant. We headed back to the train station, the man now wanting double what we’d originally agreed to. We shook our heads, turned, and walked into the train station. Everyone’s got a hustle in Surabaya, too.

The sun had now risen and the Surabaya train station is a very pleasant and breezy outdoor pavilion with lots of warungs (food stands). Our favorite being the ‘chicken and donuts’. We sat on a bench, eating donuts with our tea and coffee and Willa had her milk and Cheerios. We people-watched, listening to a Javanese band play country songs including ‘The Green, Green Grass of Home’. It couldn’t have been much better.

We finally got our train ride through Java, through green paddies of rice, fields of sugar cane, through slums with tethered sheep, cities with billboards, fields of corn, and more rice paddies. Along the way were many mosques with shiny, silver domes on top.

It was pouring in Yogyakarta when we arrived, but our taxi driver and hotel staff were friendly and didn’t try to sell us on any tours. The city reminded me of Nairobi with the high, zebra-striped curbs, roundabouts and bouganvillea and frangipani blooming in an urban setting. In need of rest and relaxation, we settled in to stay for a while.

Yogyakarta is jam-packed with motorcycles, mopeds, cars, buses, people, bicycles, and becaks, bicycle-driven rickshaws. Entire families ride on the back of motorcycles with babies (many wearing ski-caps and sunglasses) up at the front, holding on to the handle bars. The traffic pollution coupled with the breeze-less sun and heat in the afternoons often drives us back indoors, to our hotel room and the pool.

Jogja is crowded with sellers of batik (cloths, clothing, covered-furniture, wall-hangings, etc.), silver, antiques and leather puppets; food carts frying up cubed tofu and tempeh, egg and scallion-filled crepes, donuts, chicken egg rolls, bread rolls, vegetable fritters - all of it deep fried in giant woks or on giant, slightly concave griddles; women squatting or seated on low stools, grilling short, slender beef and chicken sate skewers over tiny charcoal fires; sweets carts with glass boxes showcasing chewy, neon-colored, gummy coconut sweets with a surprise burst of palm sugar syrup in the center; and produce stands with small piles of local fruit: durian, mangosteen, jackfruit, bananas, tangerines, avocado.

The Sultan’s Palace, in the center of downtown, is a working palace that houses a great dusty lawn in front. Driving around in our becak, we witnessed calisthenic groups, barefoot joggers, and school children in their uniforms playing soccer and practicing javelan-tossing. One afternoon, the lawn was cleared for the Sultan’s 2 elephants, who live in cages to the side of the palace. In the open-air pavilion on the other side of the palace are free morning performances of gamelan music, puppetry and Javanese dance, which we were always arriving at the wrong time to see. Families live within the palace walls, but don’t know how it’s determined who has that privilege. The residential streets within the palace walls are quiet, narrow, tree-covered, hugged by colorful, flowering bushes.

In Jogja, we spent days walking around our neighborhood and the markets, looking in antique shops, swimming and reading. Most evenings we went to the carnival, just north of the palace, running the whole week we were there. The carnival was a bizarre experience of bright lights, blaring Indonesian rock music and covers of American hits, and carnival paraphernalia, including stands filled with strange plastic toys, cotton candy, roasted corn, roasted and candied peanuts and tons of rides, manned by cheerful and friendly carnies. People rode motorcycles through the walkways and the crowd numbers reached into what must have been tens of thousands, but there was never a moment of tension. In fact, we realized that not once have we witnessed any arguments or expressions of frustration between Indonesians.

We took 2 day trips while in Jogja: to Prambanan, a Hindu temple complex with about 50 temple sites, and Borobudur, a Buddhist temple. There are about 1,500 narrative panels and stupas lining the terraced hallways of Borobudur. Each illustrating Buddhist history and teachings. The entire complex is a huge three dimensional mandala that you physically pass through to experience. We walked around and up and down the terraces for hours, studying the faces and images in each one; trying to decipher the stories and meanings, trying to figure out how they should be read, in which direction and order.
We visited Prambanan on an overcast, rainy afternoon. Strangely, coming upon the temples from the grounds made us think of the feel and look of old English manors, something akin to Wuthering Heights (at least in my mind.) The moors of emerald green grass, the grey clouds threatening rain, moss growing on and between the dark blocks of stone. The temples are truly awesome and it felt somehow tragic to see the ruined smaller temples of Prambanan, razed by 2006 March’s earthquake. Just last year! These temples were originally built in the 9th century and had managed to survive all this time.

We returned to Bali (by one-hour plane this time) on April 2nd, and are now in Legian, in a beautiful bungalow by the beach. Johnny’s surfing every chance he gets and Willa and I swim in the pool, take walks on the beach (she’s afraid of the ocean waves). We speculate about the relationships between the people we see as we walk around town, window-shopping, Willa waving to cats and dogs. This region has a beautiful, wide and long beach with soft sand and is renowned for its surfing, which means it’s also filled with tourists with sunburns and cornrowed, beaded hair (mostly Aussies, Italians and South Africans), and very expensive. We leave tomorrow for Singapore.

March - Bali

2007-03-15T19:52:00.000-07:00

Bali welcomed us with a storm. Our first night it rained heavily, pouring down all night long through to morning, the thunder booming in waves and shaking our little bungalow. Reminded me of NYC in the days and weeks following 9/11, when fighter planes would fly over the city, breaking the sound barrier. It rains almost every day, sometimes light showers while the sun shines, sometimes hard rain with dark and roiling clouds, but we haven’t had another storm like that first night.

We arrived at the Denpasar airport the afternoon of Thursday, March 1st, after some 24 hours of flying. After showing our visas, collecting our bags and passing through customs, we exchanged US$200 for 1,780,000 Rupiah at one of the many money exchange places with sales people calling out for business. We were greeted outside by a gentleman named Wayan (the four primary Balinese names are Wayan, Made, Kutun and Nyoman), a driver sent by Bali Purnati, and were relieved to temporarily hand ourselves over to someone else’s navigation.

Even in the airport, stepping off from the plane, we could feel the heat and humidity. It feels surreal to be here and I’m not sure why. Maybe because it’s been so long since I’ve been so far from the U.S. Maybe because it’s Bali and it feels so incredibly like the Bali I’ve seen in movies and imagined and didn’t think it could really be this lush and green and thick-aired and beautiful. My favorite flowers, frangipani and jasmine, are abundant here as are bouganvillea in orange, white and deep pink. Palms, coconut trees and other fat-leafed green plants and trees crowd the roads and gardens and it feels tropically prehistoric. All of the buildings and homes, even the smaller, poorer houses, are works of art, centered around garden courtyards and designed like simple temples with slanted roofs and peaks built from tiles, stones and home-made bricks.
The drive to Bali Purnati took us past lots of art shops, “esthetic” spas/salons, and “antique” furniture stores with carved wooden chairs, benches and tables. There were also signs for McDonald’s “McDelivery 24/7” and Dunkin’ Donuts. Further in we passed several painted egg studios and shops showing off ornately painted eggs - chicken, goose, ostrich and wooden - with images of Ganesh, dragons, dolphins and more.

The lane demarcations on the road seem to be just suggestions and people honk to let you know where they are, rather than to ask you to move. About 75% of the traffic is people on mopeds and motorcycles. There seem to be several near-misses, but I have yet to see an accident and everyone’s body language is laid-back, and perhaps that’s the trick.

Bali Purnati is fantasy come to life. Our bungalow is incredible, a solitary structure a flight of outdoor stairs above the ground. Dark teak (I think) wood, sparsely decorated, king-size bed with white sheets and a mosquito net, a pack ‘n play for Willa (which she has yet to use, preferring to sleep in bed with us since we left Austin - I’m sure we’ll pay for this relaxation later), a balcony overlooking the lawn and garden, and a giant bathroom. Our meals are served downstairs at a table in the open air, just beneath the bungalow, so our dining area has a ceiling, but no walls.

The food at Purnati is delicious, making it difficult to venture out. Continental breakfasts of toast and homemade jams and marmalade seasoned with cloves, fresh fruit - watermelon, papaya, green melon, banana - with lime juice to squeeze over, a pot of tea for Johnny and rich, dark coffee for me, and freshly squeezed juices: pineapple juice, a mixture of banana and papaya juice and our favorite, lime juice with crushed mint, a non-alcoholic mojito. For lunch and dinner, we have rice with vegetables: string beans, cabbage, some sort of broccoli rabe/bok choy, carrots, tofu, and all of it spiced and seasoned with ginger, garlic, diced red chilis and other good things. There’s usually an accompanying chicken dish - fried and dusted in coriander powder, curried, stewed, roasted - delicious, but very tough like the chickens in Africa. This afternoon’s came with heavily spiced and gingered tofu rolls. Dessert is more fresh fruit with lime juice to squeeze over. Purnati is my rehab from constant eating and excessive amounts of food. The staff here are incredibly accommodating and bring Willa small bowls of boiled tofu and string beans, which she eats in addition to our rice, fruit and some of our seasoned food, which we’re pleased she doesn’t find too spicy.

PAPAYA JAM
Papaya (or peach, mango or plums) mashed to your preference
sugar
cinnamon
cloves/star of anise
water
Bring to a boil and simmer until jam is formed.

There’s a large, stone-tiled swimming pool that drops off into a jungle of trees before rising again into rice paddies. It’s loaded with chemicals to keep the algae at bay and so stings your eyes, but Willa doesn’t mind the taste.

Johnny’s currently working on several projects. One involves manipulating strings tied around the smooth black and grey stones that are so plentiful here. The stones are hung above the ground in a pendulum-rigging and he moves them around like string puppets. It’s beautiful and hypnotic to watch. Another is creating circles in the pool by dripping water from different containers hung from bamboo reed. He also draws and sketches with the homemade red brick, the ones used in so much of the architecture here.

Bali Purnati is just outside of Ubud, a pretty town full of tourists, clothing and jewelry shops, artists’ studios, galleries - many of which showcase oil paintings of Buddha and sexy ladies from 80’s album covers (think Duran Duran’s Rio), yoga studios, a marketplace, bungalows to let, hotels, restaurants, cafes and a palace that features traditional dancing in the evenings. We watched some of the young girls (ages 6-11, or so) wrap up rehearsal before going off with their mothers, who pick them up with a motorcycle helmet under one arm and a bag of groceries under the other. The Balinese version of soccer moms.
We go for long walks almost every day, through rice paddies, navigating our way around the maze-like, narrow grass paths, to the river where people bathe, wash clothes, collect stones, cool off, and around the neighborhoods, learning the back roads and alley ways. Everyone is very friendly, greeting us with Halo! and Halo, Baby! to Willa and we’re frequently asked where we’re going to which we respond, “jalan, jalan,” we’re walking. We’re a bit of a curiosity as there aren’t many Balinese out walking and we’ve got Willa in her pack.

We walk through the narrow streets, bordered on each side by walls behind which homes structured like temple complexes spread beneath the palms and tall bamboo. Dogs sometimes meet us at the doorways and barked at our heels. Skinny, short-haired, knee-high dogs, all cousins. Other times it was children that appeared. On bikes they followed us chattering in Bahasa with an occasional ‘Halo’ or ‘How are you?’ or ‘Where you go?’ We would chatter back in English or bits of Bahasa and they would laugh.

There are chickens on the sides of the roads as well as dogs that have scary barks and chase after us. Cows also share the fields of the road, and they’re all the same warm brown with mid-length horns that point back and reigns (?) that hook through their noses.

The houses are enclosed in walls and we catch glimpses of the inner courtyards and homes when we walk by the front entrances. Outside of almost every home are offerings of beautifully woven origami-like boxes of grass, filled with flowers, sliced bits of fruit, usually papaya, and burning incense that has a wood-y, spiced smell. Though Indonesia claims the world’s largest Muslim population, most Balinese are Hindu.

Coming up on March 18th, is Nyepi, the Hindu Balinese New Year, which also marks the end of the rainy season. Along the roads going into town, in various halls and temples, people are constructing giant people, monsters, from bamboo and reeds, styrofoam, steel and wood, fabric and wire, and paper mache. Some of the giants have claws for fingers and toes, tails, dragon-like faces, scales and/or feathers. The day before New Year’s, there will be parading and celebrating in all of the temples and along the roads. The next day, the 18th, is the day of silence, when no one works, plays music, makes any noise, so that, supposedly, when the evil spirits descend upon the island, they’ll think it uninhabited and leave Bali safe for another year. We’ve been watching the giants in various stages of construction and are looking forward to New Year’s.

Side note: just finished Jhumpa Lahiri’s THE NAMESAKE, a last-minute purchase in LA before heading for the airport. It’s wonderful and inspires to write and cook. Recipes to try: Rice Krispies mixed in a bowl with chopped red onion, peanuts, salt, pepper, lime or lemon juice, thin slices of green chili pepper, mustard oil and chili powder. Turkey rubbed with cumin, garlic and cayenne then roasted.

The other day, Tina and Matias, a German couple here from Berlin, rented a car and invited us to come with them to Ulu Watu and another beach for the day. We avoided Kuta as a water main broke a few days ago, leaving the whole area stinking of waste. The first beach we went to, Nusa Dua, was south and east. We had to pass through a security checkpoint and then entered a world of manicured rolling lawns, security guards scooting around on mopeds and tourists walking the wide, uncrowded streets in big sunglasses (no one wears sunglasses here), bikinis, short skirts and shorts. Nusa Dua holds several top international hotels and a beach made for postcards and stock photos. The sun and white sand were blinding and overwhelming with their heat. We ate our way through several food vendors (I could drink bottled Fanta and Coke with every meal), swam in the warm, salty ocean, Johnny had his near-death experience that I can’t yet bear to write about, got back in the car and went on to Ulu Watu.

GADU GADU
Served by street vendors at the beach and in town; made to order for 5,000 Rp (approx. 50 cents)
With a large mortar and pestle grind into a paste:
2-3 small red chilis
garlic clove
ground peanuts
small slice of sweet lime that includes a bit of the rind as well as the pulp
small chunk of tomato (okay to include seeds and skin)
water or broth to liquify a bit
salt to taste
Mix paste with
cubed tofu
rice cake (mashed together cooked cooled rice, cut into cubes)
lightly boiled bean sprouts and chopped cabbage or bok choy (some sort of greens)
lots of ground peanuts and a brown sauce, resembling hoisin.
Sprinkle with crispy, fried onions and serve. This was made for us with all ingredients at room temp, but would also probably work hot.

DOCTORED RAMEN NOODLES
Make the broth, adding red chili paste, chopped scallions, sliced carrots, cabbage and the noodles. Top with a fried egg.

On our way to Ulu Watu, we missed our turn and happened upon an incredible temple crowded with monkeys on the high cliffs overlooking the sea. We had to wear our sarongs and chitenges, belted with a gold sash in order to enter and one of the gatekeepers asked us if we’d like to buy some food to give to the monkeys. We politely declined and she then asked if we’d like to buy her services to keep the monkeys away. Hunh?

The temple, its stonework, the layout, the cliff-side wall were magnificent and with the wind-blown trees, it looked as though we could have been in Japan. The monkeys creeped me out, especially the grabby, hyper ones and the professional models, with their self-conscious lazy slouches and insouciant expressions. The baby monkeys were pretty cute, though.

Went on to Ulu Watu, the entrance to which is hidden with heavy foliage, lots of steep steps, dilapidated surfer shacks, more steep steps, and then... Heaven on earth. Giant rocks form archways you walk under to get to your private beach, water so clear you can see each shell and jag of coral beneath, flat ocean leading to island reefs covered in bright green moss and grass leading to crashing waves. In the guidebooks, Ulu Watu is described as a great beach for surfers, rather than for swimming, so, fortunately, it’s not well-attended, except by surfers who are way out beyond the reefs. Swimming in that cove was one of my favorite moments with Johnny & Willa. We will definitely return to Ulu Watu.

Scratch the “Purnati is my rehab” from food comment above. On this morning’s walk we found a little shop that sells small fried crispy cakes of savory dough with peanuts and delicious doughnuts. Simple, fresh dough with dark chocolate and sprinkles on top. Served out of tupperware and costing only pennies. Unfortunately, it’s only about 2 blocks away.

2007-01-20T15:46:00.000-08:00