But, it's good to be home (-ish).
Friday, December 30, 2011
Back to the food
We've been back to Malaysia for just about 24 hours, and I've already been fed 5 meals excluding snacks. I can't handle this! I swear I managed to lose weight while travelling (which is supposed to be the usual case) but at this rate, I'll have it all back by tomorrow. :(
Monday, December 26, 2011
Bamboo, bats, and bonuses
Admittedly, I did not play as big of a part in planning this trip as I should have. However, due to an article I read, I insisted that we add Battambang to our Cambodian itinerary. A bamboo train and a bat cave - my curiousity was piqued. It was another one of those once-in-a-lifetime things that I wanted to experience; the train was to dismantled the following year and the only bat cave I'd visited in my entire life to date was the strobelight-ridden one at the ROM.
It was SO on.
A three hour bus ride into Battambang from Siem Reap gave us a little bonus sleep before we awoke to disembark to be swarmed by tuk-tuk drivers scrambling for our attention. We found one to walk to us our hotel (it was THAT close to the bust station), dropped our luggage, an took off for our adventure.
Included with our agreed upon tour with Rich (our tuk-tuk driver) was a stop at a crocodile farm. Having not anticipated visiting such a site, we had no idea what to expect. The signs directing the way were hilariously homemade (I wish I'd gotten a picture) and the gate we arrived at was the entrance to someone's personal abode and backyard. Having been let in, we paid our $1 admission fee and were pointed up some concrete steps. With all that we had encountered so far, we prepared ourselves to be disappointed. We were not.
The top of the stairs brought us to look down into massive concrete pens - there were four in total - each with a pool and each holding HUNDREDS of crocodiles.
Basking in the sun, the beasts were everywhere, some lying on top of others, some submerged, some climbing over others to get to another spot. Catching us by surprise, we were momentarily rendered speechless. Other than snapping photos and scratching our heads in wonder, there was little else to do at the farm so after we'd had our fill, it was back to the tuk-tuk and off to the bamboo train.
With the bits and pieces we'd collected about the train ride, we'd prepared ourselves to barter with locals to catch a ride, but when we arrived, we were greeted by an officer of the tourist police. After affirming our intention to ride the rickety platform, he explained the procedure to us.
"$5 per person to ride the train. 14 km ride to the next station. You get off and visit village and shopping and brick factory. Then you ride with some driver and come back."
Sounded simple enough. $5 each and off we went.
Perched atop a man-made platform of bamboo slats and nails with a couple of rattan mats to soften the seats (and no railing whatsoever save for a footrest), we flew down the tracks at probably 40 km/h, propelled by what looked to be a lawnmower engine controlled by a wooden stick acting as our throttle. It was exhilarating; it was half of my whole reason for coming to Battambang.
The village we arrived at was nothing to write home about - the shopping was of the handicraft sort we'd been confronted with countless times by then, and the brick factory appeared to be on an extended lunch break. The best attraction we found at that end of the line were the kids.
Five or six of them, aged four to seven, were scrambling over a bamboo train platform, pushing and pulling it a few metres in either direction on the tracks. Giggling endlessly over their own jokes, sometimes apparent, sometimes completely lost in translation, they were adorable to watch. One boy had pants too small for him so that they gave him perpetual plumber's butt, while another little boy had no pants on at all. And not a single one of them wore shoes.
After they'd had their fun and we'd had our fill, we prepared to take off back the way we'd come. Aboard our trusty platform, I watched our conductor wind a worn bit of twine around our lawn-mower engine to give it a roaring pull-start. It started on the second try and once again, we were flying along the teeth-jarring tracks.
Rich took us to a temple by the bat caves which we dutifully explored until dusk when we raced over to see my second main event. The bats were already flying by the time we pulled up. I practically threw myself out of the vehicle in order not to miss it. It wasn't until I was standing firmly on the road, agape at the amazing spectacle, that I learned that the bats numbered in the millions and took up to an hour to completely exit the cave.
Watching the living stream of bats pour out of the cave in order to first swoop left and then flow off into the night was surreal. I'd never before thought I'd get to witness such a feat, but there I was and there they were.
I was awestruck.
The ribbon of bats was mesmerizing to watch. The way they streamed after each other, the way they flowed as a group in sync with the other thousands around them, the way that a loud clap or a blaring horn would disrupt their line, momentarily spreading them out like a visual sound wave before they regrouped and fell back into tight formation again, never once losing each other or the direction of their own traffic. The other half of my Battambang pilgrimage was complete; I'd seen the bats. Malcolm and I high-fived and it was time to make our way back to the hotel and on to the next adventure.
It was SO on.
A three hour bus ride into Battambang from Siem Reap gave us a little bonus sleep before we awoke to disembark to be swarmed by tuk-tuk drivers scrambling for our attention. We found one to walk to us our hotel (it was THAT close to the bust station), dropped our luggage, an took off for our adventure.
Included with our agreed upon tour with Rich (our tuk-tuk driver) was a stop at a crocodile farm. Having not anticipated visiting such a site, we had no idea what to expect. The signs directing the way were hilariously homemade (I wish I'd gotten a picture) and the gate we arrived at was the entrance to someone's personal abode and backyard. Having been let in, we paid our $1 admission fee and were pointed up some concrete steps. With all that we had encountered so far, we prepared ourselves to be disappointed. We were not.
The top of the stairs brought us to look down into massive concrete pens - there were four in total - each with a pool and each holding HUNDREDS of crocodiles.
Basking in the sun, the beasts were everywhere, some lying on top of others, some submerged, some climbing over others to get to another spot. Catching us by surprise, we were momentarily rendered speechless. Other than snapping photos and scratching our heads in wonder, there was little else to do at the farm so after we'd had our fill, it was back to the tuk-tuk and off to the bamboo train.
With the bits and pieces we'd collected about the train ride, we'd prepared ourselves to barter with locals to catch a ride, but when we arrived, we were greeted by an officer of the tourist police. After affirming our intention to ride the rickety platform, he explained the procedure to us.
"$5 per person to ride the train. 14 km ride to the next station. You get off and visit village and shopping and brick factory. Then you ride with some driver and come back."
Sounded simple enough. $5 each and off we went.
The village we arrived at was nothing to write home about - the shopping was of the handicraft sort we'd been confronted with countless times by then, and the brick factory appeared to be on an extended lunch break. The best attraction we found at that end of the line were the kids.
Five or six of them, aged four to seven, were scrambling over a bamboo train platform, pushing and pulling it a few metres in either direction on the tracks. Giggling endlessly over their own jokes, sometimes apparent, sometimes completely lost in translation, they were adorable to watch. One boy had pants too small for him so that they gave him perpetual plumber's butt, while another little boy had no pants on at all. And not a single one of them wore shoes.
After they'd had their fun and we'd had our fill, we prepared to take off back the way we'd come. Aboard our trusty platform, I watched our conductor wind a worn bit of twine around our lawn-mower engine to give it a roaring pull-start. It started on the second try and once again, we were flying along the teeth-jarring tracks.
Rich took us to a temple by the bat caves which we dutifully explored until dusk when we raced over to see my second main event. The bats were already flying by the time we pulled up. I practically threw myself out of the vehicle in order not to miss it. It wasn't until I was standing firmly on the road, agape at the amazing spectacle, that I learned that the bats numbered in the millions and took up to an hour to completely exit the cave.
Watching the living stream of bats pour out of the cave in order to first swoop left and then flow off into the night was surreal. I'd never before thought I'd get to witness such a feat, but there I was and there they were.
I was awestruck.
The ribbon of bats was mesmerizing to watch. The way they streamed after each other, the way they flowed as a group in sync with the other thousands around them, the way that a loud clap or a blaring horn would disrupt their line, momentarily spreading them out like a visual sound wave before they regrouped and fell back into tight formation again, never once losing each other or the direction of their own traffic. The other half of my Battambang pilgrimage was complete; I'd seen the bats. Malcolm and I high-fived and it was time to make our way back to the hotel and on to the next adventure.
Beware Battambang
We're in Battambang, the second largest city of Cambodia, but still a very sleepy city--pretty much everything is closed up and done by 10pm. We were looking to get a late-ish dinner at 8pm and walked down to our concierge to inquire about whether there'd be anything to eat at the night-market we'd heard about. A nearby (and eavesdropping) tuk-tuk driver confirmed to us that there was and asked if we'd like a ride. The market was about 2 kilometres away and at the price he offered us, we declined the ride. Upon hearing our answer, the tuk-tuk driver frowned.
"Are you sure? You don't want to run into any trouble on the streets...there might be gangsters."
We looked at each other...and still decided to walk. We had to hang around the concierge a little longer before leaving as we were making travel preparations for the next day and every time I mentioned something about gangsters, the clerk giggled to himself. Needless to say, we didn't run into any trouble. We didn't even get lost, not to mention running into any gangsters.
"Are you sure? You don't want to run into any trouble on the streets...there might be gangsters."
We looked at each other...and still decided to walk. We had to hang around the concierge a little longer before leaving as we were making travel preparations for the next day and every time I mentioned something about gangsters, the clerk giggled to himself. Needless to say, we didn't run into any trouble. We didn't even get lost, not to mention running into any gangsters.
Sunday, December 25, 2011
Dawning on a dream
Like the sleepy child not yet ready to face the day, I yawned into the darkness, shifted my weight on my stone seat, and nuzzled my cheek onto Malcolm's shoulder. It was barely 5am. We could hear others shuffling around nearby, out doing the same thing we were doing in the same hushed tones as everyone else.
Once every few minutes, the darkness would be abruptly sliced through by a camera flash or someone checking their time on their phone or using a flashlight. If I thought it grew imperceptibly lighter, I would occasionally take out my good-in-low-light camera and snap a flashless photo of the darkness. At least the first five of these shots came out completely black. But as time dragged on the faintest of shadows began to appear. Details started materializing n the blind shots I was taking; a palm tree, a wall, a tower.
As the sky grew lighter and lighter, everyone - including me - began to stir and an atmosphere of excitement began to bubble. Cameras were alive capturing the stupas, reflecting ponds, the libraries and the walkways that the morning twilight was slowing uncovering. Fifty photos later we were ushered to a new vantage point - it was choked with other tourists eager for that picture perfect memory, but it was because this was the spot to be.
In the moments we waited, we were warmed and jostled to the point where we wondered if this was all worth it--but then, it happened. The blazing red sun finally broke the horizon and illuminated all of Angkor Wat in all of its timeless splendor. Cameras went crazy. But after grabbing a few of those once-in-a-lifetime shots, I stopped to put the camera down and fully savour the moment that. That moment that I'd always told myself I'd experience was finally upon me and it was breathtaking.
Saturday, December 24, 2011
Bugger
Travelling South East Asia, there was a lot of worry about medications and illness. One of the main concerns was regarding Malaria. I was really on the fence about taking anti-Malaria pills before and while I was away. I'd heard horror stories of the side-effects and the price alone served as a fair deterrent itself. In the end, I decided against it and told myself I'd just be very wary of mosquitoes.
Arriving in Malaysia, my guard was heightened even more by reports of Dengue fever occurring not even just close to home, but at home. I became a ninja assassin just to be able to calm my own fears of getting bitten and falling sick to something those insects were carrying. As our trip carried on, it seemed as though my vigilance was having a positive effect. Bites were few or non-existent. I was in perfect health, even while Malcolm came down with a mild fever in transit between cities. My well-being stayed strong all the way through to our last country - Cambodia.
And then.
Cycling home after dusk from the Angkor Wat temple complex, we could feel the bugs out in full force. I'd sprayed myself with repellent already and as long as we kept up the pace, the bugs had a better chance of ricocheting off our moving bodies than actually landing a bite. In fact, we were riding along fast enough that the comment was made that we should exercise a different sort of diligence:
"Make sure you keep your mouth closed - you don't want to swallow a bug!"
Point taken - I kept my mouth closed...so of course a damned mosquito few up my nostril.
Horrified, I snorted that thing out so fast I'm sure I blew its wings off. Keeping control of my bike with one hand, I dug out any possible remains with the other. For the rest of the night, my sinuses took extra precautionary measures and my nose started to run and wouldn't stop (not that I blamed my sinuses - it'd be a total violation of their sanctity and I would have done the same) for fear of anything else getting up there a second time. But the next morning, my sinuses had reacted so strongly that my nose was still clogged (with snot) and my throat was achingly sore.
All day I was a poster child for congestion, toting a pack of Kleenex through the temples with me, every pocket full of used tissues, pausing every few steps to blow my nose honkingly loud.
The next day my nose had stopped leaking, but now my snot was so thick I clogged my ears each time I attempted to blow it out. "Excuse me" was insufficient as an apology to anyone who had to hear my brains come out through my nostrils.
It wasn't until the whirlwind part of our trip was over that my nose cleared up and my ears became unblocked and I could breathe again like a functional human being. And all that time I'd been protecting myself against the danger of mosquito bites.
Arriving in Malaysia, my guard was heightened even more by reports of Dengue fever occurring not even just close to home, but at home. I became a ninja assassin just to be able to calm my own fears of getting bitten and falling sick to something those insects were carrying. As our trip carried on, it seemed as though my vigilance was having a positive effect. Bites were few or non-existent. I was in perfect health, even while Malcolm came down with a mild fever in transit between cities. My well-being stayed strong all the way through to our last country - Cambodia.
And then.
Cycling home after dusk from the Angkor Wat temple complex, we could feel the bugs out in full force. I'd sprayed myself with repellent already and as long as we kept up the pace, the bugs had a better chance of ricocheting off our moving bodies than actually landing a bite. In fact, we were riding along fast enough that the comment was made that we should exercise a different sort of diligence:
"Make sure you keep your mouth closed - you don't want to swallow a bug!"
Point taken - I kept my mouth closed...so of course a damned mosquito few up my nostril.
Horrified, I snorted that thing out so fast I'm sure I blew its wings off. Keeping control of my bike with one hand, I dug out any possible remains with the other. For the rest of the night, my sinuses took extra precautionary measures and my nose started to run and wouldn't stop (not that I blamed my sinuses - it'd be a total violation of their sanctity and I would have done the same) for fear of anything else getting up there a second time. But the next morning, my sinuses had reacted so strongly that my nose was still clogged (with snot) and my throat was achingly sore.
All day I was a poster child for congestion, toting a pack of Kleenex through the temples with me, every pocket full of used tissues, pausing every few steps to blow my nose honkingly loud.
The next day my nose had stopped leaking, but now my snot was so thick I clogged my ears each time I attempted to blow it out. "Excuse me" was insufficient as an apology to anyone who had to hear my brains come out through my nostrils.
It wasn't until the whirlwind part of our trip was over that my nose cleared up and my ears became unblocked and I could breathe again like a functional human being. And all that time I'd been protecting myself against the danger of mosquito bites.
Thursday, December 22, 2011
From the other side
Travelling for so long on this side of the planet (South East Asia) has started to change my outlook on things. I can't really put a lot of those things into words just yet, but one of them has just gotten a little more thought than others just now.
Early Retirement does not necessarily equal Rich Retirement, nor does it have to.
You don't have to be rich to retire and to retire doesn't mean your cash flow must cease to perpetuate. Why do you need to retire rich? To live an opulent lifestyle you wouldn't normally live? Even if I were rich, my lifestyle would not change and become opulent...it'd probably stay pretty much the same. If anything, I could scale back on expenses - no longer driving into the office everyday, no longer needing to dress to the nines in office wear, no lunches on the go, store bought coffees or parking fees - home would be the place to be and where the heart is.
Suddenly, constant travel and saving for retirement doesn't seem so scary anymore.
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
In the park
We were on the bus waiting to pick up additional passengers to take on the same tour as us (because heaven forbid that we should leave on a bus not completely packed to the gills). We were parked next to the public park where there was ample to look at during our wait - ballroom dancing lessons in the gazebo, Christmas decorations going up, kids playing games, adult playing sports.
My eyes fell upon an older lady who was the poster-woman for back-pain; bent over double, she had her elbows on her knees propping herself up as she stood still and watched the scene around her. Her unfortunate proximity to the bush behind her made me laugh.
"Hey, doesn't that lady look like she's peeing in the bush?"
There was a shared chuckle until the next moment when the woman straightened up, pulled up her pants and walked off.
My eyes fell upon an older lady who was the poster-woman for back-pain; bent over double, she had her elbows on her knees propping herself up as she stood still and watched the scene around her. Her unfortunate proximity to the bush behind her made me laugh.
"Hey, doesn't that lady look like she's peeing in the bush?"
There was a shared chuckle until the next moment when the woman straightened up, pulled up her pants and walked off.
Sunday, December 18, 2011
Nailing it
It's a North American stereotype that nail salons are staffed by Asian manicurists/pedicurists, typically Korean or Vietnamese - and stereotype or not, they're good at what they do. With Vietnam on our itinerary, you can bet your ass I was going to get a mani/pedi straight from the source.
Now, for the uninitiated, North American standards for nail salons are as follows:
Hygiene:
NA is HUGE on this. All instruments involved in the process are sterilized before each use, if they're not brand new to begin with. Surfaces and sinks are disinfected between each client's use. Floors are constantly being swept and towels come freshly bleached and laundered from an unending supply as is mandatory.
The process:
Now, while this varies from salon to salon or spa to spa, the typical procedure usually begins with the hands/feet being soaked in tubs of warm water for some time. Then the hands/feet are washed and a quick application of moisturizer ensues which sometimes includes a hand/foot massage. Nails are clipped and shaped, dead skin/cuticles are removed, and polish is applied. You'd then go and sit for ten minutes with your nails under a dryer and voilà - there is your typical mani/pedi.
Needing a bit of de-stressing in Ho Chi Minh City, I figured a pedicure would not only be a perfect option, but it was my chance to put the Asian mani/pedi talent/stereotype to the test. While I left my selected salon with perfectly soft feet and prettily polished toes, it was a tale to tell in itself.
After pointing assertively at my choice of JUST a pedicure on their menu of services, I was directed to my seat in a row of other in-progress pedicure clients. It wasn't the giant massage chair with an attached foot spa in front, but it wasn't NA afterall - it was a back alley in HCMC. A moment later, my soaker tub appeared; it was a stainless steel mixing bowl (like the ones I use for making salads in), filled with lukewarm water. Okay, fine - hot water seemed to come at a premium in South East Asia, and what's a container? Mom soaked dad's feet in a plastic bucket at home - why judge?
When I'd been thoroughly soaked, my pedicurist came by and dried my feet with a towel that she tossed on the floor after. She started looking for something, and after not finding it, she picked up that same towel again and spread it over her lap to begin on my nails - I gathered she'd been looking for a new towel, but not finding one, just re-used my original one. Okay, fine - five second rule, right?
Feet dry and perched on the slightly used towel on her lap, it was time to get my nails clipped. But we didn't start right away - we were waiting for something. After watching my girl wait a while, chatting with her other salonist friends, it became apparent what we were waiting for. We were waiting for her friend two seats down to finish with the one set of nail clippers on another client before they could be slide down across the floor to be passed to my pedicurist to be used immediately on me, as was their process with the cuticle trimmers, nail files, heel files, and skin scrapers (which cost me extra, btw). Oooooookay, fine - it's not like I sterilize my stuff at home and I share it all with Malcolm or family anyway...
An (embarrassingly long) hour later, my feet were clean, my toenails clipped, and my heels were smooth again - after some extensive travelling in the wrong flipflops, I'd acquired myself some epically dirty, scaly, and cracked heels - it was gross. Then it was time for my foot massage. While the woman went at it vigorously enough, the only thing I could think of was how when she went to massage my calves, she rested my feet right up against her boobs - sometimes inadvertently (I hope) manoeuvring a toe inside her shirt as she massaged - as she rubbed me, I was rubbing her...I was mortified, while she didn't even seem to notice.
Polish (their home brand was no OPI by far) and I was finally good to go. Well, after she personally sat and fanned my nails dry in lieu of any electric dryers.
The prices?
50,000 VND for the pedicure (nail clipping)
50,000 VND for the heel scraping
20,000 for painting my nails
for a whopping total of 120,000 VND.
As I originally walked in for the 50,000 pedicure which turned out to not include all that I expected from a pedicure at home, I was ready to squawk. But then the conversion of VND to CAD in my head convinced me otherwise and I tipped my girl generously (I'd thought my feet would never be smooth again) and left.
For what I'd usually pay $35 for at home, I'd just paid $6. Sure I had to give up a few things (massage chair, hot water, sterilized/new equipment, all inclusive pricing, un-molesting massages, quality nail polish, electric dryers), but for $6, it was pretty damned worth it.
Now, for the uninitiated, North American standards for nail salons are as follows:
Hygiene:
NA is HUGE on this. All instruments involved in the process are sterilized before each use, if they're not brand new to begin with. Surfaces and sinks are disinfected between each client's use. Floors are constantly being swept and towels come freshly bleached and laundered from an unending supply as is mandatory.
The process:
Now, while this varies from salon to salon or spa to spa, the typical procedure usually begins with the hands/feet being soaked in tubs of warm water for some time. Then the hands/feet are washed and a quick application of moisturizer ensues which sometimes includes a hand/foot massage. Nails are clipped and shaped, dead skin/cuticles are removed, and polish is applied. You'd then go and sit for ten minutes with your nails under a dryer and voilà - there is your typical mani/pedi.
Needing a bit of de-stressing in Ho Chi Minh City, I figured a pedicure would not only be a perfect option, but it was my chance to put the Asian mani/pedi talent/stereotype to the test. While I left my selected salon with perfectly soft feet and prettily polished toes, it was a tale to tell in itself.
After pointing assertively at my choice of JUST a pedicure on their menu of services, I was directed to my seat in a row of other in-progress pedicure clients. It wasn't the giant massage chair with an attached foot spa in front, but it wasn't NA afterall - it was a back alley in HCMC. A moment later, my soaker tub appeared; it was a stainless steel mixing bowl (like the ones I use for making salads in), filled with lukewarm water. Okay, fine - hot water seemed to come at a premium in South East Asia, and what's a container? Mom soaked dad's feet in a plastic bucket at home - why judge?
When I'd been thoroughly soaked, my pedicurist came by and dried my feet with a towel that she tossed on the floor after. She started looking for something, and after not finding it, she picked up that same towel again and spread it over her lap to begin on my nails - I gathered she'd been looking for a new towel, but not finding one, just re-used my original one. Okay, fine - five second rule, right?
Feet dry and perched on the slightly used towel on her lap, it was time to get my nails clipped. But we didn't start right away - we were waiting for something. After watching my girl wait a while, chatting with her other salonist friends, it became apparent what we were waiting for. We were waiting for her friend two seats down to finish with the one set of nail clippers on another client before they could be slide down across the floor to be passed to my pedicurist to be used immediately on me, as was their process with the cuticle trimmers, nail files, heel files, and skin scrapers (which cost me extra, btw). Oooooookay, fine - it's not like I sterilize my stuff at home and I share it all with Malcolm or family anyway...
An (embarrassingly long) hour later, my feet were clean, my toenails clipped, and my heels were smooth again - after some extensive travelling in the wrong flipflops, I'd acquired myself some epically dirty, scaly, and cracked heels - it was gross. Then it was time for my foot massage. While the woman went at it vigorously enough, the only thing I could think of was how when she went to massage my calves, she rested my feet right up against her boobs - sometimes inadvertently (I hope) manoeuvring a toe inside her shirt as she massaged - as she rubbed me, I was rubbing her...I was mortified, while she didn't even seem to notice.
Polish (their home brand was no OPI by far) and I was finally good to go. Well, after she personally sat and fanned my nails dry in lieu of any electric dryers.
The prices?
50,000 VND for the pedicure (nail clipping)
50,000 VND for the heel scraping
20,000 for painting my nails
for a whopping total of 120,000 VND.
As I originally walked in for the 50,000 pedicure which turned out to not include all that I expected from a pedicure at home, I was ready to squawk. But then the conversion of VND to CAD in my head convinced me otherwise and I tipped my girl generously (I'd thought my feet would never be smooth again) and left.
For what I'd usually pay $35 for at home, I'd just paid $6. Sure I had to give up a few things (massage chair, hot water, sterilized/new equipment, all inclusive pricing, un-molesting massages, quality nail polish, electric dryers), but for $6, it was pretty damned worth it.
Saturday, December 17, 2011
Tripping out
I'm exhausted. The moments that I finally get any down time, I sit still, not doing or saying or thinking anything. I know I want to do things - write, read, crochet, photo-edit - but my brain just can't handle it. It's not that we're doing too much...it's just that we're doing it. I need a vacation.
Fine Finer print
***Author's note: I have nothing but respect for the late Ho Chi Minh and the edifice that is his mausoleum. My visit into and through the mausoleum was a very respectful and solemn experience. This story is about the people and procedures surrounding the mausoleum itself, and all that was lost in translation.***
Wanting to be able to cross the Ho Chi Minh Mausoleum off the list of things to see, we made a beeline for it after checking out of our Hanoi Hotel. We were stopped outside of the gates and herded into a double file line.
"I guess this is the line-up before the line-up?"
When the appropriate number of us had spend the appropriate amount of time waiting in the appropriate double file line, we were allowed to enter the grounds. Having read up on the site in advance, I knew we were not allowed to take any belongings into the mausoleum and that there was a free baggage check to accommodate this, so as soon as I spotted the baggage check inside the gates, I headed straight for it and left others to wander towards the start of the next line-up to get in.
First at the baggage window, I could clearly see the sign that told me "NO CHARGE" to check my belongings. So why was it that the lady behind the counter was demanding 5000 VND from me? But at that moment, the rest of the crowd had caught on and were all pushing and shoving all around me. I guess by then they had all taken note of the giant notice sign just inside the gate:
and they realized they had weapons and/or "germstones" to check in. One lady in particular--holding onto the strap as a tether--THREW her purse over my shoulder so that it landed on the counter in front of my own bag. Headache forming amid the chaos, I threw the attendant the 5000 VND just so I could escape, but loudly questioned to myself,
"What part of 'NO CHARGE' exactly did I not understand? 5000 VND does not mean 'NO CHARGE.'"
Bags checked, we headed to the (real) line-up. This was a covered pathway while rails on either side that guided us to the x-ray machines and metal detectors. With the crowd rushing to catch-up behind us, we hurried down the pathway to secure our spot in the (again) double-file line.
Or so I thought.
Watching the line creep along ahead of us, I became aware of a person hovering close behind me to my right. A discreet glance told me it was the woman who had thrown her purse. I couldn't believe it. There was no way she'd managed to check her bag, pay her money, and beat the rest of the people to be in line right behind me. So I watched her. She was anxiously glancing over me to the front of the line, edging her way ever closer to me; I believed she was trying to edge her way past me. Defensive of my spot in line, I shifted my weight and took a wider stance with my legs, while putting my hands on my hips in an attempt to spread myself out as widely as possible. Now there was no way to get between me and the railing on my right, while my left side was protected by the presence of other people.
Satisfied with my efforts to block her, I turned to look directly at her. She didn't make eye contact with me - she was too busy hopping over the railing and scurrying up to the metal detectors. My hope that she would be caught and sent to the back of the line was dashed when the security guard who noticed her simply fed her back into the line-up--at the front of the line.
Incredulous, from then on I wouldn't shut up about how "no charge" wasn't "no charge" and a line-up wasn't a line-up. Another tourist (also Canadian) heard me and joined in on the laughter--until we were shushed by one of the guards. In a lower tone, she explained that she'd overheard my initial complaint about the 5000 VND back at the baggage window and had questioned it herself when it came to be her turn. Apparently, baggage check was indeed free of charge, but the site map/brochure was 5000 VND.
"But I didn't even get a brochure!"
We were promptly shushed again.
After we'd proceeded through the serious part of the reason we were there in the first place (though the other tourist had to be told three times to keep her hands out of her pockets), introductions were made and more laughs were had.
"Canadians are really funny, aren't they?"
While I never saw the purse lady again (probably because there were no more line-up for her to skip), we managed to get our 5000 VND back for not having received the crappy brochure in the first place. So NO CHARGE really does mean NO CHARGE afterall--we'd just failed to read the invisible print.
Wanting to be able to cross the Ho Chi Minh Mausoleum off the list of things to see, we made a beeline for it after checking out of our Hanoi Hotel. We were stopped outside of the gates and herded into a double file line.
"I guess this is the line-up before the line-up?"
When the appropriate number of us had spend the appropriate amount of time waiting in the appropriate double file line, we were allowed to enter the grounds. Having read up on the site in advance, I knew we were not allowed to take any belongings into the mausoleum and that there was a free baggage check to accommodate this, so as soon as I spotted the baggage check inside the gates, I headed straight for it and left others to wander towards the start of the next line-up to get in.
First at the baggage window, I could clearly see the sign that told me "NO CHARGE" to check my belongings. So why was it that the lady behind the counter was demanding 5000 VND from me? But at that moment, the rest of the crowd had caught on and were all pushing and shoving all around me. I guess by then they had all taken note of the giant notice sign just inside the gate:
and they realized they had weapons and/or "germstones" to check in. One lady in particular--holding onto the strap as a tether--THREW her purse over my shoulder so that it landed on the counter in front of my own bag. Headache forming amid the chaos, I threw the attendant the 5000 VND just so I could escape, but loudly questioned to myself,
"What part of 'NO CHARGE' exactly did I not understand? 5000 VND does not mean 'NO CHARGE.'"
Bags checked, we headed to the (real) line-up. This was a covered pathway while rails on either side that guided us to the x-ray machines and metal detectors. With the crowd rushing to catch-up behind us, we hurried down the pathway to secure our spot in the (again) double-file line.
Or so I thought.
Watching the line creep along ahead of us, I became aware of a person hovering close behind me to my right. A discreet glance told me it was the woman who had thrown her purse. I couldn't believe it. There was no way she'd managed to check her bag, pay her money, and beat the rest of the people to be in line right behind me. So I watched her. She was anxiously glancing over me to the front of the line, edging her way ever closer to me; I believed she was trying to edge her way past me. Defensive of my spot in line, I shifted my weight and took a wider stance with my legs, while putting my hands on my hips in an attempt to spread myself out as widely as possible. Now there was no way to get between me and the railing on my right, while my left side was protected by the presence of other people.
Satisfied with my efforts to block her, I turned to look directly at her. She didn't make eye contact with me - she was too busy hopping over the railing and scurrying up to the metal detectors. My hope that she would be caught and sent to the back of the line was dashed when the security guard who noticed her simply fed her back into the line-up--at the front of the line.
Incredulous, from then on I wouldn't shut up about how "no charge" wasn't "no charge" and a line-up wasn't a line-up. Another tourist (also Canadian) heard me and joined in on the laughter--until we were shushed by one of the guards. In a lower tone, she explained that she'd overheard my initial complaint about the 5000 VND back at the baggage window and had questioned it herself when it came to be her turn. Apparently, baggage check was indeed free of charge, but the site map/brochure was 5000 VND.
"But I didn't even get a brochure!"
We were promptly shushed again.
After we'd proceeded through the serious part of the reason we were there in the first place (though the other tourist had to be told three times to keep her hands out of her pockets), introductions were made and more laughs were had.
"Canadians are really funny, aren't they?"
While I never saw the purse lady again (probably because there were no more line-up for her to skip), we managed to get our 5000 VND back for not having received the crappy brochure in the first place. So NO CHARGE really does mean NO CHARGE afterall--we'd just failed to read the invisible print.
Thursday, December 15, 2011
It's not the destination, it's the journey
Traffic lights as suggestions, street signs and lines for decoration, the constant honking of horns of anything other than annoyance. The traffic in Hanoi just works. If you want to cross the street, you just steel yourself to the task and go and the vehicles will miraculously miss you no matter where they come from or where they go. As another traveller said: "you can't get mad when there are no rules." As long as all the vehicles and pedestrians alike understand the one rule of no rules, then no one gets angry, no one is wrong, and it just works.
With all of that in mind, then what happened on our way back to Hanoi from Halong Bay should not have come as a surprise--and I guess it wasn't; it was just simply incredible.
Having complete about 3/4 of our 3 hours bus journey, all of us on the bus were eager to get back to the city and disembark at our respective hotels. We had been travelling at a good clip along the highway when our bus suddenly slowed; traffic.
We inched along until we came upon the source of the slow down - a bus like ours appeared ahead, sideways across the lanes of the highway.
"What's wrong?"
"What happened?"
"Was it hit?"
"Did it spin out?"
Our questions were immediately answered as the bus began to reverse and then move forward to complete its U-TURN on the highway. Amazingly, the horns of the other vehicles on the highway were quiet save for the motorbikes that were letting you know they were there skootching by you in the meantime. When the bus was out of our way, we continue on past it to where the high was was a little clearance - only to begin to make our own u-turn.
"What's going on?"
"Festival."
Apparently a festival in town was either blocking traffic or causing traffic (maybe he meant "parade") and the highway was impassable ahead. A glance out the front window seemed to corroborate this story, but it was hard to say. Nevertheless, we were turning around.
Our own crazy highway manoeuvre was also accompanied by minimal honking from the surrounding vehicles who instead did their best to give us room to move (?!). Once we'd completed our turn and were now facing traffic head-on, we made no effort to move to the shoulder to drive back to the last exit--oh no, we just drove straight down the middle (I suppose the motorcycles were using the shoulder anyway, so down the centre was safer).
You could suppose that once we'd made it off the highway, our highway hijinx manoeuvres would be over, but they weren't. Coming of the highway, we encountered even more traffic; our guide AND driver disembarked to find out why. Apparently via this exit there was only one route into the city and for some reason, there were giant concrete pipes in the way of the road access.
But that didn't mean we couldn't get by.
When we reached the road block (which took a while because our driver kept getting out to give advice or to direct other drivers), we could see exactly what the problem was and what the Vietnamese solution was going to be.
The giant pipes that were blocking the roadway (they were big enough to walk through) had been placed so that there was one in each lane of the 2-lane road, but there was a gap in the middle. When give the opportunity, motorbikes would whiz their way through no problem. Even mid-sized cars and pick-up trucks could make the squeeze and they were chaotically, yet civilly taking their turns to pass through one at a time from either direction.
However, our mini-bus and the full-sized tour buses following us were too big to make it past those pipes. The solution: jump the curb and go around. Simple enough, except for the fact that just outside of the pipe was a road sign solidly cemented in place that still made this route impossibly narrow and passing outside of the road sign was out of the question due to a drop off and ditch below. But, as with all Vietnamese traffic, no matter how impossible it seemed, it was just going to work.
And so, we lost our driver a number of times more as he went to help guide or push other buses through the new route. Once, we lost him so that he could go and pull on the road sign in order to try tot give another driver the 2 more inches of clearance he needed. When it finally came to be our turn, we all had to disembark and watch (and video) from the far side of the ditch as our ride carefully climbed the curb and inched by between sign and pipe with zero room to spare.
After our driver made it through, there was little time for celebration as we were quickly ushered back on board and we continued ambling our way back into the city. Besides, there was no need to celebrate what was just part of an ordinary day anyway, right?
With all of that in mind, then what happened on our way back to Hanoi from Halong Bay should not have come as a surprise--and I guess it wasn't; it was just simply incredible.
Having complete about 3/4 of our 3 hours bus journey, all of us on the bus were eager to get back to the city and disembark at our respective hotels. We had been travelling at a good clip along the highway when our bus suddenly slowed; traffic.
We inched along until we came upon the source of the slow down - a bus like ours appeared ahead, sideways across the lanes of the highway.
"What's wrong?"
"What happened?"
"Was it hit?"
"Did it spin out?"
Our questions were immediately answered as the bus began to reverse and then move forward to complete its U-TURN on the highway. Amazingly, the horns of the other vehicles on the highway were quiet save for the motorbikes that were letting you know they were there skootching by you in the meantime. When the bus was out of our way, we continue on past it to where the high was was a little clearance - only to begin to make our own u-turn.
"What's going on?"
"Festival."
Apparently a festival in town was either blocking traffic or causing traffic (maybe he meant "parade") and the highway was impassable ahead. A glance out the front window seemed to corroborate this story, but it was hard to say. Nevertheless, we were turning around.
Our own crazy highway manoeuvre was also accompanied by minimal honking from the surrounding vehicles who instead did their best to give us room to move (?!). Once we'd completed our turn and were now facing traffic head-on, we made no effort to move to the shoulder to drive back to the last exit--oh no, we just drove straight down the middle (I suppose the motorcycles were using the shoulder anyway, so down the centre was safer).
You could suppose that once we'd made it off the highway, our highway hijinx manoeuvres would be over, but they weren't. Coming of the highway, we encountered even more traffic; our guide AND driver disembarked to find out why. Apparently via this exit there was only one route into the city and for some reason, there were giant concrete pipes in the way of the road access.
But that didn't mean we couldn't get by.
When we reached the road block (which took a while because our driver kept getting out to give advice or to direct other drivers), we could see exactly what the problem was and what the Vietnamese solution was going to be.
The giant pipes that were blocking the roadway (they were big enough to walk through) had been placed so that there was one in each lane of the 2-lane road, but there was a gap in the middle. When give the opportunity, motorbikes would whiz their way through no problem. Even mid-sized cars and pick-up trucks could make the squeeze and they were chaotically, yet civilly taking their turns to pass through one at a time from either direction.
However, our mini-bus and the full-sized tour buses following us were too big to make it past those pipes. The solution: jump the curb and go around. Simple enough, except for the fact that just outside of the pipe was a road sign solidly cemented in place that still made this route impossibly narrow and passing outside of the road sign was out of the question due to a drop off and ditch below. But, as with all Vietnamese traffic, no matter how impossible it seemed, it was just going to work.
And so, we lost our driver a number of times more as he went to help guide or push other buses through the new route. Once, we lost him so that he could go and pull on the road sign in order to try tot give another driver the 2 more inches of clearance he needed. When it finally came to be our turn, we all had to disembark and watch (and video) from the far side of the ditch as our ride carefully climbed the curb and inched by between sign and pipe with zero room to spare.
After our driver made it through, there was little time for celebration as we were quickly ushered back on board and we continued ambling our way back into the city. Besides, there was no need to celebrate what was just part of an ordinary day anyway, right?
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
Beep Beep - look out for me!
That's how a friend of ours (notorious for getting into accidents) changes lanes. She turns on her turn signal, says "beep beep, look out for me," and changes lanes without so much as a glance over her shoulder. it's kind of cute, yet terrifying at the same time.
Driving in Vietnam is the same, though not quite as cute. Cars and buses and trucks and motorbikes alike all use their horns as a short of notice-giver...they honk to let you know they're there, that they're turning, going straight, avoiding you, you need to avoid them,...practically any reason at all. Their turn-signals even make noise; motorcycles sound like a little squeak, buses sounds like muted and lazy car alarms.
And yet the amazing thing is that no one is mad. It's never a "get out of my f-ing way" honk, just an "FYI" honk.
Although our bus driver today - for the entire 1.5 hour ride - was incredibly horn happy. After about half an hour into the ride, the general consensus was that he should have just continuously leaned on the hour and gotten it over with. But of course it figures that when I finally had the notion to take out my camera to video the phenomenon, he stopped completely. It would have made the most amazing drinking game.
Driving in Vietnam is the same, though not quite as cute. Cars and buses and trucks and motorbikes alike all use their horns as a short of notice-giver...they honk to let you know they're there, that they're turning, going straight, avoiding you, you need to avoid them,...practically any reason at all. Their turn-signals even make noise; motorcycles sound like a little squeak, buses sounds like muted and lazy car alarms.
And yet the amazing thing is that no one is mad. It's never a "get out of my f-ing way" honk, just an "FYI" honk.
Although our bus driver today - for the entire 1.5 hour ride - was incredibly horn happy. After about half an hour into the ride, the general consensus was that he should have just continuously leaned on the hour and gotten it over with. But of course it figures that when I finally had the notion to take out my camera to video the phenomenon, he stopped completely. It would have made the most amazing drinking game.
Take only pictures
My memories of Halong Bay will be forever topped off with the late night giggles that we shared off the sloping front-end of the boat on our overnight in the UNESCO site. The sky was cloudy and the night was cool but not cold. Some of us had beers in hand, some were jigging for squid, some of us had our feet dangling over the edge and some were just standing around for the company.
Everyone was from somewhere different from the rest; Germany, Sweden, Canada, Malaysia, Argentina, Australia. We all shared English--broken as it was in some cases--and passed the time sharing stories of where we'd come from or where'd we'd been. Laughter erupted amongst the crowd when our day was recounted and our guide's accent and favourite phrases were poorly imitated.
As the night stretched on, the crowd dwindled with people heading to bed, wishing the night owls goodnights. The last few of us followed shortly after, fittingly closing the evening with a few favourite lines from FRIENDS. Retiring for the night, we left the karst isle wonders to stand guard over the twinkling historic junks drifting quietly in the bay.
Everyone was from somewhere different from the rest; Germany, Sweden, Canada, Malaysia, Argentina, Australia. We all shared English--broken as it was in some cases--and passed the time sharing stories of where we'd come from or where'd we'd been. Laughter erupted amongst the crowd when our day was recounted and our guide's accent and favourite phrases were poorly imitated.
As the night stretched on, the crowd dwindled with people heading to bed, wishing the night owls goodnights. The last few of us followed shortly after, fittingly closing the evening with a few favourite lines from FRIENDS. Retiring for the night, we left the karst isle wonders to stand guard over the twinkling historic junks drifting quietly in the bay.
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
Late passengers, unite!
Despite having left our hotel at noon and having allotted ourselves 7 hours to make a 4.5 hour journey, we were running late. Our ferry arrived to pick us up an hour later than scheduled, then took an additional hour in transit and the offload and loading time of passengers from ferry to bus was chaotic and took forever.
By the time we finally climbed aboard the bus that was to take us the final 40-minute leg of the trip to the airport, we figure ourselves to be scheduled to arrive 10 minutes too late for check-in. However, we remained optimistic. The British woman with the big hair, on the other hand, did not.
Already on the bus, Big Hair was yelling at the bus-ferry coordinator that the delay was ridiculous (which it was), that she had a flight to catch at 7:45pm (which we did as well), and that leaving at 6:45pm for a 40-minute ride was not going to get her there in time to check-in (which was technically correct, but again, we were optimistic). We calmly informed her that we were in the same position as she was, along with another passenger on the same bus (we'd become friends during our wait for the ferry). Excitedly, Big Hair exclaimed that we should jump off the bus (that was still parked) and hire a taxi to speed us to the airport together. Not only did we advise against it (our luggage had been stowed somewhere in the bowels of the bus already) and optimistically share our outlook with her, but the bus-ferry coordinator hopped aboard to tell her she'd make it "okay okay" and announced the bus' departure.
We were stuck. And although we didn't admit it, Big Hair's frustration and panic had had its effect of wavering our outlook. However, her volume alone had a secondary effect.
Thai travellers on the bus with us began to pull out their phones and tablets to try to help. Our airline was called to see if anything could be done about our delay. While Big Hair and the other passenger on our flight were checked in on an iPad. With the local help we found on board, we discovered that while nothing could be done to accommodate our delay, our flight had been delayed anyway and it was now just a matter of checking our luggage in time.
When the airport finally rose into sight, all of us on the same flight got up and prepared to make a dash for the airline counter. When the bus pulled in and stopped, all of the Thai passengers also rose from their seats--but kept the aisles clear to let us off first...AND they cheered us on and wished us well.
We flew through the doors and the initial x-ray scans and made it to the check-in counter...in time! Big Hair was relieved (it actually wasn't until then that we learned her name) and we told ourselves we'd known it the whole time.
While the fact that we'd made it in time for our flight hadn't surprised us, the amazing help and hospitality we'd received from local Thai strangers absolutely wowed us. Not only had they gone out of their way to use their own personal airtimes and data, they all courteously let us run off the bus first to catch our departure. Sure it was very little in the grand scheme of things, but it really is the little things that count.
By the time we finally climbed aboard the bus that was to take us the final 40-minute leg of the trip to the airport, we figure ourselves to be scheduled to arrive 10 minutes too late for check-in. However, we remained optimistic. The British woman with the big hair, on the other hand, did not.
Already on the bus, Big Hair was yelling at the bus-ferry coordinator that the delay was ridiculous (which it was), that she had a flight to catch at 7:45pm (which we did as well), and that leaving at 6:45pm for a 40-minute ride was not going to get her there in time to check-in (which was technically correct, but again, we were optimistic). We calmly informed her that we were in the same position as she was, along with another passenger on the same bus (we'd become friends during our wait for the ferry). Excitedly, Big Hair exclaimed that we should jump off the bus (that was still parked) and hire a taxi to speed us to the airport together. Not only did we advise against it (our luggage had been stowed somewhere in the bowels of the bus already) and optimistically share our outlook with her, but the bus-ferry coordinator hopped aboard to tell her she'd make it "okay okay" and announced the bus' departure.
We were stuck. And although we didn't admit it, Big Hair's frustration and panic had had its effect of wavering our outlook. However, her volume alone had a secondary effect.
Thai travellers on the bus with us began to pull out their phones and tablets to try to help. Our airline was called to see if anything could be done about our delay. While Big Hair and the other passenger on our flight were checked in on an iPad. With the local help we found on board, we discovered that while nothing could be done to accommodate our delay, our flight had been delayed anyway and it was now just a matter of checking our luggage in time.
When the airport finally rose into sight, all of us on the same flight got up and prepared to make a dash for the airline counter. When the bus pulled in and stopped, all of the Thai passengers also rose from their seats--but kept the aisles clear to let us off first...AND they cheered us on and wished us well.
We flew through the doors and the initial x-ray scans and made it to the check-in counter...in time! Big Hair was relieved (it actually wasn't until then that we learned her name) and we told ourselves we'd known it the whole time.
While the fact that we'd made it in time for our flight hadn't surprised us, the amazing help and hospitality we'd received from local Thai strangers absolutely wowed us. Not only had they gone out of their way to use their own personal airtimes and data, they all courteously let us run off the bus first to catch our departure. Sure it was very little in the grand scheme of things, but it really is the little things that count.
Monday, December 12, 2011
Ferry Dirty
We just travelled 3 hours on a ferry with first class tickets, seated like third class steerage. Our trip to Koh Phangan taught us that even in spite of light drizzles encountered on the way, the best seats were on the top deck that was open, but covered, and as a bonus, the seats reclined! So naturally, for the ferry back from Koh Phangan, we pushed and shoved our way to the top deck, only to find that while itw as open, there was no roof for shade and the few seats there did not recline. Oh well.
We snagged the seats anyway, wiped them as clean as we could (they were filthy--which we should realized as a sign of things to come), slapped on some sunscreen and settled in for the ride. Moments later, the ferry weighed anchor, and we quickly discovered why the seats had been left empty by locals and had been so filthy to begin with.
Exhaust. Two giant, black, billowing pillars of it. And just our luck, the wind was blowing it right back onto the boat, soaking us in soot.
Having just shoved off, we decided it wouldn't be too bad; once we picked up some speed the smoke stacks would belch their debris backwards off the boat, right? But to our dismay, there was no speed. The ferry had already departed an hour later than scheduled, and it looked like it was going to add an additional hour onto our travel time at the rate we were chugging along, because chugging was the the best we were managing.
The engines churned away, three decks below, pounding out a beat that sounded like the low bass notes from the Full Moon Party DJs, except that there wasn't necessarily rhythm to this beat, nor was there an end to the song. There was no escape. The seats on the decks below were enclosed, but not air conditioned, and besides, by the looks of the crowds of passengers who had crammed themselves onto every available spot on our deck, it didn't look like there was going to be any room down below anyway.
For three hours we endured. For three hours we baked in the sun, save for the times the wind shifted directions and the smoke stacks blocked it out. For three hours we breathed in our own smog until our noses were blackened with it. Three hours.
When the sights closer to the opposite shore became familiar again, passengers began to rouse themselves from their spots on the deck. While I thought our chairs were dirty, these poor people had become completely covered in grime. Whatever had touched the deck was graced with a layer of black grime and soot. It was disgusting. Thank goodness for my dirty chair.
Three hours from our ferry's departure--five hours from our departure from our hotel--and we still had an hour and a half to go to our final destination of the SRT airport. It won't be until midday tomorrow that we'll arrive and check into a hotel and final get to wash this leg of our journey away.
We snagged the seats anyway, wiped them as clean as we could (they were filthy--which we should realized as a sign of things to come), slapped on some sunscreen and settled in for the ride. Moments later, the ferry weighed anchor, and we quickly discovered why the seats had been left empty by locals and had been so filthy to begin with.
Exhaust. Two giant, black, billowing pillars of it. And just our luck, the wind was blowing it right back onto the boat, soaking us in soot.
Having just shoved off, we decided it wouldn't be too bad; once we picked up some speed the smoke stacks would belch their debris backwards off the boat, right? But to our dismay, there was no speed. The ferry had already departed an hour later than scheduled, and it looked like it was going to add an additional hour onto our travel time at the rate we were chugging along, because chugging was the the best we were managing.
The engines churned away, three decks below, pounding out a beat that sounded like the low bass notes from the Full Moon Party DJs, except that there wasn't necessarily rhythm to this beat, nor was there an end to the song. There was no escape. The seats on the decks below were enclosed, but not air conditioned, and besides, by the looks of the crowds of passengers who had crammed themselves onto every available spot on our deck, it didn't look like there was going to be any room down below anyway.
For three hours we endured. For three hours we baked in the sun, save for the times the wind shifted directions and the smoke stacks blocked it out. For three hours we breathed in our own smog until our noses were blackened with it. Three hours.
When the sights closer to the opposite shore became familiar again, passengers began to rouse themselves from their spots on the deck. While I thought our chairs were dirty, these poor people had become completely covered in grime. Whatever had touched the deck was graced with a layer of black grime and soot. It was disgusting. Thank goodness for my dirty chair.
Three hours from our ferry's departure--five hours from our departure from our hotel--and we still had an hour and a half to go to our final destination of the SRT airport. It won't be until midday tomorrow that we'll arrive and check into a hotel and final get to wash this leg of our journey away.
Thursday, December 08, 2011
No photo; money
Travel guides and fellow globetrotters will tell you that you'll get used to the beggars and pan-handlers you encounter in all of the emerging countries. They've each got their gimmick to tug on your heart strings--gimmicks that can be VERY effective. There's nothing wrong with giving money to them, it's just that if you don't harden up to it fast enough, you'll find that you're handing out more than you'll expect. But how could you resist these little girls?
Malcolm also paused at the bottom of the stairs to snap another (paid) picture with the first girl who had been singing and who had given him the great pose in the first place. In a developing country, even if you’re only 4-years old with only 3 words of English – Money talks.
At first, we thought they might just have been cute little
volunteers at the temple we had stopped to visit; the first little girl we came
across was singing. Pictures were
snapped of course, not just by us, but by the crowds walking by—the little girl
even posed for Malcolm’s camera. But by
the time we were ready to make the trek back down the 306 steps from Doi Suthep
we’d made the connection that the girls were doing it for money. In fact, for the unlucky photographers they
caught taking pictures and not paying, they would trot on over and stand on the
step below them, blocking their way down the mountain until they were
paid.
Now onto their scheme, I told Malcolm I still wanted a
picture with one of these adorable girls and fished through my bag for a 10
baht coin. As I was fishing, another
foreigner beat me to the picture and snapped a photo of the little girl I was
standing beside. Dutifully, she skipped
on over to him, stood in his way and reprimanded him.
“No photo;
money.”
Not understanding her at first, he tried to dodge around
her, but she blocked his path and repeated,
“No photo;
money.”
I was ready with my coin by then and thought that it might
placate her with regards to his stolen photo as well as allow me to take one of
my own. I presented the coin to the
girl, but she wouldn’t even look at me.
“No photo;
money.”
She was fiddling with her little change purse slung around
her shoulder as she chanted the recitation so I thought perhaps she hadn’t
noticed my offering. I put the coin in
her line of vision, but again,
“No photo;
money.”
The fellow foreigner, Malcolm and I exchanged bewildered
looks. Didn’t she want her money? We decided to let the guy give it a try
offering it to her – it was he who caught her attention in the first
place. He accepted the coin from me and
he handed it to her, making sure she could see it.
“No photo;
money.”
He tried slipping it into her change purse for her. She pulled away.
“No photo;
money.”
Her sulky words were both frustrating but adorable. We weren’t going to go away without giving
her the money, but we couldn’t figure out why she wouldn’t take it? Then Malcolm had an idea: we would try giving
her 20 baht.
I fished through my purse and found the appropriate bill and
offered it to her.
*smile*
Her chant stopped and she smiled brightly for the camera,
allowing the other foreigner to escape and me to snap my picture.
Malcolm also paused at the bottom of the stairs to snap another (paid) picture with the first girl who had been singing and who had given him the great pose in the first place. In a developing country, even if you’re only 4-years old with only 3 words of English – Money talks.
Tuesday, December 06, 2011
To the Batu Caves!
Having the only laptop around, I've had to share and haven't had enough alone-time to blog. Shitty excuse, but I'm sticking to it. The lack of alone time with or without the laptop has resulted in me having kept up with the writing, online, offline, or on paper. I have to say that's pretty shitty too. I shall strive to rectify this, but crankiness may prevail. Perhaps when I get my ring back, that will help to cure some of that.
Remember a while ago I was in Malaysia? In Kuala Lumpur? I didn't write much about it because for the first bit, we didn't do very much. Then when we DID do something I was too busy (or sucky) to write about it. I'm playing catch-up now.
The Batu Caves were a place that Malcolm had been too, but so long ago that it was I who informed him (and his friends) that there was now a city train line that had been extended out to the caves and they were now accessible without needing a chauffeur. Perfect. So one morning after breakfast (of course) with friends, we were dropped off at the LRT station and left to our own devices via Malcolm's memory and my navigation. Not long later, we had found our way and exited the train.
I wasn't quite sure what we were getting into having done minimal research on the site and just going along with Malcolm's memory. I knew at some point there were going to be caves, there were going to be 272 steps, and I was to beware of the monkeys. The first thing to catch my eye as we crossed through the gates and onto the grounds of the Batu Caves was not in a cave, was not quite a monkey, but was super tall.
Now I had an idea of what I was getting into. Without having reached the main entrance of the grounds, I was already struck by what I'd seen. The cliffs were breathtaking and the temples already grand. I'd never been to a Hindu temple before (at least, not to my recollection) and was impressed by the grandeur I found at the bottom of the steps. Somehow, though I had read that the statue would be big, I didn't realize it would be THAT big.
Before heading up to the main temple, we came across a smaller one at the bottom of the steps which visitors were allowed to enter so we took a peek inside. Statues, shrines, frescoes, sculptures, incense and more greeted us as we entered with our shoes off. Priests seeking to give us blessings (and receive donations, which we gave) called us over to rub ashes on our foreheads and put flowers in my hair.
Already, I was liking this.
Blessed (hopefully with phenomenal stair-climbing abilities), we decided it was time to make the climb.
Since I am fully aware of how much I hate to climb stairs and especially how much I suck at it, I steeled myself to the task at hand, knowing there was no other way up. No elevators, escalators, or secret lifts here. Besides, after a quarter of the way up, we saw this guy and I could no longer feel sorry for myself.
Halfway there!
The sights to greet us were well worth the climb, though at the moment there were no priests or anything sacred going on at the top--only monkeys running amok.
Two tried to tag-team me and attack, but I soon found the secret to warding them off (as I didn't have any food or drinks on me that they could possibly want) was simply to remember that I was bigger than them and to reassert that fact to them.
Overall, the trip was the most touristy that I was to make in KL (since the Petronas Towers were closed) and it was quite the memorable one.
Remember a while ago I was in Malaysia? In Kuala Lumpur? I didn't write much about it because for the first bit, we didn't do very much. Then when we DID do something I was too busy (or sucky) to write about it. I'm playing catch-up now.
I wasn't quite sure what we were getting into having done minimal research on the site and just going along with Malcolm's memory. I knew at some point there were going to be caves, there were going to be 272 steps, and I was to beware of the monkeys. The first thing to catch my eye as we crossed through the gates and onto the grounds of the Batu Caves was not in a cave, was not quite a monkey, but was super tall.
Already, I was liking this.
Blessed (hopefully with phenomenal stair-climbing abilities), we decided it was time to make the climb.
Halfway there!
The sights to greet us were well worth the climb, though at the moment there were no priests or anything sacred going on at the top--only monkeys running amok.
Two tried to tag-team me and attack, but I soon found the secret to warding them off (as I didn't have any food or drinks on me that they could possibly want) was simply to remember that I was bigger than them and to reassert that fact to them.
Overall, the trip was the most touristy that I was to make in KL (since the Petronas Towers were closed) and it was quite the memorable one.
The details
November 24, 2011
After listening to me gripe and feel sorry for myself about having gained the (more than) obligatory "welcome home" weight all night, Malcolm told me I looked beautiful and said he would take me on a walk through his childhood neighbourhood if it would make me feel better. I accepted.
We walked and we talked and he pointed out the places that meant a lot to him having shared memories there with his late grandfather. Crossing a bridge on the way home, we paused for a moment, watching the traffic pass beneath us. A moment later, Malcolm turned to me.
"I have a secret...I bought you something."
"What is it? Electronics?" (our secret joke for "engagement ring")
"Maybe."
At this point, I didn't take it to be something very serious. We'd kidded about it often so it wasn't something completely out of character.
"You know, you're not supposed to TELL me about that."
"But I don't want it to be a secret anymore."
And with that, he dropped to one knee, and, holding my hand, told me how much he loved me and asked me to marry him. Before he'd finished his first sentence--perhaps before his knee even hit the ground--I was already crying. Speechless, I nodded at first and then eeked out a "yes."
He stood up and we kissed. Then he opened up his left hand one finger at a time to reveal...and empty palm. :) Before I could figure out what it meant, I felt him slide a ring onto my finger with his right hand and smile. I was smiling and laughing and sobbing all at once. From there we walked back to his home in Penang where we shared the news with his family and they welcomed me (still sobbing) with open arms to the family.
After listening to me gripe and feel sorry for myself about having gained the (more than) obligatory "welcome home" weight all night, Malcolm told me I looked beautiful and said he would take me on a walk through his childhood neighbourhood if it would make me feel better. I accepted.
We walked and we talked and he pointed out the places that meant a lot to him having shared memories there with his late grandfather. Crossing a bridge on the way home, we paused for a moment, watching the traffic pass beneath us. A moment later, Malcolm turned to me.
"I have a secret...I bought you something."
"What is it? Electronics?" (our secret joke for "engagement ring")
"Maybe."
At this point, I didn't take it to be something very serious. We'd kidded about it often so it wasn't something completely out of character.
"You know, you're not supposed to TELL me about that."
"But I don't want it to be a secret anymore."
And with that, he dropped to one knee, and, holding my hand, told me how much he loved me and asked me to marry him. Before he'd finished his first sentence--perhaps before his knee even hit the ground--I was already crying. Speechless, I nodded at first and then eeked out a "yes."
He stood up and we kissed. Then he opened up his left hand one finger at a time to reveal...and empty palm. :) Before I could figure out what it meant, I felt him slide a ring onto my finger with his right hand and smile. I was smiling and laughing and sobbing all at once. From there we walked back to his home in Penang where we shared the news with his family and they welcomed me (still sobbing) with open arms to the family.
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