We saw orangutans in the wild! Let me explain: We flew from Yogyakarta to Jakarta, then to Medan (in northern Sumatra), from where we took a bus to Bukit Lewang, a small mountain town on the edge of a national park. On the bus, we met a friendly guide named Eddie, who told us about trekking options in Bukit Lewang. Since Eddie was surprisingly unsketchy and unpushy, we decided to go on a two day, one night trek into the jungle, in hopes of seeing some orangutans.
Bukit Lewang had been a thriving tourist town on the edge of a lovely river, surrounded by jungles where wild orangutans and other amazing animals roam. In November, 2003, a huge flood basically wiped out the town, killing a third of its residents and closing many hotels, restuarants, etc. Since then, its been slowly rebuilding, at about a quarter of its original capacity now 5 years later. However, its an exceedingly charming town, with thin suspension bridges spanning the river and connecting the two halves of the town. Small shops line the now-reinforced banks, looking down on the clear water running below. It was the perfect place to land in after a long day of travel and a long week of Javan cities.
We set off early the next morning for the national park, with our two guides and two german girls rounding out the trekking group. After about an hour of trekking, we saw our first orangutan, munching leaves in a tree about 20 feet over our heads. Unlike their monkey cousins, orangutans (who are apes, not monkeys - we're learning so much!) live and travel alone, only getting together to mate. This orangutan was a huge adult male, probably about 25 years old, and as we watched he looked down on us with strangely human eyes. He swung around, crossing to different trees, hanging from one foot, entertaining us for the better part of an hour. We hiked on and came across 7 more orangutans that afternoon, including 2 pairs of mothers and babies. Orangutan moms care for their children for 5 years, until they are ready to venture out on their own, and much of this time the little apes cling on to their mothers as they swing through the trees. It was incredible. We also saw gibons, macacks, and a giant monitor lizard (which was about 4 1/2 feet long and looked totally prehistoric). Eddie teased us by offering us "jungle ice cream" - which turned out to be terrible tasting bark from the quinine tree. I'll take malaria over that disgusting bark any day.
We got into camp in the late afternoon, and after the hot and humid jungle, were rewarded with a swim in the river. The porters had set up camp for us and had tea ready (which really is a nice way to camp!) and we spent the evening listening to the guides tell jokes and do card tricks. The porter/chef made a delicious dinner of chicken and curry (and not so delicious fishy tempe), which we happily ate before retiring to the tent. In the morning, we all awoke to a troop of monkeys drinking in the river, numbering about 15 in total. Kate went down to the river to brush her teeth, thinking the monkeys would run away, but one bared its teeth and growled at her instead, which was hilarious to everyone except Kate. We hung around and had a lazy breakfast before hiking down to the bigger river for a swim. Finally, we loaded onto an innertube raft type thing with all our gear and rafted back to town through the rapids. We spent the rest of the afternoon watching the Sumatrans playing in the river, since it was Saturday and everyone was enjoying the day. Astonishingly, our two days in the jungle in the middle of the rainy season was rain free and full of sunshine!
This morning we got up and took a hot little bus to Medan, where we're spending the night before heading to Lake Toba in the morning. From the balcony of our hostel, you can see the city's beautiful central masque and the mall across the street with its giant MacDonald's golden arches. That and the becak drivers (motorcycle with sidecar used like a taxi - the Sumatran tuktuk) constantly asking if you want a ride pretty much sum up Medan.
Showing posts with label Guest Written by Kyle. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Guest Written by Kyle. Show all posts
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Prambaramayanarama
Not to be confused with the awesome band from the 1980s, our day yesterday was a Pramba-ramayana-rama. Actually, it started with a trip down Malioboro Road to the local market, where we were seeking out some batik creations. Somehow, in the course of our browsing, we became accompanied by a small mustachiod Yogyakartan who proceeded to "assist" us as we searched through literally hundreds of batik stands. This little man took it upon himself to show us through the entire market, hijacking our shopping trip in the process and pointing out everything from spices to sponges. He was also learning new english words like green bean and place mat. Totally unsuccessful on the batik front, although now aware that the moomoo is alive and well, we bid our little friend farewell and headed back to our neighborhood, stopping for a little advice at the tourist office.
We soon learned that the best performances of traditional javanese dance are held at Prambanan, a 9th century Hindu temple about 15 kilometers outside of town. Since we were going to check it out anyway, we hopped on the bus (which had a station and punch cards and was very unlike the bus to Borobodor - we were impressed) and went for the temple-ballet twofer. We managed to convince the ticket lady that at least one of us was a student, and got that person into the temple for half price (take that, UNESCO!). As you may recall, Yogyakarta had a pretty serious earthquake in 2006, which toppled some of the temples of Prambanan. The temple overseers seem oddly proud of this, and there are extensive signs explaining what happened and the subsequent response by archiologists and preservationists. They did a fairly great job of repairing the ruins, although you aren't allowed inside or next to all of them. Still, points to Prambanan for both recovery and cool temples -- we're getting a little hard to impress after the zillions of wats we've visited, but we oohed, ahhed, and snapped pictures at this one.
We then walked through the rain to the theater, where the Ramayana is performed twice a week for enthusiastic crowds. In the dry season, they perform it outside with Prambanan in the background, but these days its next door at an indoor theater. After the rather disappointing "puppetry" of the previous night, we were cautiously optimistic about the ballet, which turned out to be spectacular. The monkey army and evil gods were certainly the highlight, and though we missed the extreme eye movement of the Balinese style, we couldn't help but admire the poppin'-n-lockin' of the dance fighting scenes. Good conquered evil, and it was kind of like "Java Romeo and Juliet, but with happy end," as everyone keeps telling us. Except that it is totally not like Romeo and Juliet at all, but more like a complicated ancient Hindu epic.
Today, we thought about renting bikes and hitting the back alleys of Yogya, but found there to be no bikes available, and so tramped around the back alleys and down to another neighborhood, where we got the greatest cup of coffee possible. A long becak (pedicab) ride home showed us some more of the main streets of Yogya, and we rounded out the day selling books and buying postcards (and a new deck of cards!) in our neighborhood. Tomorrow we head via plane to Medan, in northern Sumatra, for some rural excursions.
By the way, Kate and I have played so many hands of cards that we finally had to invent our own game. It kicks ass and mystifies waiters, who peer questioningly over our shoulders and shake their heads in wonder. Its alternatively called "Take Five" and "Kate Can't Speak Spanish." Be excited.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Solo Bike Trip
Our bike adventure in the outskirts of Solo was incredible. It started with our fantastic guide, Ajip, taking us through the somewhat flooded streets of the city. After torrential rain the night before, there was about 2 feet of water on some streets, which we biked through along with the rest of the Saturday morning traffic. People were rather non-shalant about the American-emergency-level flooding, although a somewhat toothless gentleman did take it upon himself to wade waist deep and haphazardly direct traffic. Although they usually cross the river on a bamboo raft with the bikes, we had to take the bridge out of town because the river was dangerously high. We first stopped at a tofu making house, where soybeans were heated and pressed and heated and made into tofu in old window frames.
Next we went to the gamelan making house, which was absolutely amazing. A team of 8 guys takes a sheet of bronze about the size of your arms spread all the way apart (in the "the fish was this big" way) and turn it into a musical instrument by doing the following: the plate is set on a pile of burning coals (which is kept burning with a leaf blower in an adjacent hole feeding it fresh oxygen) and heated to glowing red, with one guy handling the super hot plate. Another guy then grabs the giant smoldering plate and hauls it over to a makeshift platform of fresh mud, where 4 guys with 20+ pound metal hammers are waiting to pound the edges out in a terrifying 1-2-3-4 swinging movement. Yet another guy continually turns the plate while the hammering guys hammer away for about a minute, until the plate cools too much and it is yet again thrown into the pile of charcoal. Process repeats until the bronze plate has become the right shape for the gamelan - it takes about a day for each gong to be completed. All of these guys are barefoot and most also have a cigarette dangling from their mouths the whole time. This unbelievable process happens in a very hot, very sooty room with a charcoal floor.
The gamelan is then given to another guy who is the tuner - he hammers out the inside of the instrument until it reaches the perfect pitch, which he recognizes by ear, even though his job is incredibly loud and must damage his hearing. Yet another guy then polishes the top of the gong until its beautiful and shiny and ready to sell. A full gamelan orchestra requires 98 gamelans, each of which is made in this traditional way. Craziness. All of the guys that worked at this production house were from the same family, a family that had been making gamelans this way for generations.
We then biked along through the rice fields to a place where they make arak (cane liquor), tempe, and rice crackers. Along the way, innumerable children chased us and shouted "Hello!", giggling with each other when we said hello back. We stopped for lunch at a little roadside restaurant where Ajip explained some of the more intricate Javanese dishes and Kate had the best strawberry juice in the world. We finished our trip at a batik workshop and saw all of the traditional ways to make batik (bark for dye, hand painted wax) and the ridiculously intricate patterns they create. Fantastically educational day in Solo!
Later that night, we went to the recommended "dance performance" at a nearby theater. The javanese, like the balinese, are all about their traditional arts, especially dance and shadow puppets. It being Saturday night, the place was packed with local teens talking and texting on their cell phones. The performance was largely unintelligible and once of the strangest demonstrations of dance imaginable - overweight men in weird masks pointing and stomping their feet to intermittent musical accompaniment. Cultural, certainly, and still worth the 30 cents apiece, but we hope the Yogyakarta performances with me a little more...magestic. We left the next morning for the hour train ride to Yogyakarta.
Next we went to the gamelan making house, which was absolutely amazing. A team of 8 guys takes a sheet of bronze about the size of your arms spread all the way apart (in the "the fish was this big" way) and turn it into a musical instrument by doing the following: the plate is set on a pile of burning coals (which is kept burning with a leaf blower in an adjacent hole feeding it fresh oxygen) and heated to glowing red, with one guy handling the super hot plate. Another guy then grabs the giant smoldering plate and hauls it over to a makeshift platform of fresh mud, where 4 guys with 20+ pound metal hammers are waiting to pound the edges out in a terrifying 1-2-3-4 swinging movement. Yet another guy continually turns the plate while the hammering guys hammer away for about a minute, until the plate cools too much and it is yet again thrown into the pile of charcoal. Process repeats until the bronze plate has become the right shape for the gamelan - it takes about a day for each gong to be completed. All of these guys are barefoot and most also have a cigarette dangling from their mouths the whole time. This unbelievable process happens in a very hot, very sooty room with a charcoal floor.
The gamelan is then given to another guy who is the tuner - he hammers out the inside of the instrument until it reaches the perfect pitch, which he recognizes by ear, even though his job is incredibly loud and must damage his hearing. Yet another guy then polishes the top of the gong until its beautiful and shiny and ready to sell. A full gamelan orchestra requires 98 gamelans, each of which is made in this traditional way. Craziness. All of the guys that worked at this production house were from the same family, a family that had been making gamelans this way for generations.
We then biked along through the rice fields to a place where they make arak (cane liquor), tempe, and rice crackers. Along the way, innumerable children chased us and shouted "Hello!", giggling with each other when we said hello back. We stopped for lunch at a little roadside restaurant where Ajip explained some of the more intricate Javanese dishes and Kate had the best strawberry juice in the world. We finished our trip at a batik workshop and saw all of the traditional ways to make batik (bark for dye, hand painted wax) and the ridiculously intricate patterns they create. Fantastically educational day in Solo!
Later that night, we went to the recommended "dance performance" at a nearby theater. The javanese, like the balinese, are all about their traditional arts, especially dance and shadow puppets. It being Saturday night, the place was packed with local teens talking and texting on their cell phones. The performance was largely unintelligible and once of the strangest demonstrations of dance imaginable - overweight men in weird masks pointing and stomping their feet to intermittent musical accompaniment. Cultural, certainly, and still worth the 30 cents apiece, but we hope the Yogyakarta performances with me a little more...magestic. We left the next morning for the hour train ride to Yogyakarta.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Battambang Modes of Transportation
As there is so much to see and do in Battambang, we decided to stay for 4 days. Because we are 3 adventurous and daring ladies, we eschewed the traditional tuktuk tour of surrounding sights, opting instead for a self-led motorbike tour of the countryside. We rented 2 bikes (all in brand sparkling new condition) and headed off, with the adorable moto rental man asking us please to not make any scratches. Oh, never sir. Not on your life.
We headed 13 kilometers up the road to Wat Ek Phnom, a ruined temple built in the 11th century that still shows some incredible stone carving (and boasts a halfbuilt giant buddha next door). We were shown around the temple by a very small 15 year old boy who pointed at things and hurried us along. We accidentally interrupted some Khmer youth making out in a hidden room. All very delightful. We then drove around the countryside for a little while, Molly taking the helm of her moto for the first time. Everything was peachy and we headed back to town to go South, in search of Cambodia's only winery.
Almost to the south end of town, something happened and there was a minor motoing accident. I was driving and Kate and I tipped over and then in shock and horror Molly tipped over in response. Many friendly Khmers rushed to help us and told us to get cleaned up, as we had a couple of minor scrapes. Yikes, these things are a little dangerous I guess, and thank goodness we had opted for the cool looking helmets. A little unnerved, we went back to our hotel to use our fancy little first aid kit and assess the minor damage. Everyone is fine, though we might look a little iffy for surf camp. Or we might look really hardcore. You be the judge.
The winery was now out, and the motos were a little scratched up (sorry motoman) so we returned them and smiled and bought a bunch of beers and watched the locals do aerobics on the riverside and went to dinner and atoned for breaking the motos and swore off finding our own mode of transportation.
The next day we opted for strolling around the east side of town (where we ran into the Maddox Jolie-Pitt Foundation - an unassuming building with a strong gate and no famous Brangelina offspring in sight) and getting a tuktuk to the much discussed Bamboo Train. The Bamboo Train is a square platform of bamboo with a small motor that is on the main traintracks running between Battambang and Phnom Penh. These things are genious because they are so quickly and easily dismantled when there is a train (or other bamboo platform) coming from the opposite direction: the platform is removed into the grass beside the tracks, the two axels are taken off, and people proceed in their direction. Whoever has the heavier train car has the right of way. So we hop aboard the train and zip out into the countryside for about 20 minutes, stopping once to dismantle and remantle. The open air ride was fantastic and we saw rice paddies and cows and jungle on all sides as we clicked along.
Our midpoint was a small village with a few people hanging around the tracks, singing and dancing and clapping, headed up by a spirited gentleman in an army jacket. Molly and Kate joined in and a hilarious five minutes of cart shuffling was spent wiggling on the train tracks and laughing with this funny man who was thoroughly entertained and entertaining. Then we hopped back on the train and went back to where we started, with the singing man and a large group of people and things on the car behind us. Hilarious!
Later we trapsed through the market and bought some scarves and stainless steel stacking lunch pales that are the coolest thing ever. Then we hit the sunset aerobics and dinner on the East Side before retiring early in preparation for the 8 hour boat trip to Siem Reap in the morning.
We headed 13 kilometers up the road to Wat Ek Phnom, a ruined temple built in the 11th century that still shows some incredible stone carving (and boasts a halfbuilt giant buddha next door). We were shown around the temple by a very small 15 year old boy who pointed at things and hurried us along. We accidentally interrupted some Khmer youth making out in a hidden room. All very delightful. We then drove around the countryside for a little while, Molly taking the helm of her moto for the first time. Everything was peachy and we headed back to town to go South, in search of Cambodia's only winery.
Almost to the south end of town, something happened and there was a minor motoing accident. I was driving and Kate and I tipped over and then in shock and horror Molly tipped over in response. Many friendly Khmers rushed to help us and told us to get cleaned up, as we had a couple of minor scrapes. Yikes, these things are a little dangerous I guess, and thank goodness we had opted for the cool looking helmets. A little unnerved, we went back to our hotel to use our fancy little first aid kit and assess the minor damage. Everyone is fine, though we might look a little iffy for surf camp. Or we might look really hardcore. You be the judge.
The winery was now out, and the motos were a little scratched up (sorry motoman) so we returned them and smiled and bought a bunch of beers and watched the locals do aerobics on the riverside and went to dinner and atoned for breaking the motos and swore off finding our own mode of transportation.
The next day we opted for strolling around the east side of town (where we ran into the Maddox Jolie-Pitt Foundation - an unassuming building with a strong gate and no famous Brangelina offspring in sight) and getting a tuktuk to the much discussed Bamboo Train. The Bamboo Train is a square platform of bamboo with a small motor that is on the main traintracks running between Battambang and Phnom Penh. These things are genious because they are so quickly and easily dismantled when there is a train (or other bamboo platform) coming from the opposite direction: the platform is removed into the grass beside the tracks, the two axels are taken off, and people proceed in their direction. Whoever has the heavier train car has the right of way. So we hop aboard the train and zip out into the countryside for about 20 minutes, stopping once to dismantle and remantle. The open air ride was fantastic and we saw rice paddies and cows and jungle on all sides as we clicked along.
Our midpoint was a small village with a few people hanging around the tracks, singing and dancing and clapping, headed up by a spirited gentleman in an army jacket. Molly and Kate joined in and a hilarious five minutes of cart shuffling was spent wiggling on the train tracks and laughing with this funny man who was thoroughly entertained and entertaining. Then we hopped back on the train and went back to where we started, with the singing man and a large group of people and things on the car behind us. Hilarious!
Later we trapsed through the market and bought some scarves and stainless steel stacking lunch pales that are the coolest thing ever. Then we hit the sunset aerobics and dinner on the East Side before retiring early in preparation for the 8 hour boat trip to Siem Reap in the morning.
Friday, January 2, 2009
Kratie, Cambodia
Our first experience of Cambodia (apart from the border 'n' travel package) was in Kratie - pronounced Kratchay - a sleepy little town on the Mekong, northeast of Phnom Penh. We spent two days wandering the street, poking through the market, watching Al Jazera, and observing sunsets over the river. Kratie is mostly known for the potential to see the Irrawady Dolphin, a rare and disappearing species of freshwater dolphin found only in the Mekong (supposedly anyway). After deliberating over the whopping 12 dollar pricetag of the expedition, we headed up there on moto. In addition to the ubiquitous tuktuk, Cambodia is perhaps unique in its public transport motorcylces, where you (and possibly one other person, or a ton of foodstuffs, or a live chicken) hop on the back of some guy's motorcycle and are taken to your destination. On Dolphin Day, Kate's driver had a helmet and drove at reasonable speeds, and my driver had no helmet and passed every imaginable vehicle extremely closely while honking (including, memorably, a wagon full of hay pulled by a pair of cattle on a narrow dirt road). Once at the dolphin dock, we boarded a boat and headed into the water for an hour of see if you can spot the dolphins. And we did! Many dolphins happily swam and dove around the sand bars and small shrubs of the Mekong, while we tailed them and tried to take a picture. On the ride back to town, we stopped at a small wat on top of a hill from which you can see the whole valley (after climbing innumerable steps). It was lovely.
As an introduction to Cambodia, Kratie taught us a lot. People are generally smilier and friendlier than in Laos (believe it or not, travelers). The U.S. dollar is the main unit of currency, with Reil making up for small change (4000 Reil to the dollar means a 1000 reil note is 25 cents - no coins for Cambodia). Most suprisingly, many women wear pajamas all the time (or maybe just in public), and not like people said Maoists wore pajamas. More like people in the Sears catalog sleep section where pajamas - button down, one front pocket, patterned with cartoon characters or flowers or weird designs. Straight up pajamas, folks.
Next day, we got the last two seats on the bus for Phnom Penh, where the woman in front of me visibly stared at me for about half of the 6 hour trip. The bus played what was apparently an uproariously hilarious variety show and people howled with laughter. There as also a super blinged out baby to entertain us.
As an introduction to Cambodia, Kratie taught us a lot. People are generally smilier and friendlier than in Laos (believe it or not, travelers). The U.S. dollar is the main unit of currency, with Reil making up for small change (4000 Reil to the dollar means a 1000 reil note is 25 cents - no coins for Cambodia). Most suprisingly, many women wear pajamas all the time (or maybe just in public), and not like people said Maoists wore pajamas. More like people in the Sears catalog sleep section where pajamas - button down, one front pocket, patterned with cartoon characters or flowers or weird designs. Straight up pajamas, folks.
Next day, we got the last two seats on the bus for Phnom Penh, where the woman in front of me visibly stared at me for about half of the 6 hour trip. The bus played what was apparently an uproariously hilarious variety show and people howled with laughter. There as also a super blinged out baby to entertain us.
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Hello, Cambodia!
Yesterday, we left the sleepy little island of Don Det to head to Cambodia - which included the always interesting proposition of land border visa purchasing. At 8am, we dutifully carted our bags to the boat landing beach (which was being occupied by an array of other travelers and a complacent water buffalo) to catch a boat for the mainland. Among the many other travelers was a woman I will only refer to as Crazy. Crazy was a fifty footer in terms of insanity, which means that from fifty feet you could tell you didn't want to share a restaurant with her, much less a crammed longtail boat and then minivan. Crazy had shockingly dyed blond, stringy hair and appeared to be about 50 years old, dressed in cutoff jean shorts (with purple underwear visibly sticking out), a halloween Angkor Wat shirt, and plaid hightop converse, which upon closer inspection included embroidered tazmanian devil cartoons. Kate thinks her black eye liner was tattooed on, which may be the explanation for its prevalence at 8 in the morning. The most salient characteristic of Crazy's crazy (apart from appearance of course) was her 4 large and falling apart rolling suitcases. Who brings one rolling suitcase, let alone 4, to the dirt roads and sand of Don Det?
Now, I don't mean to sound judgemental. Perhaps she is a very nice lady with clothes for starving street children in her bags - appearances can be deceiving. We'll see...
So we load into the boats and head across the water with about 30 other people. On the other side of the Mekong, we depart the boats and wait for the minibuses to the border. As you can imagine, Crazy has a tough time negotiating the trash-strewn beach with her rolling bags, and has to make multiple trips. At one point, she approaches me, grabs my arm, and says hysterically, "I've lost one of my cases!" Oh, jesus, now I'm that girl who crazy has decided to talk to. I mumble something like "Umm...did you check the beach?" and duck away to buy some oranges. All 30 travelers are torn between staring at Crazy and actively avoiding her gaze. Finally we pile into three very tightly packed minivans and head to the border.
We disembark at the border to pay the obligatory leaving fee and have our visas stamped "Used" and then walk about 10 minutes down a dirt road, where we learn we have to go back to the vans and drive to a different border crossing. Confusing, but ok, its Laos, and border crossings are always a laughable combination of incompetence and bureaucracy. Now we all have to pile back into the vans - except there are a different number of vans and more people now and everyone's saying different things. Luggage is moving to and fro and people are generally anxious. Crazy is yelling at the guy standing on top of the van that her suitcases must be put vertically on the roof, saying, "Not that way! Why would you do it that way? Are you listening to me? What don't you understand?" Well, he doesn't speak English, ma'am, particularly your shrill Texas twang (of course this woman is American - an ambassador of hillbilly hospitality). Then there's the group of Russians stomping about, the leader of whom (clad in a man tank and ridiculous sunhat) is also yelling at the driver in heavily accented English, "Quickly, Quickly! We go now! I have plane to catch!" To which the Lao man on top of the van wisely replied, "You hire minibus, you cannot go quickly!" The Italians are calmly smoking in the corner. A Finish girl changed her pants. This could be a long day.
Finally we all get to the land border, where there is one man issuing visas to the 30 or so of us, at a table in a little house. No line forms, but just a teaming mob handing over passports and money. The Cambodian visa master (who had a chunk of hair not less than 5 inches long growing out of a mole on his face) dutifully filled in by hand the visas, using his massively long thumbnail to peel back the sticky backing and stamping each one with 5 different little stamps. The finish people got the wrong change - he took their passports back, banged them on the table, got all mad, and ended up profiting ten bucks with his botched math. The Russians are freaking out and twice commandeer Kate's pen ("Give me pen now!") and everything is hot and ridiculous. One of the Russians has an exchange with Crazy that clearly makes the Russian girl uncomfortable and everyone feels bad. Eventually, Kate and I get our visas and move to the shack where you actually get your entry stamp. We are three people behind crazy, and we are the only other Americans.
Crazy steps up to the counter and insists she needs a working visa. We're all standing around on the platform, and see what's coming. The guy in the booth says, "Ok, one month visa." She insists on a working visa (which, as many people may now, you do not get at the shack on the land border between Laos and Cambodia, where there isn't even electricity) and the guys tell her to get it in Phnom Penh. One of the Finish girls tries to help to explain to her that you can't get it here. She insists she needs a working visa. No, they say. No, we all say, you have to get it in Phnom Pehn. She needs the border guys names and badge numbers and identifying information, she insists, so that she can tell the people in the capital that they wouldn't give her a visa. The man in the booth freaks out. "Closed! Everyone out! No no no! One by One! Out out! One by One!" he shouts. We all shuffle off the platform and stand in a line next to the shack. He still has the passport of the french guy, whose wife is standing on the other side of the shack, ostensibly safely in Cambodia. What will happen? Crazy storms back to the visa master and the guy in the shack fumes. "One by one! One by One! One by One!" he shouts. We are only too happy to comply. Curiously, the one by one rule does not apply to Lao or Cambodian people, who just go up to the side window and shake the guys and hand and banter for a couple of minutes while he happily stamps away.
So things get moving again, the French guy joins his wife, the Finns get through, the Italians in front of me, and then I step up to the booth with a smile and handover my American passport. Just the site of the blue pamphlet enrages the border man. He waves it frantically at me and says no working visa. No, no, I insist, I am but a simple well meaning tourist. I'm not with Crazy! You must believe me! "She's so crazy!" I say, and his compatriot (who as a serious gold grill and appears to be there just to take the money and nod) agrees, saying, "Oh, she crazy." Crazy, we all agree, but that is her and not me and please can I have my lovely American passport back? The border man is fuming. He hates all holders of blue passports now, and takes his time with the pretty little stamp, mumbling about Crazy. Occasionally he yells out "One by one!" And then I am allowed to enter Cambodia, and so is Kate, and we embark once again on the rearranging and packing of the minivans.
Eventually we get into a seat with our bags and head down the road into Cambodia (without Crazy, who may still be at that border arguing for her work visa). The greatest part of the Minivan Shuffle is that, though we are all going to different places in Cambodia, they don't sort that out until we stop for lunch in Stung Treng (great town name) at the driver's friend's restaurant and wait for a while and reshuffle. Finally and eventually we get into a minivan bound for Kratie, while the driver honks at everything that passes with a horn that beeps an elaborate symphany of honks at least 10 seconds long. We arrive at our destination after about 8 hours of travel. Kratie is 250 kilometers from Dot Det. Welcome to Cambodia!
Now, I don't mean to sound judgemental. Perhaps she is a very nice lady with clothes for starving street children in her bags - appearances can be deceiving. We'll see...
So we load into the boats and head across the water with about 30 other people. On the other side of the Mekong, we depart the boats and wait for the minibuses to the border. As you can imagine, Crazy has a tough time negotiating the trash-strewn beach with her rolling bags, and has to make multiple trips. At one point, she approaches me, grabs my arm, and says hysterically, "I've lost one of my cases!" Oh, jesus, now I'm that girl who crazy has decided to talk to. I mumble something like "Umm...did you check the beach?" and duck away to buy some oranges. All 30 travelers are torn between staring at Crazy and actively avoiding her gaze. Finally we pile into three very tightly packed minivans and head to the border.
We disembark at the border to pay the obligatory leaving fee and have our visas stamped "Used" and then walk about 10 minutes down a dirt road, where we learn we have to go back to the vans and drive to a different border crossing. Confusing, but ok, its Laos, and border crossings are always a laughable combination of incompetence and bureaucracy. Now we all have to pile back into the vans - except there are a different number of vans and more people now and everyone's saying different things. Luggage is moving to and fro and people are generally anxious. Crazy is yelling at the guy standing on top of the van that her suitcases must be put vertically on the roof, saying, "Not that way! Why would you do it that way? Are you listening to me? What don't you understand?" Well, he doesn't speak English, ma'am, particularly your shrill Texas twang (of course this woman is American - an ambassador of hillbilly hospitality). Then there's the group of Russians stomping about, the leader of whom (clad in a man tank and ridiculous sunhat) is also yelling at the driver in heavily accented English, "Quickly, Quickly! We go now! I have plane to catch!" To which the Lao man on top of the van wisely replied, "You hire minibus, you cannot go quickly!" The Italians are calmly smoking in the corner. A Finish girl changed her pants. This could be a long day.
Finally we all get to the land border, where there is one man issuing visas to the 30 or so of us, at a table in a little house. No line forms, but just a teaming mob handing over passports and money. The Cambodian visa master (who had a chunk of hair not less than 5 inches long growing out of a mole on his face) dutifully filled in by hand the visas, using his massively long thumbnail to peel back the sticky backing and stamping each one with 5 different little stamps. The finish people got the wrong change - he took their passports back, banged them on the table, got all mad, and ended up profiting ten bucks with his botched math. The Russians are freaking out and twice commandeer Kate's pen ("Give me pen now!") and everything is hot and ridiculous. One of the Russians has an exchange with Crazy that clearly makes the Russian girl uncomfortable and everyone feels bad. Eventually, Kate and I get our visas and move to the shack where you actually get your entry stamp. We are three people behind crazy, and we are the only other Americans.
Crazy steps up to the counter and insists she needs a working visa. We're all standing around on the platform, and see what's coming. The guy in the booth says, "Ok, one month visa." She insists on a working visa (which, as many people may now, you do not get at the shack on the land border between Laos and Cambodia, where there isn't even electricity) and the guys tell her to get it in Phnom Penh. One of the Finish girls tries to help to explain to her that you can't get it here. She insists she needs a working visa. No, they say. No, we all say, you have to get it in Phnom Pehn. She needs the border guys names and badge numbers and identifying information, she insists, so that she can tell the people in the capital that they wouldn't give her a visa. The man in the booth freaks out. "Closed! Everyone out! No no no! One by One! Out out! One by One!" he shouts. We all shuffle off the platform and stand in a line next to the shack. He still has the passport of the french guy, whose wife is standing on the other side of the shack, ostensibly safely in Cambodia. What will happen? Crazy storms back to the visa master and the guy in the shack fumes. "One by one! One by One! One by One!" he shouts. We are only too happy to comply. Curiously, the one by one rule does not apply to Lao or Cambodian people, who just go up to the side window and shake the guys and hand and banter for a couple of minutes while he happily stamps away.
So things get moving again, the French guy joins his wife, the Finns get through, the Italians in front of me, and then I step up to the booth with a smile and handover my American passport. Just the site of the blue pamphlet enrages the border man. He waves it frantically at me and says no working visa. No, no, I insist, I am but a simple well meaning tourist. I'm not with Crazy! You must believe me! "She's so crazy!" I say, and his compatriot (who as a serious gold grill and appears to be there just to take the money and nod) agrees, saying, "Oh, she crazy." Crazy, we all agree, but that is her and not me and please can I have my lovely American passport back? The border man is fuming. He hates all holders of blue passports now, and takes his time with the pretty little stamp, mumbling about Crazy. Occasionally he yells out "One by one!" And then I am allowed to enter Cambodia, and so is Kate, and we embark once again on the rearranging and packing of the minivans.
Eventually we get into a seat with our bags and head down the road into Cambodia (without Crazy, who may still be at that border arguing for her work visa). The greatest part of the Minivan Shuffle is that, though we are all going to different places in Cambodia, they don't sort that out until we stop for lunch in Stung Treng (great town name) at the driver's friend's restaurant and wait for a while and reshuffle. Finally and eventually we get into a minivan bound for Kratie, while the driver honks at everything that passes with a horn that beeps an elaborate symphany of honks at least 10 seconds long. We arrive at our destination after about 8 hours of travel. Kratie is 250 kilometers from Dot Det. Welcome to Cambodia!
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Motorin'! (What's your price for flight?)
2 girls, 2 bikes, 3 days, 6 waterfalls, and 1 serious Bolevan Plateau.
We rented the motorbikes in Pakse, stashed our large bags in some converted shower that is now a storage room, and hit the road. Did we know how to ride manual transmission motorbikes? No. Did we know where we were going? Not really. Did we have any gas? Absolutely not. But with the wind in our dorky and questionably protective helmets, we took off headed east on Rte. 13 out of Pakse with the aim of getting to Tad Lo for the night.
We rode about 30 kilometers to the turn off to route 20, negotiating some seriously hazardous traffic circles and livestock on the way. We passed through a number of villages, including one where all the young men were blacksmiths pounding the hell out of some dangerous looking cutting instruments, and one with a heck of a lot of pigs. Turning off down a side road in the jungle, we found this perfect ecolodge that straddles a waterfall and was totally empty of people. Crossing the perilous-looking bamboo bridge, we ordered our food and wondered how such a place remained in operation - and then the 3 busloads of thai tourists arrived and we understood. It was beautiful and the sun was shining, and we rode on through the afternoon, eventually ending up in tad Lo (after overshooting, asking for "directions", and finally finding the little town) for the evening. We strolled up to the waterfall, Kate went for a swim, we had some drinks as the sunset, and some dinner at our hostel, and found ourselves in bed well before 10 pm, with the sounds of the local cattle and roosters making us giggle.
Next morning, we got up early and biked it on up to the next waterfall up the road, a detour that led is down a dusty dirt track to a dusty dirt walking path. The path ended at the top of an extremely steep waterfall - beware the local drunk who fancies a lovely walk in this village. We were the only ones there, and got to climb all over the top of the falls, which fell off into an incredible view of the valley and villages bellow. Back on our bikes, we got gas from a little roadside stand and the proprietors laughed at our ignorance of everything (which is a regular ritual these days). We went back to Tad Lo and continued up route 20, turning on a dirt road that took us 30 km up to Tha Thaeng, through native villages and crazy amounts of dust. We passed hordes of children, who would wave and shout at us as they carried their tools either to the fields or back from them, we couldn't really tell which.
Up in Tha Thaeng, we stopped for lunch at a tiny roadside spot, covered in road dust and our own general filth. We tried to order some food, but the waitress just looked at us funny, so we pointed to what other folks were eating and got some noodle soup. When we were almost finished with our meal, a group of local businessmen came in and sat down nearby. One of them, the one that could speak some English, sat with us and talked with us for a while. Then his boss sat down and bought us some beers and invited us to sit with all of them, toasting us every two minutes with cheers of "My boss say you beautiful!" and "100%!" (which may mean either "drink the whole thing" or "We are totally cheersing right now" or anything else). They tried to get us to put our motorbikes in the car so they could drive us back to Pakse and we could all see the countryside together. It was hard for them to understand that the riding was part of the experience. Eventually, we left, but not before they asked Kate if she was married and why not and whether she wanted to be.
We went on to Paksong, a little nothing town on top of the plateau with a market and a soccer field and a guest house. We poked through the market. We watched the boys play soccer. We went to bed well before 10 pm. The next morning we got up early and went for a walk, much to the astonishment of everyone around us. Each passing motorbike and truck and tractor stared incredulously and offered us a ride. Why on earth would you ever walk down this road?? they seemed to be asking.
From Paksong we rode about 10 kilometers to Tad chuamp falls, an unbelievable waterfall with a path that wound from the top down the 50 or so meters to the crazy bottom. 2 kids tailed us the whole way and it was steep and slippery and spectacular. Next we went to Tad Fan waterfall, where 2 streams come out of the side of a cliff to fall 120 meters into a pool bellow. We had lunch at a lodge there and climbed around before heading to the third waterfall of the day down a ridiculously winding dirt road bordered by poinsettia trees. The water fall was lovely, but the best part was a bamboo raft that you could pull yourself out into the pool of the waterfall, watching it crash down around you. Thoroughly waterfalled out by this point, we got back on the bikes and headed back to Pakse, passing through village after village with the same smiling kids and bamboo houses and satelite dishes. Getting back to Pakse, we returned our bikes and dropped off our laundry and showered, taking beers on the roof top of the Pakse hotel as the sun set on the Mekong and we toasted our 3 day adventure.
We rented the motorbikes in Pakse, stashed our large bags in some converted shower that is now a storage room, and hit the road. Did we know how to ride manual transmission motorbikes? No. Did we know where we were going? Not really. Did we have any gas? Absolutely not. But with the wind in our dorky and questionably protective helmets, we took off headed east on Rte. 13 out of Pakse with the aim of getting to Tad Lo for the night.
We rode about 30 kilometers to the turn off to route 20, negotiating some seriously hazardous traffic circles and livestock on the way. We passed through a number of villages, including one where all the young men were blacksmiths pounding the hell out of some dangerous looking cutting instruments, and one with a heck of a lot of pigs. Turning off down a side road in the jungle, we found this perfect ecolodge that straddles a waterfall and was totally empty of people. Crossing the perilous-looking bamboo bridge, we ordered our food and wondered how such a place remained in operation - and then the 3 busloads of thai tourists arrived and we understood. It was beautiful and the sun was shining, and we rode on through the afternoon, eventually ending up in tad Lo (after overshooting, asking for "directions", and finally finding the little town) for the evening. We strolled up to the waterfall, Kate went for a swim, we had some drinks as the sunset, and some dinner at our hostel, and found ourselves in bed well before 10 pm, with the sounds of the local cattle and roosters making us giggle.
Next morning, we got up early and biked it on up to the next waterfall up the road, a detour that led is down a dusty dirt track to a dusty dirt walking path. The path ended at the top of an extremely steep waterfall - beware the local drunk who fancies a lovely walk in this village. We were the only ones there, and got to climb all over the top of the falls, which fell off into an incredible view of the valley and villages bellow. Back on our bikes, we got gas from a little roadside stand and the proprietors laughed at our ignorance of everything (which is a regular ritual these days). We went back to Tad Lo and continued up route 20, turning on a dirt road that took us 30 km up to Tha Thaeng, through native villages and crazy amounts of dust. We passed hordes of children, who would wave and shout at us as they carried their tools either to the fields or back from them, we couldn't really tell which.
Up in Tha Thaeng, we stopped for lunch at a tiny roadside spot, covered in road dust and our own general filth. We tried to order some food, but the waitress just looked at us funny, so we pointed to what other folks were eating and got some noodle soup. When we were almost finished with our meal, a group of local businessmen came in and sat down nearby. One of them, the one that could speak some English, sat with us and talked with us for a while. Then his boss sat down and bought us some beers and invited us to sit with all of them, toasting us every two minutes with cheers of "My boss say you beautiful!" and "100%!" (which may mean either "drink the whole thing" or "We are totally cheersing right now" or anything else). They tried to get us to put our motorbikes in the car so they could drive us back to Pakse and we could all see the countryside together. It was hard for them to understand that the riding was part of the experience. Eventually, we left, but not before they asked Kate if she was married and why not and whether she wanted to be.
We went on to Paksong, a little nothing town on top of the plateau with a market and a soccer field and a guest house. We poked through the market. We watched the boys play soccer. We went to bed well before 10 pm. The next morning we got up early and went for a walk, much to the astonishment of everyone around us. Each passing motorbike and truck and tractor stared incredulously and offered us a ride. Why on earth would you ever walk down this road?? they seemed to be asking.
From Paksong we rode about 10 kilometers to Tad chuamp falls, an unbelievable waterfall with a path that wound from the top down the 50 or so meters to the crazy bottom. 2 kids tailed us the whole way and it was steep and slippery and spectacular. Next we went to Tad Fan waterfall, where 2 streams come out of the side of a cliff to fall 120 meters into a pool bellow. We had lunch at a lodge there and climbed around before heading to the third waterfall of the day down a ridiculously winding dirt road bordered by poinsettia trees. The water fall was lovely, but the best part was a bamboo raft that you could pull yourself out into the pool of the waterfall, watching it crash down around you. Thoroughly waterfalled out by this point, we got back on the bikes and headed back to Pakse, passing through village after village with the same smiling kids and bamboo houses and satelite dishes. Getting back to Pakse, we returned our bikes and dropped off our laundry and showered, taking beers on the roof top of the Pakse hotel as the sun set on the Mekong and we toasted our 3 day adventure.
Saturday, December 13, 2008
The Basics
It occurs to me (me being Kyle) that many people reading this blog will have no idea about the basic ins and outs of life on the road in SE Asia. This blog entry will therefore fill all of you in and serve as a reminder to me that, although sometimes it seems like all we do is eat and look at things and figure out which places look good to eat at, there is in fact a whole lot more going on.
MONEY: In Thailand, money was the Thai Baht, with about 35 Baht to the dollar. Thus, if something cost 100 Baht, it was about 3 bucks and that was reasonable. If something cost 1000 Baht, it was about 30 bucks and ridiculously expensive. In Lao (which is what people say, not because they are pretentious but because this is the Lao People's Democratic Republic, or Lao PDR, and the S is one of those colonial holdovers, like expatriates and Laughing Cow cheese), the currency is the Kip, with about 8,600 Kip to the dollar. Thus you can readily throw down a 10,000 kip bet on things and sound like a high roller, when in fact you're only investing a buck fifteen. For some reason, in Lao you can use Thai Baht pretty much as much as Kip, and in some towns they quote you prices in baht (which can be confusing).
TRANSPORTATION: Between cities, we have pretty much only taken buses, which are cheap and everywhere if not always comfortable or on time. You go to the city bus station and a bunch of guys ask you where you are going and try to steer you towards their bus, eventhough the prices are all pretty much the same and buses have a schedule and we always buy our tickets at the ticket window (or on the actual bus). You never know what you're going to get or how many stops its going to make. Around town, people take tuk-tuks, which are little three wheeled motorcyles with a tiny little covered truck bed in the back that has benches. They are moderately fast but exceedingly good at weaving in out of traffic, and rarely pay full attention to traffic signals. They are also ubiquitous, and the calls of "tuk tuk" whenever you are walking anywhere can begin to get on your nerves. Bargaining with the drivers is a whole experience in and of itself. The other way to get around is samthaw or jumbo, which are trucks with the covered back converted into two long benches of varying degrees of comfort. You can pack a whole lot of people into these things, and they do.
BATHROOMS: Always an adventure in any foreign country, SE Asia is no exception, but it does keep you on your toes. There are regular western toilets but without plumbing (a bucket filled with water that you empty into the toilet to flush) and squat toilets that are pretty much a platform and a hole in the ground, again with a bucket to flush. Sometimes there's a hose to spray yourself down; ocassionally there's toilet paper. In the fancy joints its just like home and people whisper excitedly about the W.C. Not infrequently, the bathroom at the resaurant or where ever is also the family bathroom, so there's somebody's toothbrush and soap and underwear hanging to dry. At bus stations and similar places you pay about 20 cents to use the bathroom, and the conditions are exceedingly variable. Good luck figuring out exactly where one washes ones hands.
STREET FOOD: Like other hot places, SE Asia has a lot of night markets, where you can get regular stuff but also delicious dinner for super cheap. You run around to the various stalls and point at things that may or may not be delicious, and when your hands are full of food you wonder how you're going to eat it and beg a spoon off of some kind-hearted vendor. The curries are usually good and some of the barbeque has been excellent, but other stuff tastes like feet and its hard to figure that out ahead of time. Thai street food was consistently better than Lao food, with better flavor combinations and spice, but Lao makes up for it with baguettes and baguette sandwiches. The BEST thing in the world is this crepe like thing with egg and banana, grilled up on a little griddle and covered with sugar and sweetened condensed milk. Holy crap. You can also buy fruit and stuff, but why would you??
OTHER STUFF: Beer is relatively cheap and everywhere, but there is no wine to speak of. Lao coffee is horrible, horrible stuff and no matter how many times you try it, it just doesn't get better. You can buy insects and other interesting foods, but we haven't been compelled to do so yet. There are monks everywhere and though they seem like pious enough fellows, you occasionally catch one in a bright orange yankees hat and wonder what the hell is going on. Its cold up north in these countries and we did not pack right, to say the least. I can't believe I forgot to say this:
THE ROOSTERS: Are everywhere and are incredibly loud - I don't know how they manage to survive in every corner of the city, but the certainly do make their presence known. Its much quieter at 8am than it is at 6am. The goddam roosters...seriously. And they are perhaps the only animal that sounds exactly the same in every language. They actually do say Cockadoodledoo, with infuriating predictability.
MONEY: In Thailand, money was the Thai Baht, with about 35 Baht to the dollar. Thus, if something cost 100 Baht, it was about 3 bucks and that was reasonable. If something cost 1000 Baht, it was about 30 bucks and ridiculously expensive. In Lao (which is what people say, not because they are pretentious but because this is the Lao People's Democratic Republic, or Lao PDR, and the S is one of those colonial holdovers, like expatriates and Laughing Cow cheese), the currency is the Kip, with about 8,600 Kip to the dollar. Thus you can readily throw down a 10,000 kip bet on things and sound like a high roller, when in fact you're only investing a buck fifteen. For some reason, in Lao you can use Thai Baht pretty much as much as Kip, and in some towns they quote you prices in baht (which can be confusing).
TRANSPORTATION: Between cities, we have pretty much only taken buses, which are cheap and everywhere if not always comfortable or on time. You go to the city bus station and a bunch of guys ask you where you are going and try to steer you towards their bus, eventhough the prices are all pretty much the same and buses have a schedule and we always buy our tickets at the ticket window (or on the actual bus). You never know what you're going to get or how many stops its going to make. Around town, people take tuk-tuks, which are little three wheeled motorcyles with a tiny little covered truck bed in the back that has benches. They are moderately fast but exceedingly good at weaving in out of traffic, and rarely pay full attention to traffic signals. They are also ubiquitous, and the calls of "tuk tuk" whenever you are walking anywhere can begin to get on your nerves. Bargaining with the drivers is a whole experience in and of itself. The other way to get around is samthaw or jumbo, which are trucks with the covered back converted into two long benches of varying degrees of comfort. You can pack a whole lot of people into these things, and they do.
BATHROOMS: Always an adventure in any foreign country, SE Asia is no exception, but it does keep you on your toes. There are regular western toilets but without plumbing (a bucket filled with water that you empty into the toilet to flush) and squat toilets that are pretty much a platform and a hole in the ground, again with a bucket to flush. Sometimes there's a hose to spray yourself down; ocassionally there's toilet paper. In the fancy joints its just like home and people whisper excitedly about the W.C. Not infrequently, the bathroom at the resaurant or where ever is also the family bathroom, so there's somebody's toothbrush and soap and underwear hanging to dry. At bus stations and similar places you pay about 20 cents to use the bathroom, and the conditions are exceedingly variable. Good luck figuring out exactly where one washes ones hands.
STREET FOOD: Like other hot places, SE Asia has a lot of night markets, where you can get regular stuff but also delicious dinner for super cheap. You run around to the various stalls and point at things that may or may not be delicious, and when your hands are full of food you wonder how you're going to eat it and beg a spoon off of some kind-hearted vendor. The curries are usually good and some of the barbeque has been excellent, but other stuff tastes like feet and its hard to figure that out ahead of time. Thai street food was consistently better than Lao food, with better flavor combinations and spice, but Lao makes up for it with baguettes and baguette sandwiches. The BEST thing in the world is this crepe like thing with egg and banana, grilled up on a little griddle and covered with sugar and sweetened condensed milk. Holy crap. You can also buy fruit and stuff, but why would you??
OTHER STUFF: Beer is relatively cheap and everywhere, but there is no wine to speak of. Lao coffee is horrible, horrible stuff and no matter how many times you try it, it just doesn't get better. You can buy insects and other interesting foods, but we haven't been compelled to do so yet. There are monks everywhere and though they seem like pious enough fellows, you occasionally catch one in a bright orange yankees hat and wonder what the hell is going on. Its cold up north in these countries and we did not pack right, to say the least. I can't believe I forgot to say this:
THE ROOSTERS: Are everywhere and are incredibly loud - I don't know how they manage to survive in every corner of the city, but the certainly do make their presence known. Its much quieter at 8am than it is at 6am. The goddam roosters...seriously. And they are perhaps the only animal that sounds exactly the same in every language. They actually do say Cockadoodledoo, with infuriating predictability.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Mekong Slow Boat
Lets say you get a ticket for a boat, and that ticket says to be at the office at 9 am. When would you think the boat would leave? Lets say you show up and show your passport to some "police" officer and provision yourself for 8 hours on the water and watch some old men play petank and meet some Israeli guy and wander about and then are told the boat will leave at 11. So lets say you get on said boat and stow your backpack and see how comfortable you can get and play a few rounds of cards and read a couple of chapters of your book and wonder when an acceptable time to start eating your snacks is, and you look at your watch and its 11:30, so you say to your traveling companion, "When do you think the boat leaves?"
Lets say you then hear the murmerings of some frenchies that the boat, she leave at noon. So you play some cards with some strangers and try to pretend you're not yet hungry and reposition yourself on the wooden benches and chat idley with the people next to you until you realize it is now past noon. And then you see a thunderous hoard of travelers coming down toward the boat, dwarfing the number of people who have been patiently waiting on the deck for the past two or so hours. They leap aboard, baggage flying. "Where will we sit?" they say in a variety of languages, the most prevalent being the official language of the former Soviet block. They thunder toward the stern. They thunder toward the bow. Finally, a frenchman in his 50s (who I refer to as No Immigration Before Cafe, given his border stance the previous day) insists they ask for another boat. Another Boat! Yes, we all nod, having read the same paragraph in the Lonely Planet. Demand another boat! Russians yell from the stern to those on shore: "My luggage is now on the roof of this boat!" "Well, get it off, you idiot, because we must demand a second boat, and I'm not demanding it alone!" "But the provisions look superior on this boat!" "Well we will demand a boat with plush seats that have been removed from some Chrysler minivan!" (or so I imagine they said. It could have been another discussion altogether that simply coincided with this moment of boat swapping).
So they thundered to a second boat, which was in fact decked out in double seats from someone's old Chrysler Town and Country. Where once we had hated them for making our boat wait around and then making us smoosh together on the tiny wooden benches, now we hated them for that and the fact that their boat was more comfortable. Plus it looked like all the drunks got on the back of that boat and were starting the fun well before happy hour. We collectively shook our fists as we finally pulled away, just 3 and half hours after we had initially thought. Thank god for a vast supply of Beer Lao. By the way, the entire time this was going on, the british couple across from us intensely read John Grisham novels. They did not look up once. Not even when the drunk englishmen at the back of the boat unexpectedly rushed in and took a picture with the reading man while high fiving.
About 7 hours later, the first half of our boat trip concluded on the banks of Pak Be township. The Russians had managed to beat us to town, and as the sun had already set, the guesthouse hawkers assailed us from the steep sandy banks unseen, but certainly heard. Everyone unloaded onto the bank, then reloaded to get the bags which were stowed under the deck. Kate climbed the hill in search of an affordable guest house, while I dove into the unlit boat to grapple with everyone for the bags, including the town's 8-11 year olds, who would try to cop some kip out of you by basically stealing your bag and carrying it to the top of the hill. After securing a thrifty little hovel on the main drag, we went in search of food, which came in the shape of a little indian restaurant. At the door, we said hello to some folks from our boat and they were promptly seated at our table, which was great because the woman turned out to be a hilarious brit and the guy had grown up in Wellesley. As the next day promised more of the same boating and jostling, we went to bed early - but not before the power went out all over town and we were plunged into darkness. Hilarious!
The next morning found us wondering what time the boat should leave - 9? Sounds like a strong possibility. This time we came well provisioned, and being our parent's children, eschewed the pricey and carb-laden beers for brown-bagged vodka and fruit juice. This time, we climbed aboard the minivan-seated vessel (same same! the boat driver assured us - oh, no sir. They are not same same) and wondered when we'd push off. After an initial scare that the monks would kick us out of the plush seats (the canadians in front of us had a serious evil eye for those monks), we got on the river a little before ten and floated for 8 hours towards Luang Prabang, through some unbelievabley beautiful scenery dotted with small fishing villages and a few sheer stone cliffs that fell into the water.
Arriving in Luang Prabang (or L'a 'Bang, as I like to call it), we searched out a hostel and marveled at the adorableness of this town. Two-story colonial-type wood trimmed villas along bricklined back alleys, flowers and trees and flowering trees, and a number of beautiful wats (temples) make the city incredibly attractive. Its also the first place I've been (outside of Bangkok) where I feel like having a whole lot of money would make this place infinitely pleasant, with its boutique hotels and spas and fancy little restaurants. It is still infinitely pleasant, and we went to dinner and strolled around the night market. This morning we got up early, saw some wats and the royal palace museum, ate some food and strolled along the two river banks. I love the french for their colonialist spread of the baguette, which is a lovely change from rice and noodles. The boat trip was well worth it, not just because of its eventful slowness but also because this town is so obviously enjoyable and enchanting.
On a side note, uploading pictures is hell. I highly recommend people do it every day that they are traveling, and not, say, when you have filled up your memory card.
Lets say you then hear the murmerings of some frenchies that the boat, she leave at noon. So you play some cards with some strangers and try to pretend you're not yet hungry and reposition yourself on the wooden benches and chat idley with the people next to you until you realize it is now past noon. And then you see a thunderous hoard of travelers coming down toward the boat, dwarfing the number of people who have been patiently waiting on the deck for the past two or so hours. They leap aboard, baggage flying. "Where will we sit?" they say in a variety of languages, the most prevalent being the official language of the former Soviet block. They thunder toward the stern. They thunder toward the bow. Finally, a frenchman in his 50s (who I refer to as No Immigration Before Cafe, given his border stance the previous day) insists they ask for another boat. Another Boat! Yes, we all nod, having read the same paragraph in the Lonely Planet. Demand another boat! Russians yell from the stern to those on shore: "My luggage is now on the roof of this boat!" "Well, get it off, you idiot, because we must demand a second boat, and I'm not demanding it alone!" "But the provisions look superior on this boat!" "Well we will demand a boat with plush seats that have been removed from some Chrysler minivan!" (or so I imagine they said. It could have been another discussion altogether that simply coincided with this moment of boat swapping).
So they thundered to a second boat, which was in fact decked out in double seats from someone's old Chrysler Town and Country. Where once we had hated them for making our boat wait around and then making us smoosh together on the tiny wooden benches, now we hated them for that and the fact that their boat was more comfortable. Plus it looked like all the drunks got on the back of that boat and were starting the fun well before happy hour. We collectively shook our fists as we finally pulled away, just 3 and half hours after we had initially thought. Thank god for a vast supply of Beer Lao. By the way, the entire time this was going on, the british couple across from us intensely read John Grisham novels. They did not look up once. Not even when the drunk englishmen at the back of the boat unexpectedly rushed in and took a picture with the reading man while high fiving.
About 7 hours later, the first half of our boat trip concluded on the banks of Pak Be township. The Russians had managed to beat us to town, and as the sun had already set, the guesthouse hawkers assailed us from the steep sandy banks unseen, but certainly heard. Everyone unloaded onto the bank, then reloaded to get the bags which were stowed under the deck. Kate climbed the hill in search of an affordable guest house, while I dove into the unlit boat to grapple with everyone for the bags, including the town's 8-11 year olds, who would try to cop some kip out of you by basically stealing your bag and carrying it to the top of the hill. After securing a thrifty little hovel on the main drag, we went in search of food, which came in the shape of a little indian restaurant. At the door, we said hello to some folks from our boat and they were promptly seated at our table, which was great because the woman turned out to be a hilarious brit and the guy had grown up in Wellesley. As the next day promised more of the same boating and jostling, we went to bed early - but not before the power went out all over town and we were plunged into darkness. Hilarious!
The next morning found us wondering what time the boat should leave - 9? Sounds like a strong possibility. This time we came well provisioned, and being our parent's children, eschewed the pricey and carb-laden beers for brown-bagged vodka and fruit juice. This time, we climbed aboard the minivan-seated vessel (same same! the boat driver assured us - oh, no sir. They are not same same) and wondered when we'd push off. After an initial scare that the monks would kick us out of the plush seats (the canadians in front of us had a serious evil eye for those monks), we got on the river a little before ten and floated for 8 hours towards Luang Prabang, through some unbelievabley beautiful scenery dotted with small fishing villages and a few sheer stone cliffs that fell into the water.
Arriving in Luang Prabang (or L'a 'Bang, as I like to call it), we searched out a hostel and marveled at the adorableness of this town. Two-story colonial-type wood trimmed villas along bricklined back alleys, flowers and trees and flowering trees, and a number of beautiful wats (temples) make the city incredibly attractive. Its also the first place I've been (outside of Bangkok) where I feel like having a whole lot of money would make this place infinitely pleasant, with its boutique hotels and spas and fancy little restaurants. It is still infinitely pleasant, and we went to dinner and strolled around the night market. This morning we got up early, saw some wats and the royal palace museum, ate some food and strolled along the two river banks. I love the french for their colonialist spread of the baguette, which is a lovely change from rice and noodles. The boat trip was well worth it, not just because of its eventful slowness but also because this town is so obviously enjoyable and enchanting.
On a side note, uploading pictures is hell. I highly recommend people do it every day that they are traveling, and not, say, when you have filled up your memory card.
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