Halong Bay, goodbye Vietnam.

Mark, Aly, Mat, Jon, Julie and I spent our last night together on a boat cruising around Halong Bay, which turns out to be my second favorite location in Vietnam. The rocky monoliths are simply a darker shade of the misty grey sky. They appear silently, jutting out over the smooth grey water. On the surface of the water, a thin veil of white blocks out the formations origins in the water. Photos in this situation are futile. The rocks and the fog are something that are better saved in memory. The pictures posted over the beaming faces in tourist offices are much clearer that the view around our junk boat, but the mysticism of Halong Bay seems made for this weather. The occasional butterfly instills fascination, seeing as the islands are uninhabited. Judging by their silhouette, the surface of these shapes are extremely rocky. The rocks are staggered one behind the other, creating the perfect grey scale. Even the sky puts off a white light that shines grey on the colorless water. The ink black junk boats are unfortunately lacking the traditional fish bone-like ribs of the mast chopping the brilliant tangerine orange sails into thick chunks, offering a splash of color. We could very well be watching a silent black and white film from a gently rocking wooden couch. Said goodbye to my babies, and am currently back in Bangkok, saying goodbye to Phil and Dan, whom I met in Cambodia (so many goodbyes!), but will soon welcome my sister to the long complicated, wonderful world that is Paige's trip around the world. Oh, and I will be celebrating my six month anniversary on the 29th of December. That means only six months left to go folks. Boo. Check ya lates.

Love in my tummy

Of all of my favorite experiences on the road, food often ranks high on my list. I'm traveling with real foodies now, and we are quite known to describe a fantastic meal, saw a braised oxtail in a cherry wine reduction, at a gorgeous restaurant, maybe at the base of a ski slope, candles and ambient music a constant prescense, but my favorite dining experiences are the roadside food stalls. Ok, so you're hungry right? When you open your wallet do moths flutter out? Are the poor imitations pizzas and spaghetti bolognaise made with chopped sandwich ham failing to quench your honed sense of taste? walk down a dimly lit alley and have a broken, filthy, small, plastic seat. That ambient music I mentioned earlier? Yeah, thats crying babies, sizzling oil and clucking women. Can't decide what to have? Taken care of. There are no menus at these mobile metal carts, your order is places when you sit. Julie, Jon and I can now discern whats being slung into bowls by the demeanor of the diners, the cutlery being used, even the shape of the "kitchen". Julie can almost always be counted upon to murder a bowl of pho bo, jon is often drawn to grilled seafood and I am partial to noodle places, like Hoi An's specialty, cao lau. Pho bo joints have large steaming pots of broth, handles of the large sieved ladles used to steep the noodles like broth curling over the edge. Sandwhich places have baguettes stacked up against the glass piled on rounds of laughing cow cheese and delicately balanced hardboiled eggs. The women with conical hats who bob along with a yolk are often weighted down with chicken rice topped with fresh curry leaves. Today, Julie and I sat for pho bo, good old reliable pho bo. Without so much as a glance or spoken word, bowls are instantly heating up the lower half of our faces. The carousel on our table consists of always, always, the same items. IN no particular order, there are a mix of broken wooden and plastic mismatched chopsticks, spoons scrubbed clean of their design, forks ( for the foreigners, square pieces of paper, often cut up childrens homework, which are used as napkins, toothpicks, soy sauce, bottles of store bought hot sauce, tiny jars of homemade thick scarlet hot sauce, a plate half covered in limes half in red chilis, small bowls of fish sauce, sometimes containing garlic, sometimes chilis, a tea pot full of the dreaded tepid winter melon tea and a small tray full of loved and abused teacups. Your server often shows you how to squeeze a lime into your soup ("Yes, thank you."), and how to spoon up some hot sauce ("So that's how its done.") and before you know it, your tossing your said "napkins" on the ground with the lime rinds, chili butts, dropped chopsticks (if your traveling with Julie) whether you're inside or out. No matter, the stray dogs will get whatever your leave behind, eating under the stool of selectively attentive locals. The average street food costs about 75 cents, and cannot possibly be compared to the mostly shitty little guesthouse restaurants with their exorbitant grease and prices.
I'm still waiting for the bizarre food Ive read about in Vietnam, which can apparently be found in bizarre specific food markets in Hanoi. Julie and I can stroll in the market for hours, buying anything we haven't tried before. Out favorite snacks are lychees, boiled peanuts and hardboiled quail eggs. We had grilled chicken feet in Kom Tum, nails and all. The one thing I couldn't quite get myself to try was the baby- chicken fetus eggs we found in Cambodia. The eggs were interrupted during the development process, and one western woman i met described eating one as eating a bony, feathery egg. Luckily, shop owners are gracious enough to indicate theses "baby inside" eggs to us, and the tip often has a small hole in the shell. Other eggs are literally coated with a partially dried, jet black mud as if they had been buried at some point. Banana leaves make a frustrating packaging job for curious foreigners. Their contents are indicated to those in the know by their use of toothpicks and bits of string. Sometimes unbearably sweet, sometimes a gummy fish cake, its like playing edible Russian roulette.

Hoi An, the second chapter

The weather is working against some and for others in Hoi An. Sun barely pierces the thinning clouds that don't have the vigor to discolor the blue sky. Its low season, the weather being partially responsible, so the streets, rather than filled with tourists, are filled with desperate motodop drivers. This unfortunate aspect of traveling doesn't touch us, we who stroll on trampolines, smiling genuinely. Julie, Jon and I find Hoi AN delightful. This may be chalked up to the innate European-ness of the place, with its drooping bougainvillea and moss coted yellow buildings, or perhaps its the nightly street flooding along the river, young boys crouching under plain and rainbow umbrellas along the street of streams. The breeze pushed gently against the swaying Chinese lanterns hung from the dark, carved wooden storefronts. Even the specialties of Hoi An are charming; white roses, shrimp wrapped in rice paper topped with chopped peanuts. Though Hoi An is decidedly a tourist town, you can still bypass the snooty French-Vietnamese restaurants and step aside package tourists swathed in smart zip-off shorts and take a seat at a beer- oi joint. Beer-oi is a preservative free "fresh" beer that is dirt-cheap, proven by its effective hangovers. Unesco-world heritage site guarded, the old town retains its old world edge. The boats have slender eyes painted across the bow (or is that stern?) and remind me of a book i used to read when I was a mere wee-one, the name of which escapes me now. Mom? Its a quiet town, tuk-tuk drivers nap in the covered seats reserved for clients, oblivious to our needs of a lift. The town is designed for those seeking tailored suits and expensive cooking classes, and even the budget travelers seem to absorb into the dark alleys rather than loud bars. Culinary accomplishments in Hoi An extend to our preferred food stands. The tiring pho bo (beef noodle soup) features refreshing accompaniments and we are finally able to find our much sought after spring rolls.

Photo postings

oh, and im sorry to admit to the world that I am now a Facebooker.

Sand and Mud

You dont need to crave speed but you do need to enjoy eating large amoutns of sand to go sand surfing, or rather, sand sledding. The dunes that are strangely situated next to the beachtown/fishing of Mui Ne are differentiated by locals by their color. Yellow is said to provide the best location for sunsets, while red has the best "waves". The sand spills abruptly onto the road separating the dune sand from the beach sand. Upon the arrival of our rented motorbikes (thats right, im driving motorbikes with the best of 'em), dozens of young female entrepreneurs press large sheets of plastic on all sides of us, accosting us together like a SWAT team. With the rental of the sled comes our very own nine year old guide, who after trudging up the semi-permanent shifting mountain, plops me onto the tobogan, knees to chest, arms grabbing the front which curves up with pathetic intentions, feeble promises of protection from the violent onslaught of sand like pins and needles from a dry hell. By all means, don't scream or laugh. Sand soon found its way into ears, hidden crevices in my purse and cameras, and I was crunching the stuff for days, finding grains behind my knees and under my toenails. Only at the summit before the descent do you realize your proximity to water. After a slide, visions, smells and sounds of the ocean dissapear. The wind blowing off the water created swirls in teh sand that reminds me of the fake wood found in 1970's television series. After Mui Ne and the strange town of Dalat, a mix of a Swiss mountain village with a large imposing swatch of Asian paint, a town curiously "known" for wine (terrible, despite our drinking several bottles), Jon, Julie and I descended upon the beach town of Nha Trang, hoping to heat up under the melting sun SE Asia promises backpackers. Alas, it wasn't meant to be, so after a night at the bars (what else is expected of one in a beachtown without proper beach-like activities?) we splurged on a visit with Aly, Marianna and Mark to the hot springs and mud baths. Been months since Ive been pampered. Stations are numbered and lost half naked tourists are led from bath to shower to tub to pool by smiling attendants. First off is the mud baths. An attendant turns the tap, shooting murky silty mud into the carved marble bath, just large enough for the six of us to lay, head to toe, the length of the tub. You can float in mud, splash in mud, soak in mud, while away childlike hours in mud, giggling, dunking, attempting a whirlpool, and rolling over one another like logs. We rinsed off the mud under open air showers, walked through a gauntles of piercing jets of water, and were eventually led into a hot mineral springs tub like cattle. Still moving about with Jon, Julie, Mark and Aly, heading off to Hoi An today, whenever the bus gets around to taking off. Ive spent unfathomable amounts of hours waiting in the heat, travelling in the air-conditioned buses, I feel I should calculate hours spent on the road. Silliness, P, silliness.

Weasel shit coffee

There is a quite renowned kind of Vietnamese coffee that we have yet to try, but we have made a point to taste at some point. The beans are fed to a certain species of weasels, and the undigested beans are collected from the excrement are roasted and served in reputable cafes all over the country. If there is something to be said that the Vietnamese drink weasel-shit coffee, I'm not sure what it is yet.
All I need now is a palm frond and peeled grapes I can see Jon thinking. Jon's back and shoulders mushroomed up under the tiny glass pots. Actually the process is slightly uncomfortable, and since he is hungry and fears that movements would dislodge the cups, Julie feeds him spring rolls and shrimp omlettes. The masseur, signaled over while passing by indicating his services by ringing a small bell attached to his bicycle, opened his briefcase full of glass pots sizing from small to shockingly large. After Jon was coaxed out of his T-shirt in the small restaurant in Saigon-turned-Ho Chi Minh City, the masseur lit a flame into the inverted pots and screwed them on to specific locations on Jon's skin, which immediatly turn various shades of scarlet and violet.
Our bus that left the next day stopped midway between HCMC and Mui Ne for lunch at a run of the mill roadstop cafe, my first view of rural Vietnam, which means no English. Although SE Asian countries vary almost imperceptibly at times, each group of citizens interactions are remarkably different. Cambodians are quite childlike, laughing with you as easily as they laugh at you, but the Vietnamese that I attempted to interact with reacted as if they all had secret adolscent crushes on me. Upon seeing me, they would all look away, giggling furiously. Trying to buy fruit that was harvested on Venus, all of the market owners would whisper furtively to each other, everyone both wanting desperatly to interact with me, but terrified to comunicate. Arriving in Mui Ne, we can see lithe young women weave their bicycles through traffic in their white floor-length long-sleeved dresses that shine like beacons through the grey oceans fog. They only betrayal of their ethereal nature is their rhythmic movement noticable through hip-high slits, their white pants peeking out at regular intervals as they pedal. Delicate orchids and dragonflies of their dresses catch the headlights, front panals tucked between fingers resting on the handlebars, back panals flapping in their wake. Mui Ne can be seen in the background, sleepy fishing boats bouncing off of one another in the port, a promise of fish so fresh it has no smell, which is precisely what we need, and have, after our six hour bus ride. Though Mui Ne appears to cater more to travelers wealthier than to travelers of our meager means, we locate an abandoned lot sandwhiched between multi-starred resorts-this and michelin restaurant-that. The passing hurricane rains drips through tears in the tarp pitched over low metal tables and kiddie tables plastic stools. We crunch on BBQ crabs and dirt cheap grilled mussels that has been out of the ocean for moments, then lumber out into the waves for a night swim, lights of dormant boats on the horizon flickering silently, the theme of the sea emcompassing all aspects of life in Mui Ne.

Ban Lung and Phnom Penh, Cambodia

Sweat is pouring off me. I hold a blade in my right hand and a look of inquisitive determination on my face. Cicada's screams cut through the thick jungle air and heavy sunlight hits my face in jagged slashes. Pushing aside huge fronds and stepping silently over fallen bamboo, one would never guess what lies in wait for me, hidden in the steamy tropics of north-eastern Cambodia- boat materials. I still think I should have been covered in war paint, bone necklace, wielding a machete rather than a Swiss army knife. Dan, Phil and I went on an overnight jungle trek into the little explored forests north of Ban Lung in Cambodia's Ratanakiri province. After a few hours on walking, we arrive at cam- a swimming hole with temperate green water and a wooden structure where we hang our hammocks. We held a boat competition- bonus points for aesthetics- the definite winner being Dan's beaut, a bark, bamboo and leaf contraption, christened Meatball.We had sauteed beef with fresh morning glory picked from the bank of the river and ate small fish that Nai our cook had caught with his net hung downstream from the camp. Cham our guide produced two small water bottles filled with locally made rice whisky, and the five of us shared one bamboo cup, sips of whisky moving around the circle, bananas serving as chasers, frogs and other nightlife waking around our tiny candle. We crawled awkwardly into our hammocks that had been hung almost on top of one another. Later I realized that this was for our own benefit, as was Cham's decision to intentionally place me between Dan and Phil (body heat). You wouldn't guess it would get the slightest bit chilly in a steamy Predator like set of a jungle, would you? In addition to the discomfort of being folded into the hammocks like a taco, blood rushing to our butts, the temperature caused the two boys to practically climb on top of me, a tricky maneuver considering we were hanging in individual hammocks. At some stage,during the endless night, Dan wore his extra boxers like a skull cal and our delirium provided respite from bitter cold and our own simple bitterness. Our freezing sleepless night led to a day of delirious giggling on the walk back to the villages. We left for Phnom Penh the next day, and then spent an uplifting Khmer Rouge inspired day at the Tuol Sleng Genocide Museum and the Choeung Ek Killing Fields. Tuol Sleng, previously the Tuol Svay Prey High school before the 1975 revolution by the infamous Pol Pot, was then transformed into a prison/torture chamber. The museum contained thousands of photographs of prisoners deemed deviates of the revolution for one reason or another, including modern day testimonies of the guards who are alive today, and some of the instruments of torture. You can walk through the classrooms turned into cells, the ghosts of those brutally murdered hang in the air. The prisoners were executed outside of the city at Choeung Ek, a commemorative glass tower filled with all the skulls found in the mass graves and piles of clothing. All that remains of the mass graves are large indentation in the earth, new planets just breaking the surface of the water that pools there, evidence that life will prevail.

Cambodia

My options were to take a cheap long bus ride skirting the Tonle Sap lake in Northern Cambodia to Siem Reap, or a pricier and assuredly more scenic boat ride straight through the marshy lake. I hopped on the boat in the morning, shortly after meeting travelling friends that I'm still with. So Raf the Aussie, Phil the Brit and Dan swede and I pushed through large patches of river weeds and dodged long thin fishing boats, just wide enough for young fishermen to sit on the bow, feet dangling into the water, riding the waves which pass from the gentle rocking of the boat through their body, rolling slowly up from hips, chest, neck to head. Their homes are boat houses or stilted huts, sometimes flanking the water-highway of passenger boats, sometimes scattered about a large bulge in the river, a kind of urban vs. rural. Life not only revolves around the river, life is the river for these people. 90% of Cambodians are self-sustainable, so the river dwellers fish constantly, scaring the fish into their nest by sharp smacks on the waters surface by curved wooden rods. We lay on the roof of the boat, dodging low hanging branches, ducking inside quickly for short-lived bursts of rain that come upon us silently and violently, offering no hint of its approach. With a clear blue sky, baking in the sun whose heat plays second to a perfect watermelon-eating kind of summer wind, you suddenly hear the smattering sounds of water hitting water, rain moving towards the bat with a roar as if being transported on 18 wheels. You look up to see the rivers surface pebbled with rain drops, and half a second later the rain passes over the boat, from toasty and bone-dry to sticky and drenched. The day after we arrived was dedicated to Angkor Wat, a testament to religious diversity without the tolerance. In the early 1100's, when self-titled god-king Suryavarman II began building Angkor Thom, Angkor Wat and the dozens of other wats in the ten or so square kilometers north of Siem Reap, the religion was Hindu. Later, with the throne being passed over the 30 or so years it took to build the ancient city, the fad of Shiva, Brahma and Vishnu passed on to Buddha, and rather than tearing down the partially constructed temples, the reformed god-king of the moment had his builders build Buddhism honoring structures on top of the Hindu bases. Cicadas scream as we tuk-tuked through the leafy pathways. We pass frogs abandoning the walkway and buskers rendered disabled by land-mines, my favorite temple is the Ta Phrom, proof that nothing is more powerful than nature. The temple is being slowly swallowed up by armies of dipterocarp trees, tangle of roots that bulge with powerful muscles and tall buttresses that support their huge bases. Remove the tree and the building collapses, and invariably, dismantle the building and you strangle the life out of the tree. The next day, we have since lost Raf and adopted John the Brit, we rented bikes and rode out of Siem Reap, stopping for a drink and a hammock, the lake splashing below the slatted floorboards, a permanent rainbow slung above us, evidence to the immense amount of rainfall of this saturated country. We are currently in the east, I decided to skip the party location of the southern beaches, and tommorow we see the famous Irrawaddy dolphins.

OBAMA

OBAMA!!!!!!!!!!!!

Legos and Beans

I was obligated to spend the night in Trat, in transit to Cambodia's Siem Reeaap, home to the famous Angkor Wat temples, from Thailand's Ko Chang, home to a sunny beach and respite from clogged cities. I dropped down just as night fell, and wandered about, led by my nose and rumbling stomach. Now, I never said my nose was looking for particularly pleasant smells, but it should have been. I noticed that my stomach, at some point, stopped talking to me as I wandered into the night market. This may be attributed to the fact that the was pleased that my legs brought me to food, or that he was disgusted/terrified with the potential prospects. The smells that brought me to that colorful block of shut warehouses ranged from extremely inviting- think fried rice and keffir lime leaves associated with thai food- to disturbingly...not- old fish paste and unidentifiable aromas, and that last adjective perfectly describes most of the foods IO saw. I knew that I needed fruit for the long drive in the morning to the Cambodian border at Ban Packard, and being of a curious nature, I smugly passed by the safe bets (apples, bananas, and the like) into foreign territory. Besides the bizarre colors and shapes the "fruit" in Thailand takes on, I was unclear simply how to consume them. My favorite was a fluorescent pink mango with super thick skin, which looked as if someone had taken a pair of scissors and snipped a few triangular layers away which curl back to expose an equally bright green petticoat. After the produce section, came the meat section, the main perpetrator of the smells. It was like looking at a car wreck, I glanced out of curiosity, then turned away, half of me racking my brain trying to pinpoint which body part of which animal that red/pink./purple.grey thing came from, the other half hoping to dear god I could not find the answer. I saw huge blocks of color, blue and red as bright as legos, being sliced like tofu with a thick jello like consistency and wrapped in leaves, pinned with small pieces of bamboo like gifts. Food? Entirely possible. I opted for rice and chicken- at least I think it was chicken. Since eating out is actually cheaper than cooking for the most part, dining outside amongst the stalls on broken, sun-bleached plastic stools and kiddie patio tables feels like your eating at a fourth of July BBQ in Thailand. Everyone seems to have dinner at these night markets, son eating off my "plate (Styrofoam container ripped in half) with my spoon" (fork) and "knife" (spoon), I never feel alone. One final interesting note, I recently bought some small bread rolls at a bakery. I bit into one, and small brown pebbles sized things fell out. Not chocolate, not raisins. The bread was filled with beans, people, beans.

Which bag of chips should I purchase next?

And you think just cause (most of) you are halfway around the world you have no say in my doings. Pff.
The options are, in order from tame to bizarre-
1. Sweet Basil
2. Mexican BBQ
3. Spicy Seafood
4. Double Cheese Pork Burger
5. Hot Chili Squid
6. Chocolate Sauce
7. Nori Seaweed
Keep in mind that these are Lay's brand. I mean, chocolate potato chips. Yuck. Choose wisely.

Bangkok

Its hard to imagine, driving through the industrial-ravaged suburbs of Bangkok, that beyond the smog, a templed, foliaged, oceaned haven lies, whose gravitational pull leaves no hippy unamazed, no package tourist unjaded, hiding amongst colorful flowers and bright, unassuming, unexpecting smiles. After three weeks in Nepal, my paper white skin and shrinking patience aches for sunny beaches in the middle of BFE (Ironic, since I just escaped Everest territory). Yet again I willingly plunge into a world of strangeness, strange food (well, not so strange, thai cuisine is a fav of mine), strange language (still trying to call my thai brothers and sisters bai and didi), and strange people (hell, people are strange when you're a stranger, n'est-ce pas Jimmy?) Life circles around the streets in Bangkok (and I suspect the rest of SE Asia), so I took a seat at a noodle shop stand and watched the world go by over my steaming bowl, steam indiscernible from the haze of the rain and nearly visual shimmer of humidity. It's still far too early (this is my second day) to document a completed SE Asia version of "Random Observations", but I am fast becoming a connoisseur of transportation on my travels. Taxis are a startling barbie pink and flatbeds half the size of cars, when not hawking damn-near-everything, are mounted under the handles of a motorbike with young children riding on the wood in front of mom who directs the contraption through traffic. I am reminded of convincing my own mother to let me ride in the main basket of the shopping cart, that is, if mom was weaving me, the eggs, toilet paper and detergent through the aisles on a Harley. With the possibility of ordering buckets (whats next, troughs??) of alcohol and raving all night at full moon parties, I am searching, perhaps in vain, for some peace and quiet. Let you know if I find any.

Final memories of KTM

Like when co-workers become friends because of close quarters, it came naturally to fall for KTM like a sack of feathers on a gravity imbalanced planet. Not to say that I wasn't destined to love it, and I was, in fact, destined, if destiny is your thing. I mean, a Chinese friggin holiday the four days following my intended flight to Lhasa? I meet the origins of my soon to be KTM circle of compadres the night before I leave? I have to do zilch and lose zip money, just wait for my trip to Bangkok to roll on by? There is an earthquake in Lhasa the Monday after I was supposed to land? Coincidence my a**.
Some of the greatest moments peering over the balcony at De La Soul;
Gaultier and I throwing paper airplanes into the currency exchange office across the way.
When we saw a shop owner picking his nose, Robel telling us that in his country, gold digging means you want to have sex.
Laughing with a Nepali women, since we have no other way to communicate. Watching the momo guy, fruit guy and nut guy selling off of their altered bicycles that would put playa dusters from Burning Man to shame.
Trying to get anyone and everyone on the street below us to smile join us at the bar or merely dance. My favorites were the rickshaw driver, the glue sniffing children, and the baby girl immovably strapped to her mothers back.
During Dasain, watching men walk by like they had passed out in a compost pile- strands of grass tucked behind their ears, flower petals in their hair and rice pressed into the red tikka powder mashed in clumps on their forehead.
And in general watching the motorbikes, UN vehicles, police, taxis, rickshaw drivers, fruit-momo-or nut vendors, stray dogs, nose-picking shop-owners, glue-sniffing street children, hippies, avid trekkers, avid potheads, and the world filter below us, because people are just more interesting when their social buffers are down and they think no one is watching. Little do they know...

Dewy, dewy Paige

First of all, before I forget, I want all of you who grew up in the San Lorenzo Valley to know that Swensens, the ice cream parlour that used to reside where Chubby's in Scotts Valley is now, is alive and well and chilling in Bangkok. I finally did pull myself away from KTM and have joined the hippy masses in Thailand's capital. It was going winter-wards in Nepal, and Im feeling the heat here, so I think Ill shuffle off to some nice and toasty island shortly. I finally mailed home about a third of my pack which contained presents (no, Im not telling what I got for you) a fabulous umbrella purchased in Pokhara, Nepal and a coat that has been wondering as much as I why I keep him around at all. Since Ive been pissing around for the past three weeks, I have loads to do today, so can't talk long. Ill check in later when Im in a bathing suit and have a rainbow-colored cocktail in my tan, but most likely sunburnt, hand. Kisses to my babies in KTM.

Photo Installment

That is all.

Canyoning in Nepal

I went canyoning what my friend Gaultier just outside of KTM two days ago, and I must say, I think I have found my new love. Canyoning is basically abseiling (think reverse moutnain climbing) down waterfalls, and what can only be described as extreme walking. We donned wetsuits, helmets and thick canvas diapers, enabling us to slide down smoothed granite rocks like children invincibly wrapped in protective styrofoam. We James Bonded our way down 40 meter waterfalls, the pressure of the water pressing you down, left right, into deep pools. You drop trustfully out over the cliff, leaning out, feet at 90 degrees. I'm so accusotmed to stepping down, it tok a few pitches to trust my feet upon a vertical surface. All I wanted to do was leap out over the gushing falls, opushing hard against the slippery moss ocvered walls and float out romantically over the mist, only to slip and land violently, crashing deep into the powerful gush of the water. I laughed my way down the cliff side, and am now addicted. After three hours like this, we took off the wet clothes and bathed in the warming sun on a granite slab overlooking the KTM valley like lizards. Amazing experience. Ill post pictures so you can get a better idea of what we were up to.

Random Observations

The inhabitants of every city or town in Nepal that I have been to pronounces hello differently. Nagarkot-"NamastEE" Bandipur- "NAmaste" KTM- "NaMAste" I get to pick and chose my favorites. Pashmina and cashmere is very popular in the souvenir shops in KTM, and there are cryptic signs posted on them that say "Just feel me, dear human." I was in Bandipur eating at a restaurant where Mexican food was being served, including Takas D-Polo and Inchilatas. Pronounce 'em out loud, and you'll get it. Power in KTM is cut everyday for about two or three hours. You can literally hear the cheers when it comes back on if you are standing outside. The town, or South Asia continent rather is rife with temples, but my favorites are the Shiva (Both the destroyer and the creator in Hinduism) that look like raised cobblestones in the middle of the sidewalks and streets. You should never walk over personal things, like legs or whatnot, so you have to walk around these temples rather than over them, which is tricky since they kinda blend in, you know? Robel left his bike in front of our favorite bar, De La Soul, the other day, and when we went back to retrieve it, it was gone. This was not the first time his bike was stolen by the police, he says. If the police see a bike they don't recognize, they move it at night to a different part of the city. If the bike is not claimed in a certain period of time, they take it. We have spent hours looking for that damned thing. Always comes back, though. My Nepali friend Juni told me that it is a real law that if you run over a chicken, there is a 80 paisa (cents) penatly fee. But if you run over a duck, its 80 rupees. Can you guess why? Because chickens bounce about randomly and are thus more likely to get underfoot (or underwheel), where as ducks move slower, so if you hit one, you werent trying hard enough to avoid it. I love that. A new law just passed that motorbike drivers need to wear a helmet. However, passengers may not. Not that they have a choice, but tha its against the law! Its because lots of drive-by shootings take place from a passenger on the back of a motorbike, which make great getaway vehicles. If the shooter has a helmet on, you cant identify them. Robel has told me my favorite new expression. You know, "don't let it get to your head"? In Eritrea, where he is from, they say "remember to take your shoes off before you go to bed". Excellent. Leaving KTM on the 28th. The countdown begins.

More photos

check 'em out folks at flickr.com. sounds like an ad, right?

KTM, City of Candles

I realize now that because of the amount of time I have spent so far in KTM, I am becoming lazy in my documenting my interpretations of life around me. Strange, its almost as though the closer we get to understanding or simply seeing a culture, the less we take note of our surroundings. If Ive been negligent in my writings, maybe it is because I have been living the blissfully dull life of an ex-pat living in KTM. Instead of sightseeing, I see Brianna for chai. Instead of souvenir shopping, I shop for groceries, Instead of being an anonymous faceless stranger, I am recognized in the small hectic streets of KTM. The narrow streets which positively vibrate with foot traffic, rickshaws, motorbikes and cars certainly take some getting used to for the majority of us who are too accustomed to our streets, cushy with sidewalks, stop signs and well, laws. You can tell how long someone has been in Asia by the way they navigate traffic. Some people, newbies, well call them, will wait until the coast is safe and clear. Those with experience know that this moment simply does not exist. I rest my hands on the top of taxis, push rickshaws, and narrowly escape broken toes countless times during a simple trip to the store. I always know exactly where I'm headed in Thamel, therefore I walk with conviction. This is acceptable, until I realize one day that I was becoming increasingly agitated with other foreigners whom expats sneeringly refer to as "package tourists", those camera toting, khaki wearing, loud talking tour sheep. But am I really so different? I am so instantly ready to set roots and become a member of a community that Ive climbed atop my high horse and am instantly prepared to judge those who have only spent a few days fewer in KTM than myself. In many ways, KTM was a peculiar choice for fate to drop my in for three additional weeks. It is a loud, hectic, dirty city pregnant with tourists and thus, touts and shopkeepers, fluorescent dollar signs shining in their eyes. On the other hand, KTM reminds me a bit of college. There are tight cliques that occupy certain bars whose reputation changes constantly, the constant turnover of people makes the possibility of meeting anywhere from ten to thirty people a night a certainly, and life revolves around the nighttime. The expat phenomenon has existed in KTM since the 70's, and Ive met old burnt- out dead heads, politically rabid UN employees and young adventure seekers in the bright, Vegas-like streets of Thamel, KTM's downtown tourist hub. All in all, it seems an unlikely city to be serendipitously stuck in. I listen to my fellow travellers tales of hiking in the KTM valley or rafting around Pokhara, and for one moment, I envy them, but only for one moment. I have officially been on the road now for fifteen weeks, and I have heard that the four month mark is decidedly the roughest hump to pass. Don't get me wrong, I want nothing more than to be another temporary citizen of KTM, wandering as an aimless tourist for two, three days, but I was certainly craving a sense of community that this city readily provides. I had a bbq with people I have not known more than one week, some no more than one hour, but I hug them like were best friends. And just like my torn feelings for KTM, the country itself seems to be consisting of its own dual nature. Take something as simple as baskets. Strong virile women carry long grasses and bamboo in cone shaped baskets that press upon their bent backs, held up by a thick strap which cradles low across the basket and loops up to their upper foreheads, causing them to keep their heads down low, strips of bamboo and long grass droop over the lip of the basket, striping their faces. The same baskets are inverted to become a home for loose chickens at night. Six year old girls in the city with painted eyes to match the kumari, a beautiful young "living goddess" who passes through childhood behind shut carved windows in the noisy din of Durbar Square, before losing her divinity by means of loss of blood or baby teeth. Only then is a new Kumari chosen at the age of two by successfully fulfilling a long list of requirements consisting of but not limited to having thighs like a young deer and showing fearlessness when placed in a room full of severed animal heads. Meanwhile, six year old in the countryside are transformed into young mothers, swaddled infants strapped to their backs, collecting fire woods in the pine forests away from the large city in KTM valley. Fine garments reserved for prestigious business men and women, when discarded, are turned to shreds by young children in villages down by the river side for both entertainment, and household rags. Small family dwelling open up during the day to feed hungry travellers, distinction between home and restaurant only indicated by a sheet hung over the doorway. Children are both our beloved youth, and you indispensable translators. Bicycles more people and are used to sell fruit, large circular baskets replace the seat, carrying papaya, bananas, and green mandarins, all arranged artistically, the handlebars looped with scales and bags of weights. Temple squares are a place of worship and a venue for the most amusing people watching. Ill be better about checking in in the future, folks. kiss kiss.

Happily Stuck in Nepal

Well, it doesnt appear that I will be leaving Nepal anytime soon. Travel agents here say that the only way you can get into Tibet is with a tour group, and you must pay for a driver and guide and whatnot. This is crap. But as I sadi previously, Ive met a nice little community of expats here, and I fill my days doing normal non-tourist things like having a coffee with Brianna the Californian or going to the supermarket or something. Ive posted more pictures on Flickr, so again, punch in my full name, Paige Rexrode, under the people category when you are searching for me. I have people to meet soon, so Ill let you go. Oh, and congratulations to Mariah. She has officially quit her job and is leaving the country to explore how the other half lives. Love you, sweetie.

A slight hitch in my giddy-up

Well, we all knew that I would never escape a year long trip around the world unscathed, right? I should have known by the skeptical looks I recieved when I told people I was travelling to Lhasa, Tibet that it would be a little harder than simply showing up at the airport and actually making the journey. To make a boring story interesting, Im still in Kathmandu. I should have left on Saterday. Dude at the airport broke me the increasingly hilarious news- I need a visa to get into Tibet, which my friend Robel tries to convince me is damn near impossible, but, but , in order to get one, I need to go to the Chinese consulate, no? Well, the consulate, poor dumb tourist, is closed today, even though its a saterday because, of course, its a Chinese bleeping holiday. I stayed with my Robel on Saterday, and then again on Sunday, and today, being Monday, a working day, I waltzed over to the consulate with my best "I am an American tourist damnit, not a terrorist" expression, only to be harshly turned down. The holiday lasts for seven days. Sigh. Returning back to Robel, he shakes his head in gentle disgust. He works for the UN, and understands these governmental bureaucratic trivialities more than I do. So, all in all, Im still in Nepal for god knows how long. I have a flight from Lhasa to Kathmandu continuing on toBangkok in about two and a half weeks, so if all else fails, I may have to stay in Nepal until that flight. Good news is that if I do get a visa and am able to fly, I dont have to pay more for a changed flight. So, dont worry about me folks. Ive found some cool peeps to pass the time, and laugh at the irony of this situation, being stuck where you kinda want to be anyways. Keep you posted.

Proof that sometimes you should just ignore famous monuments and take some time out to pay the little things (and people) some of your valuable time.

I was on my way up to Kathmandu's famous monkey temple, Swayambhunath, when I saw a teenage boy flying a kite. I followed his eyes and only then did I realize that perhaps the birds I had been seeing flying above the frantic city were not in fact birds at all but kites. Focusing on his kite, I saw ten or fifteen others, mere specks that moved like birds, taking advantage of the winds. He had a giant spool of thread resting loosely on a short wooden stick, which he tugged on sharply when the kite began to sag and let reel out when it caught a nice current. The line was very thin, which is typical, essential even, for kite fighting. For those of you who have not read The Kite Runner, you understand this competitive game. Two kites will fight in the air, its flyers trying to cut their opponents line. In the past, lines would be armed, covered in crushed light bulbs or broken glass. When the kite is cut, the flyer has lost, and the kite continues to float on the breeze. I saw attached kites and cut kites, and then noticed that this flyer has a veritable army of kites in case his was cut. Later that day, with my search of kite flying heightened, I saw a tough group of fourteen year old boys, cigarettes hanging from the side of their mouths, eyes intent, participating in an activity we only associate with small children. This is not a childish game, though, make o mistake about that. I remember flying giants birds, aerodynamically designed to stay up for as long as possible. Kites in Nepal cost three rupees ( about four cents) are made of very thin paper (perfect for making small holes to change the flight pattern) and bamboo, and they are damn near impossible to fly, I found. With my eyes now searching the skies, I now discovered evidence of the immense affinity for flying. There are shops which only sell different kinds of lines, and trees are a graveyard of kite corpses. When I finally did make it up to the temple, I payed a little more attention to the kids I saw. More games that are not really games at all. Monks in training, no more than six, shaved heads, deep crimson robes, playing charum. I may have mentioned earlier that charum is like table pool, and the flick of the finger serves as the cue. The board has four pockets on the corners, and the pucks slide over white powder.Under the flying prayer flags, these boys had collected a group of older men who watched them dominate the board as silently as spectators at Wimbeldon. The two looked up briefly at me, and I saw that the front of their robes and small spots on their face were dusted with the powder. Other boys still were playing soccer barefoot in a small square surrounded by temples dedicated to a long list of both Hindu and Buddhist deities. A dangerous game, considering the long drop over the edge of their "field" to the city far below. The ball bounced off the prayer wheels carved with Tibetan mantras and occasionally sounded the large bronze bells at the entrance of the shrines. In Nagarkot, a magnificently slow moving town that reminded me of a hilly, Nepalese Lake Tahoe ( for those of you who know it), I was constantly being bombarded, attacked even, if being attacked was wonderfully pleasant by huge groups of schoolchildren. I have loads of pictures, which I will be posting later, but I am short on time, seeing as I leave the day after tomorrow for the enigmatic Tibet. See you then!

The Story of the Monkeys and the Cap-Seller, an old Indian tale, told by Vikram Singh, remembered crudely by Paige Rexrode

The cap seller was walking home after a long-unsuccessful day in the village. He was tired, and lay down beneath a tree to rest his weary bones and soon fell asleep. When he awoke, he found all his caps had disappeared. He heard chatter above him and saw that the tree was filled with monkeys wearing his caps. Exhausted and frustrated, he threw his own cap to the ground. The monkeys, seeing him to this, threw their own caps down to the ground at his feet. He collected his returned caps and continued home where he told his son what had happened with his caps and the monkeys.

Many years later, the cap sellers son was walking home with his own collection of caps. He layed down to rest beneath a tree and again, fell asleep. When he woke, his caps were gone, and he knowlingly looked up into a tree full of cap-wearing monkeys. Ah, he said to himself, I remember when my father lost his caps to the monkeys, who were stupid enough to copy him when he threw his cap down in exhaustion and frustration. Quite pleased with himself, he threw his own cap to the ground. But the monkeys too had learned, and one monkey who refused to fall for the wise ploy that had tricked his own father so many years ago ran down the tree and stole the last cap.

KTM to some random village

I woke up to a chick on my chest. Its father was greeting the sun noisily. It wasn't quite six-thirty am, but I felt fantastic. Greg and I had headed out from Kathmandu the night before to a town called Chisapani (well, that was our destination) hiking through the Shivapuri NP. The walk up was very pleasant, the green, green foliage, hunting at the high frequency of monsoon rains, parting only long enough to show corners of terraced hillsides and small, quiet dare I say peaceful army bases. the Napali army is said to be the best in the world ( they dont have a word for retreat in Nepali apparently). Yet other studies tell us that they are the happiest people on earth. Many a costumed soldier with a big friendlyt smile would bring us a stool if we we spotted sitting the on the muddy ground. The trails were also armed with leeches, which are now my least favorite creature on earth, beating out the baboons that guard cape point in SA. Even the way to remove them is unpleasant. They get a good storng grip on you, so many people use salt, which causes them to drop off of your skin, and explode. Gross. Greg patiently peeled of a number of them off of my legs and feet after many panicked shrieks while I turned away, making sounds of disgust and then needed a good hands-hung-limply-wrist-shake-dance before continuing on. We had yak cheese and Isreali chocoalte and watched poor sweet goats being led to the slaughter for the upcoming Dasain festival in KTM (side note, have you ever heard a goat sneeze? It has to power to make you all vegetarians. ) We soon discovered why Nepali innocence and generosity has its rare but quite detrimental downfalls. Everyone with whom we spoke verified our position in relation to our destination agree unaimously that yes, Chisapani is that way. What we could never get them to see eye to eye on was how long such a journey would take us. Five kilometers jumped to fifteen as easily as one and a half hours fell to twenty minutes. We walked for an eternity, and as night began to darken our path, we realized that we had not seen another person in over two hours. Not a good sign. The Nepali also dont seem too fond of roadside signs. However, I could not pile the blame exclusively on the eager-to-please Nepali for finding ourselves lost in the pitch black in the pouring rain with the leeches without a roof. Chisapani was not to be located on our brand-spanking new Kathmandu Falley trial map, but we, curiously, bought it anyways. Greg saw some dim lights in the distance, and after leaving me to watch the bags, flashlights focused out into the darkness waiting for dangerous, what, butterflies? he had located our heros for the evening. A small Nepalese family made up of a mother, son and grandfather, set out a rattan basically oversized door mat as our mattress, pillows hard as sacks of millet (entirely possible) and blankets we had used in Jaisalmer during our camel safari, but I passed out in seconds and slept like a baby on their rainy porch. I could hardly be angry with the rooster when I saw the sun rising up over the great snowy Himalayas, clouds settled between each mountain.

Bandipur

There is no way to describe Bandipur without using a plethora of cliched travel writer descriptions. Of course timeless, nestled, quaint, and picturesque would accuratly lay a out a nice visual. Sitting above the Prtivi Highway, I thought, now this is the best view in Nepal, but Ive thought this more than once, in fact everytime Im at a nice viewpoint. Bandipur has the stuff of national geography caliber dreams. There is lots of baby-kissing, and kite-flying and every few minutes or less you can see butterfles the size of your open hand and crumbling temples carved with wooden dragons. Though it lies on the road between Pokhara and Kathmandu, Nepals two most popular tourist destination, Bandipur sees few travellers, andit shows. There are o touts, guesthouses are families homes with a spare bedroom, and the children beg to have their picture taken, without asking for a rupee-- seeing their own faces on the LED screen in reward enough. Im off to Kathmandu today. Wish me luck on the hellish bus ride.

Tough old broads

I love old biddies. They've put up with more crap in their lives than men, generally speaking, and they make great bodyguards. Don't judge an old woman because she may be small, frail and have maybe, maybe, three remaining teeth. I decided to hike up to the brilliantly white world peace pagoda hidden in the mountains above Pokhara. This was, as I discovered walking into the jungle, a stupid idea. I had ead that walking alone, especially as a white woman, was dangerous. The gusthouse owner assured me taht it was fine, but I saw by the looks of the Nepalese men (who tend to be very innocent and sweet) that maybe I should put y trust in Lonely Planet (aka the Bible) and four Nepalese women. They took my under their wrinkled saggy wings off the main trail away from men offering to serve as "guides" and towards angry buffalo and leeches. No matter. We collected firewood and laughed at our inability to communicate. When they saw me reach down to pull off a small black worm nestled between my toes, which I later discovered, seeing blood, was a leech, we sopped and the youngest removed a small colorful handkerchief from the bundle tied to hger abdomen with cloth. Inside were small, thick-skinned tomatoey looking fruit, which she crushed between her fingers and rubbed on my exposed feet and legs, a natural insect repellent, which surprised me, seeing as the Nepalese, like the Indians, find feet repulsive. In exchange, I pulled out pieces of papaya that I had brought along or sustinance. We all enjoyed the fruit, especially the eldest, who was practically moaning with satisfaction. Her dental history limited her to certain foods, one of which I managed to produce. From that moment on,she watched over me like I was her favorite great granddaughter. We trudged on, poassing incredible views. I left them at a clearing loaded with quality dry branches, just twenty minutes from the pagoda. I'd be back, I indicated to them, but didnt get a hundred feet before a disgruntled buffalo blocked the path in front of me. He was above me, and he stood legs apart, head up and to the side, glaring at me with one eye as if challenging me to a duel. Again, the women came to my rescue, armed with wticks, rocks, and loud tsk-tsking voices. With the path buffalo free and my seedy, sticky feet protected, I made it up to the pagoda. I met a loe traveller who offered to share a boat ride back across to central lakeside. I headed back to inform my team, but they were gone, probably spead out looking for sticks. I wrote a note in pidgin English, and included a happy face, remembering that they not only could not speak English, they were also illiterate. I hope they got the note I tied to a nice big stick I picked up for them as a present on my way down to catch up with them.

Nepal

Travelling in Nepal after India is like exhaling. Well, maybe not the actual travelling, as in moving from A to B, per se. The bus ride was hell. Midway through an eight hour bus ride on a seat made of the hardest wood found on earth, we stopped for lunch at a roadside cafe. I was the only non-Asian (this happens to me often, don't you think?), and was a bit confused on proper Nepali restaurant etiquette. I followed suit of the other passengers and took a seat at a corner table facing the action so I could copy the others. I didn't see a single menu, so I was thinking of possible food items available. I'm sure they had some popular Indian dishes, which after four weeks in India I am comfortable with, of the much-raved Nepali momos, a kind of dumpling. I waiter rushing past plopped a large sectioned metal tray in front of me filled with food. Thali, I think to myself. Thali is a large Indian dish made up of a mis of pulses that you mix with rice in the middle portion, then use chappati to scoop the food to your mouth. I was pleased, and waited only a few moments for the chappati to arrive until I realized everyone in the restaurant had already begun eating, sans chappati. While waiters moved around replenishing the pulses and rice until you are filled to the brim, people use their freshly washed hands (right hand only, of course. This is still South Asia) to scoop the scalding food into the rice, spin the rice into a somewhat manageable ball, and suck/slurp/scrape/dump the portion into their mouth, which hovers wisely over the palte. The whole hand is unavoidably covered in rice and sauce by the end of the meal. It was delicious, and I still have no idea what its called, of the animal who sacrificed himself for my eating pleasure. Im thinking yak, but Id rather not ponder it too long. Talk to you soon.

More photos

You better appreciate this. It took DAYS. Go and see em. Leaving for Nepal tonight, as previously mentioned, and heading to Pokhara. See you then!

Hear ye! Hear ye!

Pictures have officially been posted- well, the good ones anyways. Including hair pictures!! Go see em. Flickr. If you didnt get my email with the link, type in world_traveler_84 at the Flickr website, and Ill come up.
peace

The infamous Taj and burning ghats on the banks of the Ganges at Varanasi

So, I can leave India a happy woman. Have you seen French Kiss, with Meg Ryan and Kevin Kline? You know how she is in Paris, trying to get a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower, and she keeps missing it but semi-seconds? Well, that was me. Buzzing around on rickshaws, I'd see a white building out of the corner of my eye, and by the time I'd turn, it would be gobbled up by a horrifically ugly building. The thing is as gorgeous as you'd imagine a building built in the name of love would be, if not more. Everyone says from close up its not really white, but I do not speak from experience. Admission for tourists is 750 rupees ( ten for locals), which is a total atrocity. The local joke is that ten rupees goes to the restoration of the monument, and the remaining 740 goes to new mercedes for the prime minister. The admission just gets you into the gates for that famous view up the water, and into a tomb, where you can't take any pictures. I couldn't rationalize this. So, me being a poor bastard, I went to the park on the other side of the river and took some equally beautiful and much cheaper pictures. That is basically all to report about Agra, which is kind of a dump. I was only there for one day, took a night bus in and a night train out to Varanasi, where people go to die. This is actually a good thing. This morning, I was ushered to the burning ghats. If a hindu dies in Varanasi, they are guaranteed into heaven. This means the city is filled with hospices that overlook the burning ghats (kind of depressing, if you ask me), and crawling with old people, like Florida. So, the Ganges, or Ganga as its called in Hindu, is a holy river, and numerous bodies are burned on its banks each day. Upwards of fifty, I gather. The deceased is indicated by the location of the burning, the color of the cloth, and what ends up in the river after the ceremony. Pregnant women, children, and holy men are not burned at all, if I understand this correctly. Men's chests and women's hips ( the fattiest part of us), are dumped into the Ganga after the rest of the body is burned. There were about ten burnings happening while I was there, and the mood was, not jovial, but not sombre. There was a chai stand very close by ( a little too, close for my liking) and people were moving constantly, unlike funerals in the states, where there is a lot of standing. Someone brought me up to a hospice that overlooks the procession, making me promise not to take any pictures. I saw the remains of a man who had been burning for hours. A woman was being brought down from above to be placed on her pile of wood, and a group of men were piling wood on top of another body still. The smoke from all of the fire burned my eyes, and I was kinda creeped out at the fact that the smoke were the bodies remains. My Irish friend who has been to Varanasi before tells me that last time he saw a hand floating in the river. Im going for a sunrise boat ride on the Ganga tommorow morning, looking out for its famous dolphins ( how anything lives in that cesspool is beyond me). The ghats are the center of life in Varanasi. Buffalo swim in it, boys splash in it, men bathe in it, women wash clothes in it, it is where the sewers run, and everyone seems to drink from it. Ill let you know if I see any body parts floating. Im off to Nepal in the next few days, but I dont really feel like Im leaving India. Strange.

Gushy India Stuff

Things that are liked easily are rarely appreciated with the same magnitude as those that take time and patience to understand, and, in time, respect. hI speak of, of course, India, this is not to say that India takes its time to seep into you and establish its definitive position. India, who cannot be bothered with trivial pleasantries, slaps you in the face with a sweaty, stinking, dirty palm, leaving you disoriented, dignity and intelligence wounded, and you kinda like it. Your brain is overexposed to the rich scale of elements, and I fear my senses will fail to register duller, less exciting cultures in the future. Everyone warns that India is a shock to all five senses. Unpleasant poverty is accompanied and balanced by glorious richness. There is no room for blandness, silence or passivity. All is vibrant, loud and rapid. There is the incessant presence of local open public toilets that carry foul smells throught othe streets, but there are also large burlap sacks whose edges are rolled down to expose fragrant mounds of coriander powder and tumeric. "One rupee? One rupee? One pen? Hullo?" wailed by forlorn children with flashing eyes are drowned out by the wails of forlorn lovers and twangs of flashing sitars pushing out of every radio. A spike of sweetness from a pistachio dessert can easily give way to a slow flood of heat over teh tongue from a particularly potent batch of mali kofta. While cities are brimming with zooming rickshaws and honking motornikes, villages impassable streets are congested with ambling worshippers whose murmurs roar together with the sounds of drums and chanting. The heat that debilitates all movement save for the continuous flow of sweat from your pores in the dusty deserts can be washed away in an instant by a sudden downpour of one of India's famous monsoons. But, of course, I fail to do India justice. See it, taste it, smell it, touch it and hear it for yourself. Travelling to be humbled takes a lot of hard work. Leave those cushy european playgrounds! Abandon those predictable hamburgers and cappucinos! Throw aside those asanine assumptions and dive in with your eyes closed like a trustworthy child would. Embrace your stupidities, because from bad decisions comes experience.

Pushkar part deux

I walked up to one of Brahama's wives temples in Pushkar, and inevitably collected a group of five young boys. After the prerequisit of outstretched hopeful hands, they accepted their curious fate of finding a poor, American no less, tourist ("America, very rich country, no?" with the innocent head tilt). They accompany me up the hill bounding up the rock steps, chattering the whole way. They scamper towards me but stop a few inches away, just out of reach, then a few become brave and touch my hand and run awau, laughing. They show me the temples on each mountain top surrounding Pushkar in incomprehensible Hindi- I smile politely- and bid me goodbye as I head back to my guesthouse. Halfway down the mountain, I hear rocks tumbling behind me. Expecting to find my young friends, I turn, and then I begin to smile. Five small brown goats look at me silently. They hop towards me nimbly and stop two steps away. I reach out to them, and they leap past me, chirping-like barks squeaking out each time they land. I continue on, the goats stopping and staring expecftantly as I pause, all the while I wait for them to ask me for a rupee.

Pushkar

Johnny the Israeli and I were walking into Pushkar from our hotel when an uncharacteristically large Indian man pressed an orange flower ressembling a flourescent carnation into my swinging hand. "Take to lake for puja. Chalo," He instructed. Pushkar is a holy place, where you can't find eggs, meat, or alcohol, and where Hindus are required to make a pilgrimage journey once in their lifetime. The lake round which the town resides is said to be sacred, I believe the birthplace of Brahma, the surprisingy lesser-favored god who created the universe. I am transferred swiftly off to a lithe, old-as-rocks man wearing a red turban and a once white cloth wrapped strategically around his lower half, who takes my hand after I deposit my sandles with a huge pile of dirty plastic thongs intermingled with polished Gucci knockoffs, and I am led down the white marble steps (ghats) which disappear into the green water of Pushkar lake like a slowly sinking monument. His knees pop forward and he quickly squats way down on his haunches, knees framing his face, in a way that only Indians over the age, of, say 70, can accomplish. We lean forward over the water, and as he mixes rose petals and grains of rice in with fire-engine red- and saffron-colored powder into my outstretched hands I can see the murkey, broccoli soup of a lake wash over the large fish striped like tabby cats who flicker to the surface briefly. I keep a wary eye on the nearest cow, who has a yellow splash of color between its round dewy eyes and a thin red string tied around his large curved horns. As it rumbles from step to step, eating discrded banana peels and depositing huge landmines of banana peels in its most organic form every ten feet or so, its trademark foot-tall hump wobbles. Though generally mild-tempered (and, hey, who wouldnt be when you're considered sacred? These are the happiest damn cows Ive ever seen. They practically preen and coo to themselves their so pampered. Indian cows are the only child of the cow-world), I have been briefly chased once or twice, which isnt much considering the frequency in which they lumber into squealing traffic and steal the occasional sweet lemon from a fruit wallah. Anywho, my puja guy has scooped the lake water into my hands, which i am instructed to splash on my forehead, eyes, and ears while I repeat strange incantations. He stops with his hand in the air and looks at me concerningly, almost worriedly. "Are you married?" I laugh outloud, earning glares from fellow puja participators. If Indians shushed, they would have, but they dont. THey tut. So they tutted. "Why?" I ask suspiciously. " I must know if married, to pray for husband." "Ah. OK. No. He places a small hairy cocount in my cupped hand along with my electric carnation, and then drops a red and yellow string on top; this, you see, is my Pushkar passport. As long as you wear one for the length of your stay in Pushkar, you wont be hassled by priests and "priests", asking to perform the puja ceremony, which is very difficult to weasel your way out of, if so inclined. He mixes some more red powder in with a few drops of lake water, and rubs the paste between my eyes. He bats a few grains of rice out from under the coconut and presses them delicately into the paste. "Put in water," he says, lifting the string and nodding to my hands. "All?" "All." THe coconut bobs in the spreading powder and floating rose petals,which splash gently up over the hungry fish who congregate quickly, testing for something edible. My puja provider touches my head in completion. I rise to make my donation, step gingerly over a creative number of obstacles including but not limited to children, betel spittle, clothes being washed and cow crap, and return back to hunt for my shoes that have been, of course, buried instantaneously.

Random Observations- part 2. The India series.

My favorite thing about the Indians are the way they nod their head to say ok. It reminds me of a bobblehead doll. The sides of their head bounce off of their shoulders, rather than nodding forward and backwards like us. Basically, the first time I saw someone do this, I thought they were shaking their head no. Apparently this confusion carries over to indicating no, which is a slight tilt of the head forward. Im sure you have all heard that the left hand in India is considered very dirty because they, well, you know, and so you must never point, gesture, hand over something, take something, eat or touch someone with the left hand. To further complicate things, there are practically no silverware to speak of, so you rip off a piece of chappati (bread like dry thin naan) with your right hand, using every finger despite its dexterity, and scoop up the wonderful sauces that dominate the food here. Its a seriously messy ordeal. They also never touch their lips to the cup they are drinking from if the liquid is cold, if i understand this correctly. Vicky could drink water from my Nalgene while riding a camel, for gods sake. these people are seriously talented. The red dot that we associate with Indians indicates that they prayed this morning in a temple, and a yellow dot helps to, as Vicky explains, "cool your brain". This is interpreted by me in many ways. THere are water pumps for local use all over the place, which is where people cool off in the bloody hot summer, which is exactly where i am now, still carrying around that damn coat for my Kili climb. Dumb. I was complaining about the mud splashed up on my legs after a baby-monsoon storm in Udaipur, and Vicky told me to go rinse off at a highly populated water pump. I got some looks when i walked up, but then they helped me pump the water, and when I bent down to wash my legs, they even poured some on my head to cool off my head and neck. Cows wander the streets here like revered pigeons- they are absolutely everywhere, people ignore them for the most part, drive around them without any irritation whatsoever. They have nice little necklaces and painted forheads to indicate if they are owned by someone, but for the most part, they are unowned, and are fed like stray dogs by anyone and everyone. Oh, and the driving. These people looove horns. THey just love em. ON the back of all trucks, there is a sign that says "horn ok please". How can they incourage this madness? Honking here is a different philosophy from in the states. Its absentminded, just a passing thought, rather than a indication of rage. People who are honked at dont really react either. I asked VIcky if his feet ever get run over while walking in narrow streets with the zooming motorbikes. He laughed at me. "Come on. Of course not". SIlly foreigner. The time difference between here and california is 13 and one half hours. Huh? I have become a chai junkie utterly and completely. Go ahead and laugh Mariah. It tastes different here. Im not sure how, but i inhale this stuff. Last tuesday I was cutting my nails, and Vicky said that he would cut his nails the next day. I asked why not today, and he said that you dont cut your nails or hair on tuesday. ill have to look into the rational for that one. When you order a samosa or any kind of fried street food here, they serve it in a bowl molded out of a dried leaf. cool.

Negligent P catches up with loads of info...

A quick recap for those of you who cannot be bothered with such silliness- I was in a Bollywood television series as an Australian Hindi-speaking business woman. My indispensable friend Vikram (Vicky) the Indian helped me purchase a cell phone in Udaipir, so I am now connected to the rest of the world, which is both ubiquitous and a little sad. I rather liked being elusive. My number is 00919785635715, but as of yet it is an expensive paperweight on which I can play Sudoku. While Im still in the state of Rajasthan, I can get free calls and texts, when the damn thing works of course. Its only five rupees ( under 10 cents) for texts and per minute talk time. Oh, and the buttons are in Hindi. Cool. I went on a camel safari with Vicky, and he is totally spoiling me, seeing as he knows everyone in Udaipur and Jaisalmer, where I am currently. He's heading back to Udaipur where he works, and um, Im not quite sure where Im going. In Udaipur I saw the lake palace where Octopussy was filmed. I still havent seen it, which is amazing because every rooftop restaurant ( and in Udaipur, every restaurant is rooftop) plays the film at seven EVERY NIGHT OF THE YEAR. How would you like to be a waiter at this restaurant? Vicky took me to a dinner party for one of his friends in a village outside of Udaipur. I was the only woman there, let alone foreigner. They were pleased and dare I say impressed that I handled the spicy food like I did. I told them that I like spicy food, and I really do, but damn. This was a sweat dripping in the food, nose running mess of a meal. I wanted to appear all tough, so I casually wiped my brow and sniffed quietly, but then I heard Vicky sniffle, and I saw the men take out bandanas to wipe their foreheads. It appears that its not as though they dont think its hot they just enjoy the heat- it makes the meal good. I laughed outloud, and we suffered/enjoyed the rest of the meal together.
Next were taking a bus to Jodhpur together, then onto Pushkar? Bundi? Jaipur? No clue. Camel safari was an ass-blistery good time. Moria, my camel, is a doll. I already miss his horrendous gas and furry lips. We camped under the stars in the desert just outside of Pakistan with a Spanish couple, who spoke to us in Spanish and us to them in English. Gotta bolt take some last pictures of Jaisalmer. Ill write more later. Peace.

Mum.., I mean Bom..., I mean Mumbai

Here I am. I have sucessfully arrieved on a completely new continent. I want to apologize to all of you who are sending me lovely emails, to which I am not responding (of which?) . I am getting them and loving them, and I want you to keep them coming. My first photo was of a local man taking a pictures of me (no, not account of my breathless beauty; my hair gets me A LOT of attention these days.) and at his back are the gates of India. Its magnificient. I came a little unprepared though. I didnt have a lonely planet ( essential), and I had no idea where I wanted to go after the first night, which was prearranged. But all is dandy now. Im in the Colaba, and I already had a samosa, thank you very much. Its strange not to say Jambo and Asante ( hello and thank you in Swahili), but Namaste is sounding pretty great. I was walking along a main road today, just breathing in the city, which is nice and humid, not exactly my favorite weather, and I found myself stepping in stride with an ancient old man dressed in white with a white turban. He looked at me on account of my white skin and of course, the hair, then we caught eyes walking side by side and smiled to each other. A group fo young men walking the opposite direction saw this moment, and erupted into hoots of laughter and cheers for the old guy. It was hilarious. Someone, no, a few people told me that India experienced for the first time would be a shock to my system. Its not so bad, maybe it takes a few days, but when I stepped out of the air conditioned airport at midnight, my glasses fogged. It seemed strangely appropriate. Got to run. Off to see about trains tommorow for Rajasthan and Elephanta island.

Simbas and Bananas

They wake us at 11:00, four hours after we have fellen asleep; its time to go. We are told not to carry too much water despite the grueling nine hour hike that lies before our weary feet; -25 degree celcius is too cold to stop for bathroom breaks. We walk single file, without talking. Rests are infrequent and short. Any stumble or disagreeable sound merits a steely glare from our leaders who percieve all in the darkness; they need us healhty for the severly arduous climb. Sounds like slaves being led through cruel living condisionts, doesn't it? I can't believe I actually paid for this, I keep thinking.
I've never quite understood mountain climbing. Life is about the journey, not the destination, right? Well, I was lured to the snowy faces of the 5900 meter behemouth lovingly referred to simply as "Kili". Mt. Kilimanjaro rarely peeks out from behind the shrouding clouds, which, considering its size and influence on the country around it, seems impossible. A mile away, you'd never know it was there on a cloudy day. The Uhuru summit peak is actually a few hundred meters higher than Everests' Base Camp, a fact revelaled to me at the foot of the mountain. Shit, I think.
Climbing 5900 meters brings us through three vastly different ecosystems. We hike from the Marangu gate to the Mandara huts which sits at 2700 meters goes through steamy rainforest. Mandara to Horombo huts at 3700 meters leads us through a desert climate. The last trail to the Kibo huts at 470o meters before the Uhuru peak is a misty lunar landscape that brings one to contemplate, rather uncomfortably, that if nature fails to survive at these heights, what deludes us in to expecting that we can?
So, I think we can all agree that oxygen is pretty rad, right? Not having it SUCKS. Our bodies function properly with an oxygen-blood count of somwhere over 100-- most people " at altitude", that being over 3000 meters, have to cope with a count of around 40. Easing your body into an oxygen poor atmosphere must be done very carefully, so we practically crawled up the moutain. Cold molasses moves faster than we did. I would never expect that physical exhaustion wouldn't take place on a five day hike up a mountain, but by the last day, my muscles were barely sore. The trump card lies, of course, with the height. Common ailments, simple activities and everyday conversation are steeped in altitude sickness. If you don't pee every five minutes, you are not drinking enough water and are subsequently suffering fgrom sever dehydration. A common headache is a sign that your brain lacks enough oxygen to function on a basic level. Quick bursts of pathetically small amount of energy, i.e. turning over in your sleep, putting on your socks or taking a gulp of water require huge gasps in order to replace lost air.
On the final sday when we woke from our midnight trek to catch the sunrise at the summit, I was a pack-a-day smoker breathing through a long thin straw, stumbling and swaying like a hungover drunk with ski poles; the patented Kili shuffle. Thank god for those walking sticks, though. Mre than once I was bent over with my forehead resting on the handles , arms dangling and posts splayed like a narcoleptic deer passed out on his own antlers.
Thought process at this point are either left foot, right foot, left foot... or absurdities to take your mind off the chalenging hours that lie ahead. I took the seond approach. I struggled through the alphabet in spanish, though this took ages on account of sever disorientation. Then I tried naming actors whose first and last name began with the same letter for each letter in the alphabet. The alphabet seemed like a nicely methodical thing to focus on.
Each hiker necessitates five helpers-- Two porters that charge up the mountain with about 25 kgs on their head, zooming past us without so much as breaking a sweat. One cook that is clearly trained in pushing energy-saturated foods at us; obscene mountains of bread, potatoes, rice and pasta (carbs equal energy, you know), foods loaded with water like oranges and watermelon to sneak our water intake up to five liters a day and just enough salt to allow our bodies to absorb the exhorbent amounts of water and render all food completely tastless, yet strangely satisfying. Our guide Joseph and his assistant Good Luck monitored our food intake like we were training sumo wrestlers or healing anorexia patients.
When I did finally reach the summit with Josephine the Irish and Sonja the German ( hi girls!) yet not beating Saint Vinnie and Puffy Orange ( hello our friendly SA representatives) after passing people being rushed down to safer altitudes on wheeled contraptions or even piggybacked by virulent guides, I felt truly empowered. I was capable to doing anything, I was invincible! I had conquered the highest peak in Africa, despite dangerouldy low amounts of oxygen, walking alongside people who had achieved much higher mountains. I laughed and danced, and then I sat and cried, trying to catch my breath from the dancing.

Kilimanjaro 0, Paige, 1

I DID IT! I F@#$ING DID IT! Oh shit it was hard. I cried at the top. Goodbye Africa! I will miss you greatly, but there are bigger Asian fish to fry. I leave to night for Nairobi, and then after the Springbok game, I fly to Joburg for one night, then Mumbai. Ill write you all from there with gory details about that beast of a mountain. love you.

Happy Birthday Dad! / Random Observations

I dont think I will ever go back to jeans again. These pants I have dry in half an hour with no sun and no wind. Incredible. I have never been so terrified of mosquitos in my life. Each one seems to represent Malaria. Their buzz just sounds like "dizzzzzeazzzze". Im that girl who runs from anything smaller than the tip of her little finger. How obnoxious. Since Obama is Kenyan, a popular topic of conversation between me and a Kenyan or Tanzanian is who I am voting for. THey seem to like my answer. Those of you who dont already know, I shaved my head into a mohawk. THe David Beckham comment is now up to 17, but I did get Judd Nelson from Breakfast Club (hi Thomas the German), Mr T, and some Brazilian soccer player called ROnaldo. DOnt know him. Mohammed the Saudi from my tour group, whose english is a bit dodgy, called me "man chicken" (he was going for rooster, which of course I now know how to say Arabic and Swahili). Because of my new skull, I have to put sunscreen on the sides. Its cold up there without any hair. In the supermarket the other day, I saw a sign describing general items in the asile. "Haberdashery" was on that list, along with "Manchester" Very confusing. In Zanzibar, a muslim girl asked if I wanted to take her picture, then asked me for a dollar. Start em young, eh? THey also tend to ask for pens. Dont get that one yet. You know how the French are obsessed with dogs, and are so allowed in fancy restaurants? Well, in EAst Africa, cats wind around your feet in restaurants. I kinda like it. Cant say as much for some other people in my group. Kat (ironic) the Brit claims they all have rabies. Isnt it ironic that only like 13% of Americans have a passport, but we have all of these roots all over the world that we have no interest in seeing? Meanwhile, other countries whose inhabitants are not mutts like most Americans (ok, maybe just myself) are fascinated by other peoples cultures. Dont get it. I loove sharing random moments with strangers. After I talked to my dad on his birthday, I told a man in line at the post office. He wasnt as excited as I had hoped. Its the backpackers that are fantastic at feigning interest. They know what its like not to discuss tiny moments of excitement. The more I travel, the more I write and the less pictures I take. Rugby is so hard core and American Football seems so foolish now that Ive been exposed. I mean, rugby players wear nothing but a little pathetic foam hat, and football players wear all that padding! Plus, when a rugby player is at the bottom of a five men pile up, there is no time out. Hes gotta suck it up. Its my new favorite sport. Why is it that street food is supposed to be so dangerous, but its the best cheapest true food to be found when you travel? Needless to say, Ive dabbled. Ok, Im in Moshi now, left the group this morning, (hi guys!) and am off to Mt Kili the day after tommorow. Dont worry, I got a beanie and a nice coat. We saw the tip of it yesterday, and sure enough, the thing is covered in snow. Natalie gave me her minging sleeping bag, so I should be pretty set. Missing the Olympics, which is sad. It on TV in my hotel room in Hindu, so, that will have to do. I probably wont get to write until I get back off the mountain, and even then, I fly out for Joburg that day. The next morning, I leave for Mumbai, India, so you wont hear from me in a while. Wish me luck!

Zanzibaaaaar!

No one here seems to know Tenacious D. Oh well. Zanzibar is amazing. Within an hour I was sad to know that I just had a few days here. We stayed in Stone Town for one night, the northern beaches for two nights and here we are again in Stone Town. Yesterday I went snorkeling off of the town of Nungweni, and had freshly grilled fish on the powdered sugary beaches. Today was the first time I witnessed my first bribe to corrupt cops, as well. Very exciting. Apparently, Martin our tour guide sticks out as an obvious Kenyan in Tanzania, and because of ill feelings, is subject to being targeted by the local pigs. We were stopped for a routine check, and Martin was asked to get out. They were clearly hassling him, be they were speaking in Swahili, and we were all totally lost. He had to get into their car, and drove behind us for about ten minutes until we got to the police station. Our driver had to pay 300 USD to get us off, and Martin got back into our truck, extremely pissed. He insists that Kumuka contacted the Commision of Tourism, who apologized profusely and will return the money. Hmm. Sounds unlikely to me. We said goodbye to the Spaniards, and will be leaving tommorow for Dar Es Salaam for my last night with the group. After that, it will be a few nights in Moshi, then onto Mt Kilimanjaro. Insanity insues.

Acacia

Let me tell you about the Acacia trees that grow all over Kenya and Tanzania. The ghastly yellow allergy-inducing atrocities taht I'm accustomed to seeing pop-up along any Santa Cruz roadside bear no ressemblance to these beauties tat draw almost as much fascination from me as teh animals tat co-exist with them. They are the quinessential "African" tree. Practically the only flora on the vast dry plains, looking at one conjures up nostalgic childhood memories of alone cheetah relishing in its shade or a family of giraffe enjoying its fruit as the setting sun is interesected by its gnarled trunk. Through they are fairly tall, its a squat-looking tree with a concave plate of a canopy, always tilting precariously as if threatening to slide off the circus performers stilts if not regularly spun. The leafy roof rests on the branches trhat seem to buckle out into hinged elbows and sprawl outward as if struggling to support the akwardly distrbuted weight. The ochre earth in the Ngorongoro crater is thrown up and coats half the tree, leaving it and the brown landscape uiniformily dusted like a messy flour fight, substituted with paprika. Some varities grow menacing, two-inch-long-needled vines to protect against afofmentioned giraffe and which leap out to attack thuroughly distracted tourist; natures watchdog. Iridescent birds I only expect to see amongst enormous vibrant flowers of the Amazon make peculiar homes in other varities still (there are tons) below the acacia's bowing canopy. The branches sag under the weight of the nests as they stack on one another like furry beads on a necklace. I could easily gush in this manner about many other plants here, but I must go. You see, Zanzibar awaits.

Ish Ish

I have discovered that there is a Stop N Shop in Arisha Tanzania. Not our East Coast favorite, but nonetheless. I have a bit more time now, but the blog will still be a little scattered. Here is a list of all of the animals I have seen thus far on my safari adventure- Giraffe (Rothschild and Maasai), Whildebeast (lots of em- they look like old men with beer bellies), Zebra (natures mystery to me- how do they hide from pretadors?), Thompsons Gazelle, Baboons (broke into camp and ate all our mayo and bananas), Impala, Guineafowl (my personal fav), Duiker, Duik-duik, Topi, Ostrich, Lion (oh yeah, male, female, teenagers, babies, eating a Wildebeast, sleeping, hunting, the works), Ostrich, Eland, Warthog, Genet (look it up- its basically a big cat), Hartbeast, Vulture, Water Buffalo (peered at us all night long during the night of the baboon fiasco), bat-eared dog, Eagle, Defassa Waterbuck, Heron, Elephant (see Lion above- minus the Wildebeast part, and hunting, unless you call tree munching as hunting), Vervet Monkey (super cute- hang babies under their bellies when they run, but are sneaky- have lost multiple bananas and cookies), Egyptian Goose ( like pigeons here- beautiful), Cheetah (no, it wasnt running, but rolling in the dirt like a house cat), hippo, White and Black Rhino (yet they are both black in color, hmm), Jackal, umm, and tons of birds. Go look up the Superb Starling. Our tour guides dumped us with a smaller tour where we were broken up to drive in swift little land rovers over the Ngorongoro Crater and the famous Serengeti. They butt up against each other, so you literally just leave one and enter another. There are 14000 sq kilometers to be had in the Serengeti. We didnt see it all. Its big and dry and flat and mysterious. You are certain that you will arrive at that pile of rocks over there sooner or later, but it takes days. Its a wonder we see animals at all there. Our drivers name was Simba. That is all to report on that anomaly. I saw someone who was wearing a Jamaica Plains shirt. We had a nice little excited moment talking about the homeland, since I am the only American in the group, as usual. There are Saudis, Irish, British, Spanish, French, and Aussies. And little ol' me. I get picked on a bunch. There is a really popular song here right now, and its all about Barack Obama. His face is plastered all over Kenya, its hugely comical. We are camping every night, and waking up before sunrise everyday, so, yes Megan, I did get to see a sunrise. On our way back to Arusha today SImba stopped and we bought some red bananas which are special to the area. Smaller than ours, and much sweeter. The meat is even a bit pink. Mohammed is teaching me Arabic, and Joseph is teaching me Swahili. Wanna little lesson? A habari yasibohi ( this is phonetic people) - Good morning in Swahili. Zubda- butter in Arabic. Ok, thats it for now. Ive got serious camera envy. There are people here with insane cameras, and although mine works just fine, they can get close to things I cant see easily. Note to mom- the Spanairds tell me that a car jack in Spanish is gato. Strange. There are these blue sheets that are hanging all over the Ngorongoro, and apparently they are drench in insecticide for the Tsetse, who are attracted to the dark blue, but the male ostriches legs turn pink when he sees a lady he likes. Just a little color observation. I need to go, but Ill check in when I arrive in Dar Es Salaam in two days, or in Zanzibar in three. Please continue to leave comments people! I thrive off of them.