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...