Here Be Dolphins

The city of Kratie is a small, dusty grid of streets along the Mekong River, 7 hours northeast of Phnom Penh. The woman at the ticket desk had been kind enough to give me a front row seat, which meant plenty of leg room and an unobstructed view of all the near disasters along the gently rolling road. My seat mate turned out to be an Australian gal named Elysha, the only other Westerner on the bus. She'd been volunteering in Phnom Penh for the past four weeks and was headed to Kratie to visit the friend of a friend. Social remora that I am, I invited myself along for the ride.

We're both glad that I did. At the bus stop her friend Sithy (pronounced "city") and his friend Taon (pronounced "town") met us with big grins and their motor bikes. After dropping our bags, we hopped on the back and zoomed 15 km upriver, past wooden houses on stilts and glimpses of the broad Mekong, to the official dolphin viewing site. Wonders of wonders, the Irrawaddy dolphin somehow managed to find its ecological niche in the turgid waters of this river, poking along just fine until the gill nets and pollution of their human neighbors began taking their toll. There are currently between 80 and 100 of the critters left, and this site near Kratie is one of their main protected areas. They look surprisingly like the porpoise on my arm, although they are light gray in color with rounder heads and longer bodies.

Elysha and I climbed aboard a little wooden boat with our 17-year-old skipper and motored upriver to join a couple other boats. It was the oddest thing to hear a dolphin blow in fresh water. They poke their bulbous heads out of the water first to exhale, then roll smoothly back under the thick brown water. How they see anything down there is entirely beyond me. Eventually the rest of the boats left, and we tied up to a submerged tree to revel in the quiet and watch the sun creep lower on the horizon. One solitary dolphin surfaced repeatedly right beside us, silhouetted against the evening sky. Eventually he moved on and so did we.

Paradoxical Phnom Penh

Cambodia has truly been through hell and back again. You wouldn't really know it as you walk down the waterfront, past the sleek bars and restaurants with full wine lists, to the sparkling Royal Palace and carefully tended park in front of it. Then a man with one leg tries to sell you photocopied books. A small girl wheels her father and his twisted body up to you on a wooden cart. Groups of dark, dusty kids jostle for the prize of your leftover snack or empty water bottle. A man with a horrifically burned face holds out his hat for whatever you'll give him. It's hard to justify the argument that giving to these people encourages their dependency when they're looking you in the face.

It's not all gloom and doom, fortunately. Many of those swanky coffee shops offer vocational training for such kids, and the profits go towards shelters or other programs. There are handicraft workshops for people with disabilities and I even received a wonderful massage from a blind woman. When she got to the knots in my neck she giggled and exclaimed "So much stress!", and I laughed because of all the people around I really have the least to worry about. It must be all that bike riding and bus sitting and email writing. My life is so hard.

In one such coffee shop I got up to pay for my drink and ended up deep in conversation with the gal behind the cash register, who had excellent English. She got out the guest book so I could write a comment, and while I was drawing her a map of where I'm from (thank goodness the states out west are big and relatively square) we were joined by a couple little kids with large crates of books slung over their shoulders. They claimed the pen and proceeded to sketch out the four of us, labeled with names and everything. There was much giggling at the size of my head or the height of the figures relative to one another. Despite the calluses on their feet and the holes in their clothes, kids are still kids.

Hookie in Sihanoukville

After three days of hot, dusty, tiring exploration in Angkor Wat, and before Anna-Lisa begins her stint in Phnom Penh, we took a couple days officially doing nothing in the beach town of Sihanoukville on Cambodia's southern coast. We arrived on the weekend to white sand beaches equally full of pink Western tourists in bikinis and wealthier Khmers frolicking fully clothed in the ocean.

Day one we hiked down the beach, where our solitude came at the price of a narrower beach lightly littered with trash. Day two we got lazy and chose a couple lounge chairs closer to all the bamboo restaurants. This luxury was a trade for a constant barrage of women offering to take the hair off your legs with a piece of string, children selling bracelets with their sad eyes, and lady boys demanding to give you a pedicure to make you more beautiful. It was an uncomfortable feeling, lazing in the sun and trying not to watch these people march up and down the beach eking out a living.

Day three we said heck with it, and booked a boat for Bamboo Island. A 45 minute ride took us across the gently swelling Gulf of Thailand to one of the islands sprinkled off the coast, host to a couple restaurants and a row of simple bungalows lined on the white beach. Even while the storm clouds gathered on the mainland and the sound of thunder rolled across the water, we lounged blissfully in the sun. Needless to say, our consciences rested easier with the lack of beggars. Denial can be a powerful thing.

All Roads Lead to Angkor

Hopefully you've got a lot of time on your hands, because after three days of wandering around the ruins of Angkor Wat, this one's going to be a doozy.

The 5 hour journey from the Thai border to Siem Reap, Cambodia was a long dusty ride through flat, flat lands. The red dirt roads were interrupted every mile or so by construction, and occasionally by foot-deep ruts left over from the last rain. It could have been much worse, though; on rain-slick roads the trip can take as long as 15 hours.


On our first morning in Siem Reap we tried to take a tuk-tuk into the center of town to look for a new guesthouse, only to have our way blocked by the Cambodian army, parading triumphantly home from the Thai border. It may not have made international news but there has been a small border scuffle between Thailand and Cambodia over an even smaller temple. No shots were fired, although both countries sent troops to put on a show. Seeing the rag-tag procession make its way through town, it's a good thing for Cambodia that the conflict didn't escalate any further - one of the army trucks was broken down at the end of the road, hood up and harried colonel on the phone.

The first day I toured around the outer temples with Anna-Lisa, my new Spanish roommate, and a Brit named Alistair, in a moto-drawn tuk-tuk. Angkor Wat is the main temple but the area of ruined temples, libraries, and universities sprawls for several miles. Even in the open-air chariot it was extremely hot, although clouds appeared from somewhere in the afternoon and proceeded to pour on us on the way home.

I've neglected to bring my list of temples with me to the internet cafe so I haven't a clue as to the name of this one. From the top you can see thick green jungle all around, which gives you an idea of what this place must have looked like before the French "rediscovered" it.

I do remember that this place as Bantay Srei, a further 15 km from the main area and a tiny temple full of intricate, beautifully preserved carvings. On the outside of the site the locals have set up a miniature village of stalls and restaurants. Like every site, as soon as you hop off your bike or out of your tuk-tuk you're swarmed by kids and young adults selling cold drinks, bracelets, post-cards, bamboo flutes, and sundry other souvenirs. The kids who are just on school vacation are quick to laugh and start asking questions in well-enunciated English; the true beggar children won't take "no" for an answer and follow you relentlessly with their sad faces.

The actual Angkor Wat is an enormous complex that's like a choose-your-own-adventure book. Well-intentioned signs show you the "way of visit", or indicate "no entry", but during the sweltering mid-day hours Anna-Lisa and I wandered freely wherever we chose. The outer corridor is covered in 600 meters of bas-relief carvings depicting Hindu and Buddhist mythology, staggering in its scale and precision. The inner chamber houses five towers representing the holy Mt. Meru and other minor peaks.

Fun-sized, nothing. Beware the midgetzilla!

Besides the wonder of Angkor Wat, Anna-Lisa and I have been adjusting to this country that is Cambodia. She's headed to Phnom Penh to teach English for three months and we've been closely bonded first by her illness, then by the brief disappearance of her passport (recovered a couple agonizing hours later), and finally by the 30 hour journey from Vientienne to Siem Reap. We're definitely not in Laos any more. The faces are darker and overwhelmingly young - look up the Khmer Rouge when you get a chance, although I'm sure I won't be able to avoid writing about it. Shop owners, tuk-tuk drivers, and restaurants press insistently for business. The land is flat and filled with rice paddies and palm trees. And, of course, there's a whole new exotic language to butcher.

Vientienne Photojournal

Young monks checking out the flooding along the waterfront

Sandbags and sunset along the Mekong

Good lord, it's hot when the sun comes out

Cheese factor at That Luang (the Golden Pagoda)

After spending almost a week loafing around the big city, riding a bike, walking the streets, and finishing an obscene number of books in trendy coffee shops, I've finally roused myself to move on. Due to the floods that are still rendering the southern roads impassable (or so all the travel agents claim), a friend and I have opted to simply avoid the problem by going around. This involves one overnight bus to Bangkok, and then another bus to Siem Riep, Cambodia. My passport is in the hands of the Cambodian embassy as we speak, in the hopes that having a tourist visa already in place will prevent overcharging at the border (one does hear stories). It's probably all wishful thinking. Wish me luck in the journey - on to Angkor Wat!

MIA in VNTN

Of all the places I've been, you'd think the cosmopolitan center of Vientienne would be the last place I'd get sick. Of course, that's just what happened. Maybe it was the sketchy meat-product sandwich from the stall across from the bus station, or maybe it was that odd tasting fruit shake, but whatever happened there's been a relatively low-key battle raging in my stomach for the past couple days. In the grand scheme of things it hasn't been that bad, and my lack of appetite has been the worst part by far.

Prior to my gastro-intestinal declaration of war I was able to walk around and explore the city a bit. The main downtown area is spread along the banks of Mekong and at night you can see the lights of Thailand blinking at you. This is where all the glossy coffee shops, upscale boutiques, and fancy restaurants are located, something of a shock after all the austere concrete of the east. In the middle of it all, though, you'll see an old Lao woman in a traditional bamboo hat balancing a load of food to peddle, and just as many local women are dressed in stylish sinh, the traditional tube skirt, as are sporting jeans. There are open-backed trucks carting around loads of monks, pale tourist kids in Beer Lao shirts wandering the streets, and business men with briefcases hurrying on their way.

The sun has come out after nearly a week straight of rain although who knows what's going on upstream. During the past couple days there have been small armies of people building walls of sandbags all along the waterfront as the swollen Mekong creeps closer. The muddy water has pushed all sorts of logs, trash, and pieces of bamboo huts up against the banks, and the news is filled with images of flooded villages, monks filling sandbags, and huge landslides covering the roads. Hooray for the monsoons!

I'm halfway through my trip and it seems as good a time as any to take a break, even if it is stomach-induced. Three more months of adventures to come - thanks for those of you who continue to read this!

Muddin'

The best part about Vang Vieng is getting out of town, away from the bars serving happy shakes and showing "Friends" reruns, the drunk kids coming back from tubing, the stores selling all the same Lao souvenirs. When the weather clears you get an idea of why people started coming to Vang Vieng in the first place. Tucked along the river, the town is nestled in the middle of a striking karst landscape: peaks that rear up suddenly from the valley floor, covered in deep green forest and riddled with caves. The muddy river that conveys inner tubes down the river and past bars is fed by streams that drip through limestone caverns and carve honeycombs of chambers in the mountains.

It wasn't raining when we rented our mountain bikes but it didn't take long to start. My friend Morgan, a French gentleman, and I were determined to leave the party kids behind and explore the surrounding area, regardless of the weather. We didn't see much for the first hour as the clouds hung low over the rice fields, but we were concentrating so hard on dodging the rocks and puddles that we hardly looked up anyway. The puddles were the trickiest part: you were never quite sure how deep they were until you were in the middle of one.

At one particularly soupy patch my front tire got horrifically bogged down, skittering out from under me. I put a foot down to catch myself, the only problem being the ankle-deep mud didn't offer much traction. Shloop! My foot flew out from underneath me and suddenly I found myself in a full butt-plant in the middle of the huge mud puddle. Tangled in the bike, floundering in the muck, I was laughing too hard to get myself upright and Morgan was too surprised to be of any help. Luckily there was a creek right there where I plopped myself down to rinse off the dirt. Not that it did much good - within ten minutes I was covered again from the spray off the wheel, my pants, shirt and face splattered like a Pollock painting. Vermont, your mud season ain't got nothin' on Laos.

The Rain in Phonsavan Stays Mainly in the Plain (of Jars)

What does one do in Phonsavan besides visiting the Plain of Jars? Once you're done discussing transportation conundrums and looking at all the remnants of UXO (unexploded ordnance) around town, not much. The Plain of Jars is the broad name used for sites spread throughout the surrounding countryside, consisting of these bizarre stone containers that sit on the tops of hills or in the middle of cow pastures. The are literally stone jars, from two feet tall to ten feet. There are several explanations: ancient people used them to store lao lao, the locally-brewed rice whiskey; or, said people used them for funerary purposes; or, the gods were having a big picnic and got so drunk they forgot to pick up their cups when they went back to heaven. I'm rather partial to the last one, although the first one could have made for some epic "jar stands".

Even though the sites we churned up to on muddy tracks (known as "roads" in the dry season) had all been specially cleared, this part of the country is still recovering from the heavy bombings of the Vietnam War. You see signs of it everywhere - bomb craters used as fish ponds, UXO shells used for school bells or flower pots, the places you pass along the road where they are clearing areas currently used as fields. There are still at least 1oo fatalities and just as many injuries every year from land mines, bombs, and other weapons of local destruction. Even here it's still a good idea to walk on the maintained trails.

All it took was an eight hour bus ride this morning and I'm a world away from the stark concrete streets of Phonsavan. Being in Vang Vieng is hardly like being in Laos at all. The streets are lined with chilled-out restaurants serving "hambergers" and showing "Friends" on TVs, places advertising tube trips down the river, bars servings buckets of some mystery alcohol, and internet places with shiny new computers for the outrageous price of 300 kip a minute. After travelling the north and east of Laos with very few other tourists, it's a shock to the system to be back in a place where everyone else looks like me, except more fashionable and better groomed.

The Cutest Little Thing

One of the tactical errors I made on this trip was bringing along sports bras that were already on their last legs. They're really one of those things that don't get better with age, and all the scrubbings in the sink and hot, sweaty, bumpy bus rides have just about finished them off. Having never shopped for undergarments in a foreign country before, despite seeing them hanging at nearly every roadside store and stall, I was a little puzzled as to how to go about obtaining one. Cleavage is one area in which this wanderer is less fun-sized than super-sized, especially in a land of small, slightly built people.

The clothes market in Sam Neua, eastern Laos, stretches on for stall after covered stall, featuring all variety of sinh (the beautiful embroidered tube skirt most Lao women wear), fashionable jeans, and neon colored shirts. And, of course, underwear. I stopped at one place and the matronly woman grabbed down a whole pile of frilly bras to lay out before me. Neither one of us could figure out what kind of size I needed. In a moment of inspiration I dashed off down the aisle to the stalls where women were embroidering brightly colored Hmong costumes and proceeded to confuse them first with my charades, and then with my drawings of a tape measure. They looked at each other, faces asking "Does she want a belt? A jacket? What is this crazy falang doing?"

Finally I spotted a measuring tape hanging on a nail, and amused the women to no end as I wrapped it around my chest and jotted down the relevant numbers. I returned triumphantly to the first woman, measurements in hand, and we proceeded to sort through the pile until we found the closest approximation she had. After some bartering with the help of a calculator, I am now the proud owner of the pinkest article of clothing I have ever come across, much less owned: a high quality lacy Lao brassiere for all of $2. We'll see how the delicate little thing puts up with life on the road; you may be reading a replay of all this in a couple weeks.