An essential part of the tourist trail in Vietnam is escaping said tourist trail on the back of an Easy Rider's motorcycle in Dalat. These blue-garbed guides have gained such popularity throughout the years that they are now plagued with imitators, and as such have a vested interest in getting to the tourists first. After a five hour bus ride chugging up a twisty, windy mountain road, through acres of vegetable fields and stands of pine trees, we were greeted at our arrival point by two Easy Riders offering their services. We thanked them kindly, accepted their card, and headed off in the direction they indicated for our hotel. "Goodbye!" they waved cheerfully.
At the next intersection 20 feet down the road, we paused briefly to get our bearings, and heard a voice over our shoulder directing us to the left. We turned, and there was the short elfin guide, grinning under his helmet. "Goodbye!" he said, and zoomed off. Around the next corner we found the tall mustachioed guide waiting, pointing us across the road before gunning his bike and disappearing. It was like wandering through Willy Wonka's chocolate factory, with helpful little oompa loompas popping up at every turn. Sure enough, there they were in front of the hotel, and sure enough, they were still there when we came down from our siesta. We brushed them off to find food, having not eaten since a bowl of pho at 6:30 that morning, and were only moderately surprised to see the tall one pacing the pavement when we finished.
The persistent fellow's name was Sinh and we finally took up his offer of a day trip on the back of a bike to see the local sights. Once we had agreed he disappeared for good, at least until 8:30 this morning. Exiting our hotel we found Sinh and his diminuitive sidekick Hiu smoking on the sidewalk, awaiting our emergence. Helmets were adjusted, Mother's last-minutes jitters were brushed aside, and off we went.
Our journey covered at least 60 km, past pagodas and vegetable fields, through scorching sun and pelting rain (sometimes simultaneously), on dirt tracks and winding paved roads. Mother's favorite part was the silk factory, where we were shown the process from worm to finished fabric. The warehouse was hot and noisy from the rows of clattering machinery and vats of steaming water. From stacks of flat bamboo baskets the white silkworm cocoons were then boiled in water to loosen the fibers. Young women in aprons and rubber boots somehow connected the cocoons to a spinning machine that drew the thread apart from the cocoon, and then wound it together with other gossamer fibers to form thread. The next machine wound the thread onto large rounds, and from there it was further transferred to thick spools. The spools were then placed in huge weaving machines, with automated shuttles flying back and forth, and the pattern delineated by hole-punched cards cycling through near the ceiling. Seeing the whole mess in action was even more bewildering than the muddle I've just written.
Mother survived not only our two-wheeled flight around the countryside, but a slippery scramble down to a waterfall past a poisonous snake, a drenching downpour, and a wander through a certifiable crazy house (the bizarre architecture gave me vertigo just trying to navigate the stairways). Our adventures are somehow drawing to a close, with one more night in Dalat and then another in Saigon before she braves another marathon plane journey.
Friday, October 31, 2008
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Girls' Week Out
A series of planes, trains and automobiles have brought us safe and sound to the confines of Hoi An, that ancient trading city that has shifted from merchant goods to tourists. It's a very feminine town, full of beautiful old houses to wander through, quaint little shops with trinkets to browse, and enough culture oozing from the woodwork to start your own batch of yogurt. Did I mention tailors? We figure by this point "Hoi An" actually means "tailor" in Vietnamese, just like "yum" means "horny" (so be careful what you say to that cute old man at the delicious restaurant). You can't swing a monkey in this town without knocking down a manequin dressed in some piece of custom fashion, guarded by iron-willed women ready to wrest your measurements at the slightest hint of eye contact. Even my mother and I were not immune to the allure of exotic fabrics, and we'll pick up the final results tomorrow so they can be transported home to sit in our closets.
There's no better way to while away a rainy day than to hole up in the kitchen and produce delicious food, or so my mother taught me. As the monsoons are still alive and kicking in central Vietnam we decided to stick with tradition and enroll in a cooking class. The rain poured down all night, and by this morning the river that had been lapping at the esplanade had now fully engulfed its embankments and was creeping up the road, swallowing the waterfront whole. Our cheerful Vietnamese guide braved the deluge to take us through the market, pointing out obscure vegetables, familiar fruits, and kitchen implements essential for carving carrots into flowers.
Since the river was too high to take a boat to the cooking school we were loaded into a minivan, although the experience of skimming along at water-level was pretty much the same. It's amazing how much water those country roads can hold. Our dripping entourage transferred to the classroom, a pristine space with rows of chairs facing a demonstration table, complete with an overhead mirror. When the chef had finished his mechanical demonstration we moved to our individual cooking stations, where silent, efficient women delivered the prepared ingredients and whisked away dirty dishes. Eggplant hot pot, fresh rice paper for spring rolls, shrimp pancakes in rice paper, artfully arranged cucumber and tomato, we produced them all, with varying degrees of success. My tomato rose turned out more like salsa, but luckily there's time to practice before entertaining the family at Thanksgiving.
We'll see what tomorrow brings. Heads, the weather's good and we wander the countryside on bicycles. Tails, the rain continues and we drink thick Vietnamese drip coffee while writing postcards until our hands are shaking from the caffeine and literary effort. Either way we end up on a night bus to Nha Trang, and from there to Dalat. Come heat or high water we're heading for the hills.
There's no better way to while away a rainy day than to hole up in the kitchen and produce delicious food, or so my mother taught me. As the monsoons are still alive and kicking in central Vietnam we decided to stick with tradition and enroll in a cooking class. The rain poured down all night, and by this morning the river that had been lapping at the esplanade had now fully engulfed its embankments and was creeping up the road, swallowing the waterfront whole. Our cheerful Vietnamese guide braved the deluge to take us through the market, pointing out obscure vegetables, familiar fruits, and kitchen implements essential for carving carrots into flowers.
Since the river was too high to take a boat to the cooking school we were loaded into a minivan, although the experience of skimming along at water-level was pretty much the same. It's amazing how much water those country roads can hold. Our dripping entourage transferred to the classroom, a pristine space with rows of chairs facing a demonstration table, complete with an overhead mirror. When the chef had finished his mechanical demonstration we moved to our individual cooking stations, where silent, efficient women delivered the prepared ingredients and whisked away dirty dishes. Eggplant hot pot, fresh rice paper for spring rolls, shrimp pancakes in rice paper, artfully arranged cucumber and tomato, we produced them all, with varying degrees of success. My tomato rose turned out more like salsa, but luckily there's time to practice before entertaining the family at Thanksgiving.
We'll see what tomorrow brings. Heads, the weather's good and we wander the countryside on bicycles. Tails, the rain continues and we drink thick Vietnamese drip coffee while writing postcards until our hands are shaking from the caffeine and literary effort. Either way we end up on a night bus to Nha Trang, and from there to Dalat. Come heat or high water we're heading for the hills.
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Soggy in Sapa
It felt weird to be wearing long sleeves and closed-toed shoes as we walked through the swirling mists of Sapa. The mountain town is so far north that it's almost China, and it's the coldest spot in Vietnam. They even had snow this year, the first time since 2000. There was no snow during our brief visit but my thinned blood and light clothing ensured that I had goosebumps for the first time since that snowstorm in Kyrgyzstan.
We arrived off the night train just as it was getting light (the thick clouds assured that there was no sunrise). Our room had an amazing view of verdant mountains and tiered fields, but after snoozing for a couple hours the scenery had disappeared entirely, replaced by a thick bank of fog. The mountain tops never returned.
One of the things Sapa is famous for, besides its miserable weather and luscious scenery, is the various hill tribes that live in the surrounding area. In all actuality you can't avoid them because in the short span of time that Sapa has been a tourist destination the locals have become well-versed in the industry. As soon as you step out of your hotel, groggy from the turbulent overnight train, you are surrounded by a flock of shoulder-high women and girls, decked out in their traditional costumes of indigo fabric and intricate embroidery, and pushing more of the same in your face. For all their miniature stature they possess the tenacity of a pit-bull, and you have to wade your way up the street to a chorus of "You buy from me? You buy from me?". They can all ask your name, your age, how many children you have, and refuse to take "no" for an answer.
Mother's hands are still blue from from the leaves of an indigo plant we were shown while walking through a village, and her bag is about 20 pounds heavier from her new collection of fabrics. We both survived the hectic bus ride back down the hill to the train station, and we continue our southward migration today.
We arrived off the night train just as it was getting light (the thick clouds assured that there was no sunrise). Our room had an amazing view of verdant mountains and tiered fields, but after snoozing for a couple hours the scenery had disappeared entirely, replaced by a thick bank of fog. The mountain tops never returned.
One of the things Sapa is famous for, besides its miserable weather and luscious scenery, is the various hill tribes that live in the surrounding area. In all actuality you can't avoid them because in the short span of time that Sapa has been a tourist destination the locals have become well-versed in the industry. As soon as you step out of your hotel, groggy from the turbulent overnight train, you are surrounded by a flock of shoulder-high women and girls, decked out in their traditional costumes of indigo fabric and intricate embroidery, and pushing more of the same in your face. For all their miniature stature they possess the tenacity of a pit-bull, and you have to wade your way up the street to a chorus of "You buy from me? You buy from me?". They can all ask your name, your age, how many children you have, and refuse to take "no" for an answer.
Mother's hands are still blue from from the leaves of an indigo plant we were shown while walking through a village, and her bag is about 20 pounds heavier from her new collection of fabrics. We both survived the hectic bus ride back down the hill to the train station, and we continue our southward migration today.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Arrivatissima
Good golly, my mother's in Vietnam! She reminds me of this fact multiple times a day, battling through knots of speeding motorbikes, walking through a market where everything is still wiggling, or kayaking through sheer limestone cliffs on glassy-smooth ocean water. It's a far cry from previous vacations but I think she's enjoying it so far (she hasn't disowned me, at least).
Our one day of touring Hanoi has left us sated with the city - our itinerary requires at least one more trip through. Despite the noise and craziness it's much more accessible than Bangkok. The buildings are shorter, as are the blocks, giving the city a more human scale. Certain shops cluster together selling the same wares on appropriately named streets: Shoe Street, Watch Street, Flower Street, and apparently Eyeware Street. We visited the extensive courtyards of the Temple of Literature, walked past Ho Chi Minh's empty mausoleum to watch the changing of the guard, and sat through the colorfully cheesy, yet highly entertaining water puppet show with all the other tourists in town.
The traffic of Hanoi is as jarring as ever after an overnight trip to Halong Bay. Our boat was beautifully tripped out in dark wood and slept eight; only three of the cabins were actually occupied and we lucked out with the honey moon suite in the bow. Once we got done ogling the boat there was plenty of scenery to drool over. The limestone formations are similar to southern Thailand or Khao Sok National Park, except the rows of islands just kept disappearing into the blue horizon. Our path took us away from the more touristed areas, so for company we had a couple other junks, some floating fishing villages, and the sea eagles.
As we sat down for lunch we were unprepared for the 6 course bonanza that followed. The unexpected bounty left us even more vulnerable to the onslaught of dinner, where each course was presented with ornately carved fruits and vegetables. There were water buffalo made from potatoes, eagles carved from squash, and a glowing model of our boat from a watermelon, with wafer-thin slices of carrot for sails. Apparently the chef had a lot of time on his hands as we were cruising along the bay, rowing among floating houses, and kayaking past limestone cliffs.
Next step: the mountain town of Sapa, and hopefully some cooler climates. Bring on the train!
Our one day of touring Hanoi has left us sated with the city - our itinerary requires at least one more trip through. Despite the noise and craziness it's much more accessible than Bangkok. The buildings are shorter, as are the blocks, giving the city a more human scale. Certain shops cluster together selling the same wares on appropriately named streets: Shoe Street, Watch Street, Flower Street, and apparently Eyeware Street. We visited the extensive courtyards of the Temple of Literature, walked past Ho Chi Minh's empty mausoleum to watch the changing of the guard, and sat through the colorfully cheesy, yet highly entertaining water puppet show with all the other tourists in town.
The traffic of Hanoi is as jarring as ever after an overnight trip to Halong Bay. Our boat was beautifully tripped out in dark wood and slept eight; only three of the cabins were actually occupied and we lucked out with the honey moon suite in the bow. Once we got done ogling the boat there was plenty of scenery to drool over. The limestone formations are similar to southern Thailand or Khao Sok National Park, except the rows of islands just kept disappearing into the blue horizon. Our path took us away from the more touristed areas, so for company we had a couple other junks, some floating fishing villages, and the sea eagles.
As we sat down for lunch we were unprepared for the 6 course bonanza that followed. The unexpected bounty left us even more vulnerable to the onslaught of dinner, where each course was presented with ornately carved fruits and vegetables. There were water buffalo made from potatoes, eagles carved from squash, and a glowing model of our boat from a watermelon, with wafer-thin slices of carrot for sails. Apparently the chef had a lot of time on his hands as we were cruising along the bay, rowing among floating houses, and kayaking past limestone cliffs.
Next step: the mountain town of Sapa, and hopefully some cooler climates. Bring on the train!
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
What Would Your Mother Think?
After three months of slow-paced living through Laos, Cambodia, and Thailand, Vietnam comes like a soccer ball to the face. The horns are aggressive tools of war, the pace of traffic is furious, and the touts are out for blood. This morning I was mobbed at the bus station by a cloud of mini-van assistants, pulling me first one way, then the other, shouting at each other that they'd seen me first. The policeman on the corner whacked my bag with his baton to get me out of the way. During the ride the attendant got into a yelling match with a passenger over who-knows-what, although it settled down after a couple minutes. I haven't heard voices raised in anger since the traffic snarls of Delhi.
I arrived in Hanoi only yesterday morning but I motored to Ninh Binh today, leaving the big city to be explored with my mother. I haven't even seen the town because I rented a bike and pedaled 9 km in the rain with some French kids to a little place called Tam Coc. Along the way we stopped for some drinking water (as if the stuff dripping from our faces wasn't enough), and the elderly lady working the stall was horrified that I was biking through that weather without a rain poncho. She was joined by a handful of people sitting nearby, and to appease the mob I bought one for 20 cents. With decisive movements she tore open the package, unfolded the thing, scrunched it up so I could get my head through, and then proceeded to dress me in my new waterproof apparel. She wasn't satisfied until I was safely enclosed in clear blue plastic, and even then everyone insisted that I get another one (I'm unsure if this was out of concern for my well-being or simply to make a sale). I kindly declined and we continued down the road.
Tam Coc is a landscape reminiscent of northern Laos with sheer stone hills rising straight from rice paddies and flat water, all enveloped by mist. In this case, however, there is a waiting army of Vietnamese women in conical bamboo hats waiting to row you across the water. The river twists through some narrow spots and then seems to end entirely, until you get close enough to the rock face to realize that there's a low tunnel stretching all the way through the mountain. One the other side yet another panorama of green and grey unfolds before you, and this repeats itself four times until it's time to turn back the way you came.
Our guides chattered amiabley to each other the whole while, rowing steadily as other boats bearing other rain-ponchoed tourists floated by. A handful of people, including our ladies, used the familiar method of hands and arms to move the oars through the water. Everyone else looked just as comfortable using their feet. Somehow their roughened soles moved precisely to turn the oar flat against the water, and then back to slice through the air. One smiley old woman, anywhere from 45 to 85, accompanied us on the way back, talking with our guides as her feet cycled through the air.
I arrived in Hanoi only yesterday morning but I motored to Ninh Binh today, leaving the big city to be explored with my mother. I haven't even seen the town because I rented a bike and pedaled 9 km in the rain with some French kids to a little place called Tam Coc. Along the way we stopped for some drinking water (as if the stuff dripping from our faces wasn't enough), and the elderly lady working the stall was horrified that I was biking through that weather without a rain poncho. She was joined by a handful of people sitting nearby, and to appease the mob I bought one for 20 cents. With decisive movements she tore open the package, unfolded the thing, scrunched it up so I could get my head through, and then proceeded to dress me in my new waterproof apparel. She wasn't satisfied until I was safely enclosed in clear blue plastic, and even then everyone insisted that I get another one (I'm unsure if this was out of concern for my well-being or simply to make a sale). I kindly declined and we continued down the road.
Tam Coc is a landscape reminiscent of northern Laos with sheer stone hills rising straight from rice paddies and flat water, all enveloped by mist. In this case, however, there is a waiting army of Vietnamese women in conical bamboo hats waiting to row you across the water. The river twists through some narrow spots and then seems to end entirely, until you get close enough to the rock face to realize that there's a low tunnel stretching all the way through the mountain. One the other side yet another panorama of green and grey unfolds before you, and this repeats itself four times until it's time to turn back the way you came.
Our guides chattered amiabley to each other the whole while, rowing steadily as other boats bearing other rain-ponchoed tourists floated by. A handful of people, including our ladies, used the familiar method of hands and arms to move the oars through the water. Everyone else looked just as comfortable using their feet. Somehow their roughened soles moved precisely to turn the oar flat against the water, and then back to slice through the air. One smiley old woman, anywhere from 45 to 85, accompanied us on the way back, talking with our guides as her feet cycled through the air.
Monday, October 13, 2008
I Heart Fast Internet
One of the beaches we visited from Railay, Krabi Province
Sunset on Railay Beach, when Nathan finally got to use that tripod he's been carting around all this time
Firecrackers exploding in Trang during the Vegetarian Festival
The local marching band passing by
The view from the pier at Chiew Lan Lake, Khao Sok National Park. After much useless questioning of travel agents and websites, we made our way to the entrance of the national park on a mission to find some floating bungalows. The numerous guest houses there all advertised the same trips so, lacking other options, we went along with a rotund little hobbit of a man on a two day trip out to the lake.
Firecrackers exploding in Trang during the Vegetarian Festival
The local marching band passing by
The view from the pier at Chiew Lan Lake, Khao Sok National Park. After much useless questioning of travel agents and websites, we made our way to the entrance of the national park on a mission to find some floating bungalows. The numerous guest houses there all advertised the same trips so, lacking other options, we went along with a rotund little hobbit of a man on a two day trip out to the lake.
Love those long tail boat rides - after an hour those wooden planks get a little less quaint
At last, we found our floating bungalows, and they really were as cool as they look (the bathroom was across a barely-floating walking on the mainland, if you're wondering). Where else can you dive off your front porch into warm, clear, 75-foot deep water? There were even some plastic kayaks in which to wander around the lake.
Part of the excitement of our trip was a short walk (called a "jungle safari") through the nearby woods which was slightly slippery due to the torrential rains of the morning. We saw some long-tailed langurs and heard tons of gibbons, although they all seemed to be saying "it's the falang, run away, run away!"
From Khao Sok we hitched a ride up the eastern coast to Surattani, Chumpon, and then Prechuap Khiri Khaun. We hiked up 396 steps to a wat perched on a hill above the town where a couple monks were feeding bananas to the resident monkey troup. On the way back down we walked through a street festival, Thai style. That means frying everything from chicken legs to grubs and little birds, selling bathmats and tattoos (the permanent kind), and playing Thai pop music as loud as humanly possible.
The next afternoon Nathan and I headed 4 km from the city to the air force base that also serves as a popular weekend beach for the locals. It was pretty entertaining to cross the tarmac in a tuk-tuk, and then emerge into a bustling hub of Thai families cavorting in the ocean and lounging in chairs under the pine trees. Nothing like a little sand in your toes before a 5 hour bus ride to Bangkok.
At last, we found our floating bungalows, and they really were as cool as they look (the bathroom was across a barely-floating walking on the mainland, if you're wondering). Where else can you dive off your front porch into warm, clear, 75-foot deep water? There were even some plastic kayaks in which to wander around the lake.
Part of the excitement of our trip was a short walk (called a "jungle safari") through the nearby woods which was slightly slippery due to the torrential rains of the morning. We saw some long-tailed langurs and heard tons of gibbons, although they all seemed to be saying "it's the falang, run away, run away!"
From Khao Sok we hitched a ride up the eastern coast to Surattani, Chumpon, and then Prechuap Khiri Khaun. We hiked up 396 steps to a wat perched on a hill above the town where a couple monks were feeding bananas to the resident monkey troup. On the way back down we walked through a street festival, Thai style. That means frying everything from chicken legs to grubs and little birds, selling bathmats and tattoos (the permanent kind), and playing Thai pop music as loud as humanly possible.
The next afternoon Nathan and I headed 4 km from the city to the air force base that also serves as a popular weekend beach for the locals. It was pretty entertaining to cross the tarmac in a tuk-tuk, and then emerge into a bustling hub of Thai families cavorting in the ocean and lounging in chairs under the pine trees. Nothing like a little sand in your toes before a 5 hour bus ride to Bangkok.
Monday, October 6, 2008
Long Weekend Holiday
One of the wonderful things about Thailand is that, upon entry, people of most nationalities are granted a 30-day visa free of charge to romp around the country. One of the annoying things about Thailand is that you only get 30 days. With mine expiring on October 6, Nathan and I are enjoying a brief holiday in the wonderful country of Malaysia.
A Malaysian man I met in Laos couldn't figure out why more people don't come to his country. He informed me that it's cheap, it's beautiful, and everyone speaks English. So far that all seems to be true. Even though the ferry terminal on Pulau Langkawi happens to be right next to the yacht club, and the large resorts on the pristine beaches cost more than my 6 month budget, in between there are still rice paddies, green hills, and women in head scarves serving up plates of rice at little road side restaurants.
Somehow our timing today was such that as soon as we approached the beach the clouds rolled in and rain started pelting down, and the minute we left the sun returned. The extremes in weather rather reflected the variety of tourists strolling through town. For every tanned European filly falling out of her bikini there was a completely covered Muslim woman walking down the beach with her family. Wandering around the Underwater World (Malaysia's largest aquari, or so it claims) the people watching was just as fascinating as the rock hopping penguins and technicolor sea horses. Brochures were offered in Tamil, Arabic, and Chinese, in addition to Malay and English, and there were definitely more languages floating around the watery halls.
Sadly, this visit will remain brief as Nathan and I hop the ferry back to Thailand tomorrow morning to continue our grand adventures. We've got a week left before he flies back to Montana, and I continue on to Vietnam to await the arrival of my next travel buddy, who also happens to be my mother.
A Malaysian man I met in Laos couldn't figure out why more people don't come to his country. He informed me that it's cheap, it's beautiful, and everyone speaks English. So far that all seems to be true. Even though the ferry terminal on Pulau Langkawi happens to be right next to the yacht club, and the large resorts on the pristine beaches cost more than my 6 month budget, in between there are still rice paddies, green hills, and women in head scarves serving up plates of rice at little road side restaurants.
Somehow our timing today was such that as soon as we approached the beach the clouds rolled in and rain started pelting down, and the minute we left the sun returned. The extremes in weather rather reflected the variety of tourists strolling through town. For every tanned European filly falling out of her bikini there was a completely covered Muslim woman walking down the beach with her family. Wandering around the Underwater World (Malaysia's largest aquari, or so it claims) the people watching was just as fascinating as the rock hopping penguins and technicolor sea horses. Brochures were offered in Tamil, Arabic, and Chinese, in addition to Malay and English, and there were definitely more languages floating around the watery halls.
Sadly, this visit will remain brief as Nathan and I hop the ferry back to Thailand tomorrow morning to continue our grand adventures. We've got a week left before he flies back to Montana, and I continue on to Vietnam to await the arrival of my next travel buddy, who also happens to be my mother.
Sunday, October 5, 2008
Is That A Weed Whacker In Your Face Or Are You Just Happy To See Me?
Despite its gentle-sounding name, the Vegetarian Festival of southern Thailand requires both nerves of steel and a strong stomach. We've been able to glean that the celebration is a kind of Lent for folks of Chinese descent, where for 10 days people give up meat, dress in white, make offerings at the temples and participate in various processions. The most famous part is the self-mortification, where in the process of purifying themselves people will slice their tongues with large knives or hack at their backs with axes, among other things (see below).
Nathan and I arrived in Trang on a Friday afternoon, which gave us time to sip real coffee in a coffee shop and sample the culinary wonders of the night market - any combination of deep fried, sweet, and savory. By pure chance it was also the day before the main procession in town, hence the yellow and red banners lining the streets. Restaurants were flying yellow flags to indicate that they were serving vegetarian food, and the clothing stores had racks of white togs, occasionally decorated with red Chinese characters or dragons.
Saturday morning we walked around the corner past tables set up with fruit, water, and incense to join the local throngs awaiting the parade. Nobody seemed to mind that we weren't wearing white. A couple falang in the midst drew little attention compared to the approaching excitement. First came the dignitaries with large red banners and megaphones, then some appropriately confused-looking children dressed up in Chinese costumes. They were followed by teams of young men hoisting pagoda-style shrines on their shoulders, and then the fireworks started going off. Part of the game seemed to be shaking the shrine directly below the explosions, and soon the street was a riotous war zone of smoke, noise, and fluttering red paper.
Then through the smoke I could make out another group of men, also with a shrine, except this one was supported by metal rods stuck through their mouths. I was suddenly very glad that I hadn't eaten breakfast yet. There were other teams like this, then individuals with rods, skewers, or spears through their cheeks. The bike tire was bad enough, but I nearly crawled out of my skin when the guy with the weed whacker threaded through his face walked by. He was followed by a musical trio: saxophone, trumpet, and tuba. I haven't a clue how they got them where they were, much less how they walked around like that for the hours the parade wound its way through the city.
The procession went on and on. Just when you thought it was done another team came around the corner, dripping blood and sweat, stopping at the tables of offerings to confer their blessings. When the women with brooms finally came through to sweep up the red paper littering the streets, Nathan turned to me and asked, "So, is it time to find fried rice yet?"
Nathan and I arrived in Trang on a Friday afternoon, which gave us time to sip real coffee in a coffee shop and sample the culinary wonders of the night market - any combination of deep fried, sweet, and savory. By pure chance it was also the day before the main procession in town, hence the yellow and red banners lining the streets. Restaurants were flying yellow flags to indicate that they were serving vegetarian food, and the clothing stores had racks of white togs, occasionally decorated with red Chinese characters or dragons.
Saturday morning we walked around the corner past tables set up with fruit, water, and incense to join the local throngs awaiting the parade. Nobody seemed to mind that we weren't wearing white. A couple falang in the midst drew little attention compared to the approaching excitement. First came the dignitaries with large red banners and megaphones, then some appropriately confused-looking children dressed up in Chinese costumes. They were followed by teams of young men hoisting pagoda-style shrines on their shoulders, and then the fireworks started going off. Part of the game seemed to be shaking the shrine directly below the explosions, and soon the street was a riotous war zone of smoke, noise, and fluttering red paper.
Then through the smoke I could make out another group of men, also with a shrine, except this one was supported by metal rods stuck through their mouths. I was suddenly very glad that I hadn't eaten breakfast yet. There were other teams like this, then individuals with rods, skewers, or spears through their cheeks. The bike tire was bad enough, but I nearly crawled out of my skin when the guy with the weed whacker threaded through his face walked by. He was followed by a musical trio: saxophone, trumpet, and tuba. I haven't a clue how they got them where they were, much less how they walked around like that for the hours the parade wound its way through the city.
The procession went on and on. Just when you thought it was done another team came around the corner, dripping blood and sweat, stopping at the tables of offerings to confer their blessings. When the women with brooms finally came through to sweep up the red paper littering the streets, Nathan turned to me and asked, "So, is it time to find fried rice yet?"
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