"Here goes nothing..." - Lando Calrissian

Without realizing it, nearly an entire year of my life had been slowly building up to twelve noon on August 5th. The hours spent wondering whether I really wanted to give up two years of my life; the months spent in hand-wringing agony waiting for that final invitation from the State Department; the confused and heart-wrenching “goodbyes” to everyone and everything I’d ever known; the final nine weeks of exhausting, humbling training--all of it leading up to that moment when I raised my right hand and solemnly confirmed that I would well and faithfully discharge my abilities in the Peace Corps, support and defend the Constitution of the Unites States of America against all enemies, foreign and domestic, and that I did so freely and without any mental reservation (though I left off the optional nonsense about “so help me god.”)

All sixteen of us had passed our language assessment exams, our group receiving some of the highest overall scores in recent memory. And though I know immodesty is highly unflattering, I feel I would be remiss in my duties as reporter to you, dear reader, if I did not mention that I, along with two others, received the very highest marks. This assessment was our last step, meaning that we all made it and we would be swearing in as exactly the same group who had met on June 2 in that basement conference room in Philadelphia.

The ceremony was held in Maseru’s Mathabiseng Convention Centre, a hulking, apparently underused monstrosity of modern Chinese architecture, and also about the classiest place for a ceremony of this kind in the whole country. Congratulatory speeches were delivered by the Peace Corps Lesotho Country Director, Training Director, and APCD. Elizabeth Powers, the Charge d’ Affaires swore us in in place of Ambassador Nolan who was back in America with his newborn grandchild. Then we were treated to a few words by Mrs. Mathato Mosilisi, the first-lady of Lesotho. Her presence was the reason we were in such an elite venue and for the newspaper, television, and radio coverage. PCVs are not supposed to involve themselves in politics, and I will not do so here. But with the allegations that sometimes swirl around her husband, the Prime Minister, (not to mention a recent assassination attempt) I’ve never heard anything negative about Mrs. Mosilisi and it was kind of her to attend.

Finally, it was time for my speech, the last one and something of a climax of the afternoon. I was introduced, stepped up to the podium, backed by giant flags of the United States, Lesotho, and the Peace Corps. Photographers crowded around and their flashbulbs burst in my eyes like it was a press conference or something. And very much to my surprise, I found that despite my BFA in Speaking in Front of People, I was nervous. Sure, part of my nervousness may have been due to my following the wife of a head-of-state, or to my words being nationally televised to a country of 2 million people, or to my new bosses all listening intently, or to the trainers who had tried to get an advanced copy of my speech so as to censor out any objectionable material begging me with their eyes not to embarrass them or start an international incident with an ill-advised joke. But what I was really uneasy about were the fifteen other new PCVs whom I was speaking to. Of course I wanted to entertain them with a few jokes, but I also wanted to represent them honorably in front of the leaders and citizens of our new home. I wanted to mark the pride and importance of this moment, a feeling to which only they and the few PCVs in the audience could truly relate. In the end, I think I acquitted myself pretty well. I got laughs where I needed them, solemn nods where I wanted them, and was told later that I even drew a few tears from the more sentimentally inclined.

Like landmark birthdays, graduations, and other events one looks forward to for such a long time, I didn’t feel any change in myself after the event from how I’d felt before. Sure, it was a mark of accomplishment, but it only led to more responsibility and more yet to be accomplished.

Afterwards we had a party and, in true Peace Corps fashion, reached levels of drunkenness usually reserved for sailors, poets, and sports fans. The next morning we said goodbye to each other, the people we’d spent nearly every waking hour of our lives with for the past 2 months, and parted way, off to different ends of the country, turning to different pages of the choose-your-own-adventure that will be the next two years.

For my part, I headed up to the north-country of Botha Bothe, where the winds hit heavy on the borderline of South Africa. My house is a mud and brick hut with a high thatched roof and linoleum floors that would be right at home in tenement kitchen. The furniture is a bit sparse, but I have the nicest bed in Peace Corps: full-sized double with box-spring, pillow-top mattress, and no bedbugs. Peace Corps gives you a chunk of “moving-in” money for anything you might need in your new home. I spent all of mine on luxurious, brushed-cotton sheets and a tremendous down comforter. The Congressional Peace Corps Act of 1961 states that volunteers will serve “under conditions of hardship if necessary,” but whatever discomforts I may endure, at least I’ll sleep like a king.

There’s a good reason why the major settlements in Lesotho other than Maseru are called camptowns and not cities. Botha Bothe is pretty typical: one paved road lined with stores like something out of and old western. But it’s an up-and-comer…there are two gas stations, two liquor stores, two ATMs, and a KFC coming soon. There’s even a pizza place, though they have no tables and often no pizza. BB has a sizable Indian population (the largest in Lesotho), so wonderful curry and masala spices are available for pennies and make cooking much easier. The streets are lively and most modern amenities--from internet to diet Pepsi--are available if you know the right people. (And you can bet I already know most of the right people). It takes me 30 minutes flat to walk at a New York pace from my house to the edge of town. It’s a lovely stroll through the mountains and neighboring villages. If it gets too late or I have been shopping and am loaded down with groceries, I can grab one of the frequent kombis (van taxis) to my place for 4 Rand (USD 0.50). They are crowded and smelly, but being a “lahoa” (whitey), I usually get first dibs on the front seat.

This is my life now. Dirt roads, dusty mountains, and each night a breath-taking sunset outside my front door. There’s so much more to tell--about the other maniacs stationed in my district, about the other American who lives in my village, a Col. Kurtz-type ex-pat missionary, about the mountain literally in my back yard, and of course about my new job--but that will have to wait for another time. Be well, and enjoy the three things I miss most about America: bagels, draft beer, and the New York Times.

“Sugar, make it slow. It’ll come together fine. All we need is just a little patience.” --W. Axel Rose

I know its been a long time since the last post, but in waiting you have shared with me what will surely be the hardest learned virtue in my entire Peace Corps experience: patience. Spending the past twelve years as a resident of large cities in the north-eastern United States has made me impatient, but the Peace Corps and Africa are slowly beating it out of me. It started with the 10 months of application, a seemingly endless ordeal of hurry-up-and-wait (though I’ve learned that other volunteers had it much worse…some waited over two years!).

Training has had its own interminable waits, and none has been more trying than the big one--the wait to find out where exactly we will live and in what jobs we will be placed for the next two years. Each of us lied to ourselves with the same mantra: “It doesn’t matter where we are placed. Peace Corps is what you make of it.” This, of course, is true to an extent, but when its something that will impact your life so much, and it could vary so drastically (north or south; city-center or mountaintop; electricity or not; ten minute walk to work or three hour ride on horseback; etc.), I’m sure you can begin to imagine the anxiety involved. And it showed. Our group was fraying at the edges. Fuses grew shorter and tempers flared. This is natural enough for sixteen strangers who’ve spent nearly every waking hour together for a month and a half, but this sword of Damocles hanging over our heads was growing to be simply too much.

For my part, I kept myself together as best I could by prioritizing alone-time, although that alone-time may or may not have consisted largely of me drinking boxed-South African wine, staring at a map of Lesotho, obsessing over where I was going. The day we were to find out loomed like a biblical plague and each time I checked a day off the calendar I felt more and more like a child ticking down the hours until Christmas.

When finally it came, we were bussed back to the training center in Maseru and the nervous energy was stifling. But the Peace Corps training staff had one last surprise for us--they scheduled an hour long class on local government before they’d give us our placements. Now…I am positive that a working knowledge of the intricacies of the system of local chiefdoms and community councils in Lesotho will be vital to my success as a volunteer here, but I am going to have to learn about this country’s local governmental systems independently, because I did not hear a single word the poor presenters said. I tapped my pen incessantly. I counted the minutes, then I counted the seconds. Then I counted the minutes again. It was truly torturous.

But the moment of truth finally arrived. Ted Moony, the country director, and ‘M’e Jimi, our boss, said that this was the easiest group to place they’ve ever seen--that everyone just seemed to fit into a job. And accordingly, most everyone was pleased with their site. I was placed in a village just outside of Butha Buthe camptown in the far north. I’m thrilled. I’ve already seen the town when I visited Kristan Reed, a CHED ‘08 volunteer who has been here for a year and was gracious enough to show me around. The area is beautiful--in the foothills near the site where King Moshoeshoe I formed the original Basotho nation. It’s the birthplace of Lesotho. My village is a 20-45 minute (depending on who you ask) from BB. I will not have electricity or running water, but there is a water pump near my house. From what I hear, the house itself is large with a thatched roof (better for staying warm) and a big bed. Another volunteer lived there before me, so hopefully she left me some goodies.

But as happy as I am about the house and location, I am even more excited about the job. I’ve been placed with Thuso e Tla Tsoa kae, which literally means “Help will come from where”. It is a school for children with disabilities ranging from mental, physical, deaf, down syndrome, autism, and multiple disabilities. There is still a lot of stigma attached to these children in Lesotho. Many are unwanted and uncared for. This school is the only place offering them basic vocational training and academic, social, and life skills. Thuso receives some funding from Sentabale (Prince Harry of England’s organization) but largely supports itself through income generating projects such as animal husbandry. All food eaten by the children is grown on school grounds. Most staff are volunteer except the few granted by the government. My job will be to assist on the business side in improving the income generating project and to help create new ones, to promote better nutrition for the children through working with the staff on improved agricultural practices, to help teach life skills (particularly HIV/AIDS) to the students, and to develop relations between the school, the community, NGOs, and the government. It seems like there will be plenty to do, but it is stuff I feel confident doing. More importantly, working with these kids will be an honor. Plus, with my luck I’d say there is a 3-1 shot I’ll have a beer with Prince Harry before my time in Lesotho is done.

So I am endlessly optimistic about my future here in Lesotho. The past seven weeks have been filled with excitement and fun, anxiety and frustration. But each day I learn more about myself and this fascinating little country I now call home. I’ve had so many of those moments where I stop and think, “Well, how did I get here?” as well as a few experiences that I can’t write about on a PG-13 rated, governmentally monitored blog. (Hello, Big Brother! Enjoying the prose?) Training is, for all intents and purposes, over. For now I am focused on muscling my way through the last few days, swearing in, and beginning my life as a PCV.

But before that…I’ve got to give a speech to the wife of a head-of-state…on national television. No big deal. More on that next time.

PS- To those who have sent letters and packages--thanks from the bottom of my heart. You have no idea how much your thoughtfulness means to me.

"The effect of travel on a man whose heart is in the right place is that the mind is made more self-reliant: It becomes more confident of its own resources—there is greater presence of mind." –Dr. David Livingstone

Two weeks ago, I came to Bokone, a small village 15 km south of Maseru. This is where I will live for the rest of training (called Community Based Training, or CBT), and it is here that my Peace Corps experience truly begins. I have my own home: one room roughly twice the size of my bedroom in Brooklyn. It has a bed, a gas stove, a heater, a desk, two paraffin lamps, and a lot of plastic buckets. There are buckets to hold water (two for well water and one for boiled drinking water), basins for laundry and bathing, a basin for washing dishes, a mop bucket and a pee bucket. Yes, a pee bucket. I know it sounds a bit barbaric, but when faced with the choice between a freezing cold, dark walk to a freezing cold, dark pit latrine in the middle of the night or a covered bucket kept right under your warm bed, I assure you that a pee bucket seems an indispensable luxury. In the morning it is dumped out and cleaned with a lemon-scented disinfectant. Nothing could be finer.

My humble residence is attached to the home of ‘M’e Manonyana Thatjane, my host and adopted mother. I am the 7th PCT she has hosted. She is a small, wonderful woman who’s endless energy and cheerfulness never betray what a difficult life she has led. Her husband died some years ago in the South African mines. Four of her five children died of various illnesses. Her surviving daughter, 18 year old Rafiloe, is my “sister” and my best friend in the village. She is tall and strong, wickedly smart, hilariously funny, and beautiful to boot. She also speaks nearly perfect English which makes my life a lot easier. I suspect that ‘M’e Manonyana also speaks English fairly well, but she insists I learn Sesotho which can be frustrating, but is for my own good. (Mothers can be like that sometimes.) They are extremely gracious hosts and have made the transition to village life easy.

Bokone, my village, is on the side of a sloping hill just a kilometre from the South African border. Remember that sky I wrote about before? Well it’s even more breath-taking here. There is a soccer field on the edge of town, and playing there is like being in a video game. It’s surrounded on three sides by cliffs, so a wayward kick will send the ball racing towards South Africa. And in every direction is that crazy sky with the clouds at eye-level.

Seven of the other trainees live in my village, each with their own families. The rest are in Mokhatoane, a 30 minute walk down the road. I’ve been to most of their homes and mine is the smallest, but this is not necessarily bad. It heats up faster and stays warm longer--no small thing as we are in the grips of winter and nights dip down to the 20s. Cement walls and a tin roof don’t exactly keep out the cold. My brand new sleeping bag has more than done the trick, but getting up in the morning and sponge bathing is a chilly affair. Still, my gas heater blasts out the heat (and you can roast marshmallows on it, too). Another added perk is that my house is the closest in the village to the hand-operated water-pump. All water--for drinking, for washing, for bathing--comes from this pump, and 20 litre buckets of water are heavy, man. The greatest features of my home, though, are surely ‘M’e Manonyana and ausi Rafiloe who are happy to help me out and forgive my bumbling, but also allow me the personal space and freedom to live independently. From what I hear, some of the other trainees are not as lucky.

We continue to have classes Monday through Friday. Saturdays we are taken into Maseru for shopping (and internet if its available) and a true cup of coffee from the French consulate. Sundays are free and generally used for laundry and badly needed rest.

It can be exhausting living like this if you’re not used to it. Just the classes alone are enough to tire you out, and on top of that the simplest things which I took for granted at home--things like eating and sleeping and washing and going to the bathroom--now take careful planning, total attention, and a lot more time. But there’s something so freeing and empowering about it, too. If I forget to buy something in town, I simply do without it for a week. If something breaks, I have to use my wits and whatever is at hand to fix it. If I want to wash dishes, I fetch water, heat it, wash the dishes, dump the water, rinse the dishes, dump that water, dry the dishes, then dry the basin. Bathing is similarly complicated.

But each meal is a matter of pride; each bath an accomplishment. A broken belt, which at home would have been easily replaced, is carefully repaired and becomes a reminder of my resourcefulness each time I put it on. I save and reuse everything from yoghurt containers to scraps of paper. Every second of ipod or computer use is precious and a good novel is a treasured prize at the end of the day. My muscles constantly ache and each day my hands have new cuts and scrapes, but the scars become badges--proof of survival and endurance. Of course, this is how I feel after a few weeks. Perhaps in a year or two it will be a whole different story.

For now, every word that I read by lamplight seems more important. Each night there seem to be more stars and the moon seems closer to my grasp. But I don’t marvel at the sky for too long. I’ve got to finish my homework and heat water for the dishes and take the clothes in from the line and I’ve got to do it all quickly. It’s already 7:30...way past my bedtime!

"So may the sunrise bring hope where it once was forgotten.

Sons are like birds flying always over the mountains." --Iron and Wine

It’s the sky. From what I can tell so far, it’s the sky that makes Africa so unforgettable. When there’s a sunrise, it’s like someone exploded a bomb in a watercolor factory. Sunsets look like Renaissance paintings of where God lives. Sometimes clouds seem too high up in the sky, and other times they are so ridiculously low that you have to duck so you don’t smack your head on them. Lightening goes horizontally thru space. It’s so bright it hurts your eyes and crawls across the sky in slow motion. And then there’s the night…I never understood why it was called the Milky Way until I looked up and saw to my amazement that someone had spilled a giant glass of milk across the sky.

So when we touched down in Maseru, I wasn’t thinking about the torturous 6 hours we’d spent in JFK or the 16 hour flight to Johannesburg. I wasn’t thinking about the day we’d spent on lockdown in that city at the City Lodge Hotel in a part of town more dangerous than downtown Islamabad, nor was I thinking about the tiny tin-can-of-a-plane I was currently flying in or the upcoming 27 months and what it all meant…I was just marveling at that crazy sky and how it seemed to go on forever in shades of red I’ve never dreamed of. The land was like a cross of the American southwest and the moon with giant mesas of sandstone rising and crashing out of nowhere and all of it glowing in a violent, molten red. It occurred to me that the spectacle was all a hallucination--a result of my having gone two-and-a-half full days without any meaningful sleep--but hallucination or not, it was an epic first impression of my new home: Lesotho, the Kingdom in the sky.

I, along with 15 other Peace Corps Trainees (PCTs), was brought to the Peace Corps training center, a compound in Maseru surrounded by high walls and razor-wire. Inside it was like a lovely summer camp/ college campus with bunk dorms, a common area with games and videos, classrooms, and even a mess hall.

We were greeted by our trainers dancing and singing a greeting. This group of (mainly) Basotho have taken it upon themselves to prepare us for the next two years. This includes (but is not limited to) a new language, safety and security, first-aid and general health, how to cook, clean, bathe and shit without running water or electricity, the geography and history of Lesotho, how to take public transport, how to integrate into a wholly new culture, and enough technical training in perm culture, youth development, micro business, and HIV/AIDS to make us qualified advisors. And all of it in just 9 weeks. These women and men continually astound me with their commitment, intelligence, patience and humor.

The first week and a half at the training center was a blur of information. Sessions generally went from 8am to 8pm everyday. We were immunized for everything from rabies to typhoid to yellow fever to the flu. I think it was 10 jabs in all. We met countless people from the head of security (Ntate Tomai, an ex-cop whom I’ve been told by current PCVs will make problems, and people if they are causing us problems, disappear) to Ambassador Nolan, the US ambassador to Lesotho.

The amount of information and grueling schedule was a bit overwhelming at times, but it felt good to be pushing myself and using the old noodle like I haven’t since college, if ever. A current PCV, Megan Kelly, stayed with us, answering our endless questions about everything from what kind of jobs we might have to how often volunteers get drunk and naked together. The more I learned, the more it became clear that the Peace Corps, especially in Lesotho, is an incredibly difficult, and incredibly rewarding job…and the more I learn about what I have gotten myself into, the more I am sure that coming here was the best decision I have ever made. And how often can you be sure of something like that?

There is so much more I could write about--my fellow trainees, Maseru, the food and the birds and the water--but there will be plenty of time for all of that in the future. For now, for the sake of brevity (already a little late for that), let me tell you about three things I’ve learned since coming here. Together, I think they make a nice picture of the world I now live in.

The first is that time was introduced to the Basotho by missionaries in the 1800s. These missionaries came with giant grandfather clocks. The Basotho (the name for people from Lesotho, btw) had no concept of time and had never seen any clocks before, let alone giant ones that chimed every fifteen minutes. They assumed, therefore, that there was a person inside of the clocks telling the missionaries what time it was. So to this day, in Sesotho when you want to know what time it is, you ask “nako ke mang?” which means “the time is whom?”

The second is much more serious. Dr. Johnson Fatokum, our country medical officer (and one of the most friendly, competent, committed men I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting) gave a session called Common Health Problems for PCVs. In it, he outlined the biggest health risks to volunteers in Lesotho and compared them to those in the rest of Africa. There were slightly higher rates of respiratory infections and skin conditions (due to the high altitude), some accidental injuries due to the rough terrain, and of course diarrhea, which has afflicted every PCV in the history of Peace Corps. But far and away, the biggest health threat to PCVs in Lesotho is mental health problems. Our rate of those with mental health issues over their tour of service is more than double the average for the rest of Africa. And the reason is clear. Lesotho is what the Peace Corps calls a “grief saturated post.” It has the third highest HIV infection rate in the world. 1 in 4 Basotho are HIV positive. For those between the ages of 29-40 it jumps to 1 in 2. The average life expectancy is about 38. At this rate, there will be no more Basotho by the year 2045. There are funerals in every village every Friday and Saturday. Every single one of us will be working with HIV positive people…become friends with them. And every single one of us will make friends who will die before our two years is up. Add that to crippling poverty, rampant substance abuse, spousal abuse, child abuse and animal abuse, and its easy to see why Peace Corps Lesotho produces a few head-cases. It takes a tougher sort of person to make it here.

But see, I’m glad this is where I was assigned, ‘cause here’s the third thing: When we met Ambassador Nolan, he told us about the importance of the Peace Corps in Lesotho from his point of view. Being the US ambassador to a small country, he knows just about everyone in the government, including the Prime Minister. He told us that every minister in Lesotho’s government--EVERY SINGLE ONE--was educated at one time or another by Peace Corps volunteers. Now that’s some influence. The Basotho are warm, beautiful, welcoming people. They embrace what we are here to do. They want help. They want to improve their lot. And they deserve it.

"When you sail across the ocean waters and you reach the other side safely, could you smile a little smile for me? 'Cause I'll be thinking about you." -Nora Jones

To date, this blog has been the sometimes outlandish, sometimes debauched, sometimes unbelievable tales of my real-life meanderings to the farthest reaches of the developing world. Now, as I prepare to depart on what will surely be my biggest adventure yet, I debated whether I should retire Uncle Traveling Greg and begin a whole new blog. After all, this will be a very different sort of adventure. It will be a job, for one thing, and a serious one at that. Also, my opportunities to post may be few and far between. Yet I've decided to keep the same blog. My time in Africa will be a different type of adventure than I had in Central America or Asia, but it is a progression--a logical next step--and at least as worthy of being written about on these pages. I have been advised, however, that volunteer blogs are read by Big Brother, so I will have to chose my subject matter carefully. Don't worry. There's plenty of wholesome adventure, danger, history, and mystery out there...I'll be sure to find it for you.

So for now, I prepare for my departure in 5 days. I am currently trying to reconcile the traveler in me who wants to bring as little as possible with the rational part that knows I'm going to the mountains of Africa for two years. If there's one thing I've learned on the road, it's that there is nothing you cannot live without except possibly money and a passport, though I've lived without those things, too. I'm hoping to have less luggage than any other volunteer, but things keep finding their way into my pile of things to pack.

The hardest part, of course, is the goodbyes. It's a curious thing...with each person I say 'goodbye' to, it becomes more and more clear to me that the hard part is not what may or may not happen over the next two years, but that I am saying goodbye to what has happened in the past. For better or worse (I assume better) my life will be changed by the experience I am about to jump into. It's not like I'm saying 'goodbye' to my childhood or anything (that ended long ago), but for the rest of my life there will forever be 'before' and 'after' this. Of course, this is a good thing...indeed it is one of the main reasons that I applied for the Peace Corps all those months ago. But thinking of the people who are truly important in my life--and all the unspoken reasons why I love them so much--then looking them in the eye and saying 'goodbye'...well, it can be emotional. It's also wonderful. All too often I take for granted how very lucky I am to have the family and friends that I do. Sometimes it takes something like this to slap me in the face and remind me. So what if there are a few tears in the process?

I'm ready. I make no predictions and I have no expectations. I only hope that on this trip, as on the others, I can make friends and memories that will last a lifetime, and that I can learn a bit about the world and about myself in the process. Something tells me that shouldn't be a problem.

Look out Lesotho. Here comes Uncle Traveling Greg.

"We wander in our thousands over the face of the earth, the illustrious and the obscure, earning beyond the seas our fame, our money, or only a crust of bread; but it seems to me that for each of us going home must be like going to render an account. We return to face our superiors, our kindred, our friends—those whom we obey, and those whom we love; but even they who have neither, the most free, lonely, irresponsible, and bereft of ties—even those for whom home holds no dear face—even they have to meet the spirit that dwells within the land, under its skies, in its air, in its valleys, and on its rises, in its fields, in its waters and its trees—a mute friend, judge and inspirer." –Joseph Conrad

"If I live too long, I'm afraid I'll die..." -Dave Davies

We all knew it was coming at some point...the group would have to split up. So, after Ometepe, we took the ferry back to the mainland and, with as little fuss and as few tears as possible, went in different directions. There would be no last minute changes of heart this time; no miracles. We were going our seperate ways. Perhaps some of us would see each other again...some not. But whether we met again in Europe or New York or Timbuktu, all together or individually, it would never be the same. Those two and a half weeks were a magical, isolated thing and could never be recaptured. That is the beauty and tragedy of the relationships you form when you travel. To top it all off, it was Valentine's Day.

But my trip was not over...not yet. There were still a few more cities to see, people to meet, adventures to have. I still needed a third act and dramatic climax to this story. So with that in mind, I boarded yet another chicken bus to Managua with Tibor, my Sancho Panza, in tow. As we were both in a rush to get back to Guatemala (he to restart his Spanish lessons and I to salvage SOME value from my Lonely Planet: Guatemala) we went the cheater's way and took the TicaBus.

As advertised, the bus was large, clean and comfortable. It ran exactly on time and even had a toilet in back which the driver reminded us repeatedly was only for urination. But the most valuable feature of TicaBus's service is the expidited border crossings. The trip from Managua to Guate involves three seperate borders. The first crossing, Nicaragua to Honduras, was the most hassel-free I've ever experienced anywhere. Our passports were collected by an attendant on the bus as we approached the border. We were told we had time to get off, go to the bathroom, get something to eat...and that's just what we did. Even the beggers and overly aggressive money-changers stayed away from us. They knew we were with Tica. I hopped off, stretched my legs, grabbed a cup of coffee, and heard my name called out. It was the conductor with my passport all stamped, beconing me back on the bus.

The next crossing into El Salvador, was not quite as smoothe. In my experience, there is a strange, universal law of border crossings: the poorer, uglier, more dangerous, less interesting, or bigger overall shit-hole a country, the more of an asshole the customs officials will be about letting you in to spend your money there. As proof, I offer the following list of countries into which I've experienced the most hassle entering:

1) The Union of Myanmar (Burma)

2) The Kingdom of Kampuchea (Cambodia)

3) The Republic of El Salvador

4) The United States of America

I rest my case. In fairness, I did not personally come under much suspicion while entering the country. Neither did Tibor, the French girls in th back, or the British girl sat in front of me. But everyone on the bus FROM Latin America was given the third degree. And worst of all, the poor guy from London was almost arrested on the spot. See, his passport and money was just as foreign and desirable as mine, but he had the misfortune of being black, and the guards couldn't handle it.

"Where are you REALLY from," they asked.

"London, mate," he answered with amazing patience. I got the feeling this was not the first time he'd been through this. "Born and raised."

"No, no, SHE'S from England," they said, pointing to the white girl from Manchester. "You're..." They trailed off, gesturing to his skin.

"...black," he finished for them. "I know. Unfortunately for her Majesty, there're black people from the U.K., too."

Grudgingly, they let him into the country and off we rolled to San Salvador. I had planned to spend a week or two in El Salvador, but as my itinerary had changed about four times I did not have any more than two days to spare. I've been told by many people that the country, roughly the size of New Jersey, has more hidden gems than the rest of Central America combined. The beaches, the mountains, the little villages so far from the 'Gringo Trail' that you can't even buy Pringles. (Pringles and condoms, as a rule, are generally easier to find than bottled water or dirt.) But, alas, I had only two nights to spare in the capital...and San Salvador was a dissappointment.

The city has two very different faces. The first, the old town, is much more interesting, though it will never be a tourist draw. It is a healthy mix of slums and crowded, dirty markets. For every five blocks that are still inhabited and functional, there are two deserted and destroyed by earthquake, war, poverty, or all three. Further out, there are sprawling communities built entirely out of cardboard boxes. It would look like a cute art project for kids were it not for the deperately poor men, women and children living there in squallor.

The other half of town, centered around Boulevar de los Heroes, resembles a mid-western American suburb more than the capital city of a Latin American nation. A mass of strip-malls and fastfood, you can't throw an empty Coke can without hitting an Applebees, a Burger King, a Pizza Hut, or a Texaco station. This, coupled with gnarly traffic, overwhelming pollution, and the fact that El Sal uses US dollars (they stopped circulating their own currency, the colon, in 2004) gave me a somewhat pessimistic preview of what I would shortly be returning to in the States.

But I whole-heartedly believe that there is not a single place on earth with nothing worthwhile in it and that is certainly true of San Salvador. I'm not the first to say it, but El Salvador's greatest feature is its people. No matter where we went, Tibor and I were greeted with large, genuine smiles and offers of help. Tibor, while looking for an ATM, was escorted by a total stranger for nearly an hour from bank to bank until he finally found one that worked. The stranger then smiled and left, not asking for thanks or even a tip. Likewise, while once again having an aimless wander in a neighborhood I had no business being in by myself, a young man came running down the street, not to rob me, but to advise me that the block I was approaching was a notorious gang hideout and if I just made a short detour around the block I'd be safe and sound and also pass a lovely little church. The church was underwhelming, but the man's concern for my safety was touching.

The night before leaving, Tibor and I got on a local bus in order to find San Salvador's baseball stadium. El Salvador is as crazy for hardball as Nicaragua, though their leagues are a bit less big-time. This worked to my benefit as it means there are less rigidly defined seasons, so they play ball pretty much every day. The night we went there was a sort of exebition game with players from what roughly equates to AA ball. The stadium was simple, but in good repair; about 1,000 seats, modern lights and sound system, and a big scoreboard which was not being used. Both teams changed pitchers every inning and I stopped keeping score when it was 13-19 in the top of the fourth. The field was about Major League size, though it was undoubtedly a hitter's park (straightaway center field looked to be about 345 feet). There was no admission fee and cold bottles of Cervesa La Constancia were $0.50 each. Tibor, who had never seen a baseball game in his life, was eager to learn all about it. We sat in the first row, directly behind homeplate and I taught him the rules, as well as the ancient art of heckling the umpire which we did in four languages: Spanish, English, Dutch, and I threw in a little Italian around the eight inning and the 13th round of La Constancia.

Returning to Guatemala was undoubtedly bittersweet. On the one hand, I was happy to be back where I'd meant to be the whole time. There were so many things I'd planned to see and do in Guatemala that I simply hadn't gotten around to due to my many "detours." It was also where the trip had begun and where I knew it had to end. What's more, it was where I'd first met my friends one fateful night in Flores all those weeks ago. And Antigua, the beautiful colonial town where Tibor and I ended our long journey, especially reminded me of those we'd left behind. It was where they had lived, studied, and met. I'd heard their thousands of stories about this charming little city, the pride and joy of the Guatemalan tourism board. Though I'd never been there before, every church, every fountain, every cobblestone reminded me of Lydia, Ida and Kari, and the city felt a bit empty without them.

Though it very much resembles Granada on the surface, Antigua is a much livlier place. Just 45 minutes from Guatemala City, it is a playground for the Guate young, rich, and hip. The language school scene is also thriving, giving the place a large group of equally young, rich, and hip Americans/Europeans who, after four hours of daily classes, have little to do but sample the nightlife. Add in a healthy dose of older, less hip but richer tourists and you've got a fairly happening town. The place indeed had its charms. I especially liked the old churches. One, La Recoleccion, had taken over 15 years to construct and was completed in 1714. Less than a year after being opened to the public, however, it was destroyed by a massive earthquake. The ruins remain, massive pieces of crumbled masonry lay in the center looking like a movie set.

But the sites and the bars and everything seemed all wrong. Tibor was back with his mates he'd known months before and I was in no frame of mind to make new friends at the required nightly "ladies nights" around town. So early one morning, quite without warning, I said goodbye to Tibor, checked out of my hostel and got on a bus out of Antigua. It was the first time since before my trip to El Mirador--a full month--that I was truly on my own.

I went to Lago de Atitlan, a majestic lake surrounded by volcanoes in the cool Guatemalan highlands. It was foggy the day I arrived, but even still, the breathtaking views as we descended from the mountains were as advertised. The lake is surrounded by several smallish villages and towns. The largest, Pajanachel, is known to be a tourist haven, and due to my experience in Antigua, I gave it a wide berth. Instead, I went to San Pedro, a slightly smaller, slightly less blown up destination.

San Pedro is clear proof that the religious concersion of Latino peoples did not end with the Spanish conquistadors. Evangelical missionaries, primarily from the southern United States, keep pouring into the country. As a result, Catholicism is waning. It is estimated that over a third of the country are Evangelical or Pentecostal. But the missionaries have done extremely well in San Pedro. On Friday nights (the night I arrived) the town is awash with religious music which sounds more like dying cats. Also, the town is covered with hilarious religious graffitti which translates to phrases like "Smile! God Loves You" or "Jesus is Coming!" or "God is the Way" or, my favorite, "Jesus: the Only One Waiting for You!"

Aside from religious fervor, the town also produces some of the best coffee in the world. Coffee plants grow all over town. The beans are soaked and processed in the lake right at the center of town-- an interesting process which, unfortunately, smells like a mixture of coffee, candy, and poop. But unlike much of Guatemala, the people of San Pedro are smart enough not to export ALL of their precious coffee and have opened a little coffee shop where the beans are roasted on premises. It was delicious, though literally not for the weak of heart. I am a well know cafeine junkie, but even I admit that two cups of this deisel had my hands shaking like I'd just smoked a rock.

It was a perfect place to relax and reflect on the trip I'd just about finished. I filled my days with rest and relaxation--lots of reading, writing, some hiking around the lake. I met a lovely Cambrige graduate from Oxford named Theowen. We took a boat trip across the lago to a little town call San Marcos and spent the day talking about how neither of us had any idea what the hell we were doing with our lives, but we'd much rather be where we were right then and there than any place else.

That night, I recieved an email from Lydia saying that she was flying back to Antigua and would I change my plans just one more time to be with her for my last days in Guatemala. Of course I would.

I got on a chicken bus thinking that all of my adventures were over...that from here on out it would be only smooth sailing and easy living with my German friend. But fate had one more suprise for me. I needed to transfer buses in Chimaltenango, a small, bustling city about an hour north of Antigua. It was exactly the kind of place I like--bustling, gritty, and authentic. There was not a tourist in sight as they mostly all take the direct shuttles between Antigua and the lake. None of the locals seemed to give much of a shit about me, either, and that was just fine by me. So I decided to stop here for a bite of lunch. I had a typical meal at a small comedor--rice, beans, chicken, plantains, and a Cerveza Gallo. Totally stuffed for less than a dollar, I stepped out on the dusty street in the blazing afternoon sun.

I took a few steps toward my bus, but then I stopped. I'm not sure why I glanced over to my left...maybe I sensed something or saw some odd movement out of the corner of my eye. But about 20 feet away, I saw a young man about my age. Just as he registered in my mind I noticed that he was running from another man who had his arm extended; in his hand was a black automatic pistol. The first man raised his arm, there were two loud cracks like wood breaking, then silence. I barely noticed the shooter flee. All I saw was the first man, who'd caught both bullets in the area of his rib cage, collapse into a pile on the sidewalk.

Gang activity is a fact of life in Guatemala and most Central American countries. This gang culture comes primarily from the United States. Young boys go to American cities to work. They often habe no family, no money, no support, no sense of community, and no ties to home. They don't speak the language and work insane hours. It's not suprising, then, that many of them turn to the street gangs which recruit them. But once in a gang, you're always in, and that means ALWAYS...even back home where the bigger outfits have opened local chapters.

If you had asked me previously how I'd have reacted to witnessing a murder up close, I don't know how I would have answered. But I felt neither fear, nor pity, nor sorrow. My hands didn't shake, my heart didn't race, and my breath didn't catch in my throat. All the people on the crowded street acted with similar nonchalance. The men and boys huddled around the body, some laughing and jockying a better view with their camera-phones out. The women mostly shook their heads and went about their business. No one seemed scared or particularly suprised, nor did they seem concerned with finding or stopping the shooter. I stood there for a moment wondering what to do. I even considered joining the crowd, but decided to get on the bus back to Antigua and to Lydia.

"You go up when you’re supposed to go up and down when you’re supposed to go down. When you’re supposed to go up, find the highest tower and climb to the top. When you’re supposed to go down, find the deepest well and go down to the bottom." –-Haruki Murakami

"Spanish songs in Granada...oh, mi corazon..." --The Clash

On the way to Nicaragua we stopped for a night in the Honduran capital of Tegucigalpa. Like all Central American capitals, Tegu (as its known by the locals)is a huge, dirty, sprawling hodgepodge of traffic, crime, and American fast food. But there is one thing to recommend it...its dirt cheap. After a minimal amount of searching I was able to find decent accommodation for all of us for 150 Limpiras, or about US$1.25 each. The group had doubled in size with the addition of three German guys and two girls from Chile, all of whom had been on Utila with us and were heading in the same direction. While traveling in a group of five had been a different experience than I was used to, traveling with ten was a bit of a nightmare. While I liked everyone in the group individually very much, even the smallest activities became an ordeal. No buses have seats for ten. It is very hard to find a hotel with ten free beds. Someone always has to go to the bathroom or is hungry or has a guidebook with conflicting information or just needs another minute to put their makeup on. So when, the next morning, the direct bus we'd planned on taking had no room, I had had enough. I told everyone that for the sake of our progress and my sanity we had to split up. We'd all have to scrape together our own means of getting to Granada and meet up at a predetermined time and place that night, or in anyone didn't make it...the next day at noon. Then I told them I was going off on my own and good luck and I'd be waiting for them in Granada. I turned to walk to the local bus station, but when I looked over my shoulder I saw all nine of the others in single file with their enormous backpacks, sheepishly following after me. This was going to be harder than I thought. At the bus station, I found the bus going south. I got everyone on board and told Lydia where to get off and change buses for the border.

"Why don't you come with us," she asked? "There's room on the bus." I pictured crossing the Nicaraguan border with ten dazzled travelers and shook my head.

"You can come with me if you want, but I'm not getting on that bus."

She felt obliged to stick with the girls, so off they all went. At the last minute Tibor hopped off the bus and decided to come with me. I would have preferred to go it alone, but he was equally fed up with the group and extremely laid-back to travel with. Besides, having a 6'5" Dutch power-forward around helps to keep some of the local riffraff away.

"So what's the plan," he asked.

"Well," I said, "I plan to have a nice, long, quiet breakfast, get the next bus or maybe even the one after that, poke my way to the border, then Managua, then Granada. And I'll bet you twenty cordovas we get there an hour before everyone else."

"But they have such a head start!"

"Trust me."

Getting to Granada was difficult...I'm not gonna lie. The bus we were going to take is run by a company called TicaBus which runs direct routes between every Central American capital plus Mexico City (but excluding Belize City). These buses are new, clean, and comfortable. They run on time and the company handles all border crossings. It is a nice way to travel, but it is also cheating. I greatly prefer the way we went, which is by the skin of our teeth. I had to pull out every traveler's trick in the book. Did I bribe customs officials? Yes I did. Did I threaten cab drivers? Yes I did. But these were just in the few moments between the long rides on Central America's quirkiest and most ubiquitous feature: the chicken bus.

"Chicken bus" is the universally used English term for the legions of non-international buses driven everywhere in the region. The funny thing about these buses is that every last one of them was once an American school bus. US law says that, for safety reasons, all school buses must be taken out of service after 10 years or 150,000 miles. They are then auctioned off for very low prices and towed thru Mexico to Guatemalan chop-shops where they are refitted with bigger engines, luggage racks, and six-speed gear-boxes. And while a few stay the traditional yellow, most are given a technicolor paint-job as well as personal touches like christmas lights and religious knick-knacks. But the size of the seats are proof that these buses were intended for children, as are the signs which remain in some buses warning passengers that "Anyone breaking the rules will lose their bus riding privileges." Sure, there are safer, more comfortable ways to travel, but none with as much character or nostalgia for a former American school kid.

Nicaragua has perhaps the bloodiest and most tragic history in Central America, and that's no easy feat. Worse, most of it is a legacy of the good ol' U.S. of A. A brief history goes like this: US backs a tyrannical dictator (often one of the Somozas) who supports and protects US interests in the region. Dictator brutalizes his country and amasses huge wealth and power. The Nicaraguans get fed up and rally behind revolutionary guerrillas (usually the Sandinistas) who fight bravely at great cost of life to exile or assassinate brutal dictator. Revolutionaries gain power. US withdraws all support and imposes sanctions, making it nearly impossible for the good guys to improve life quality for Nicaraguans. Us arms and finances Contras who regain power and install another tyrannical dictator (usually one of the Somozas) which the US supports. Repeat process.

Things have more or less calmed down and the Sandinistas are once again in control. Though it still remains the second poorest country in the Western Hemisphere (just ahead of Haiti!) the current government has made huge strides where they can. Literacy rates are exceptional, infant mortality rates improve every year and violence decreases making Nicaragua on of the safest countries in Central America. But the legacy of 100 years of off and on civil war remains. Infrastructure is a mess. And there is real evidence that the current government, led by heroes of the revolution, is also fairly corrupt. The most staggering and obvious of the remnants of war is in the population. Over 70 percent of Nicaraguans are under the age of 40. Anyone older than that fought and most of them died. But those who remain are fiercely proud of their country. Anyone from school kids to old ladies are eager to discuss politics, either Nicaraguan or international. And they get weepy at the mention of Reuben Dario, a local boy who became perhaps the most famous Latin American writer ever.

We arrived in Granada just in time to get to the appointed meeting place in the parque central but, not surprisingly, no one was there to meet us. Even leaving more than an hour later, we had been the only team to make it to the goal.

Granada is an old Spanish colonial city with wide, cobble-stoned boulevards and many spectacular churches dating back to the 1700s. It caught quite a bit of the fighting over the years but has become the main tourist draw in Nicaragua. As a result, the city is filled with "charming" little hotels, cafes, and boutiques, each of which is overpriced by Nicaraguan standards but still pretty cheap. Granada also has a peculiar rivalry with nearby Leon, a similar colonial city two hours to the north. These two cities, each former capitols, have hated each other for years, differing on who has a richer history, better architecture, and who has produced better poets. To hear the locals speak about it, it sounds very much like the rivalry between Boston and New York...all the way down to Granada and Leon having the best baseball teams in the country. Nicaraguans, by the way, are baseball crazy and have been ever since US Marines introduced the sport in the early 1900s. Unfortunately, the season had just ended, so I wasn't able to catch a game.

As previously determined, we all met up the next day at noon. We passed the days visiting the market, sitting in the park, talking to the locals, and exploring the waterfront by the lake. We passed the nights with the help of Flor de Cana, Nicaragua's national rum and the only thing they are more proud of than Reuben Dario and Dennis "El Presidente" Martinez, former pitcher for the Montreal Expos. In my humble opinion, the stuff doesn't hold a candle to Belize's 1 Barrel, but it is sold all over Latin America, it's cheap as dirt and it does the trick. After dinner we'd take a few bottles to the gazebo in the park and have our own little fiesta. Due to its high profile, Granada has a highly visible tourist police force and as a result our impromptu parties had armed escorts of four police who were more than happy to join us in a few cups of rum.

On my last night in Granada I was sworn up and down that I'd be finally heading north to Guatemala (heard that before?) but no one really believed me anymore and to tell the truth I was starting to doubt myself. SO it was with little surprise that I turned around in my hostel lobby and was face to face with Dave and Claire, the couple I'd started my trip with in Rio Dulce and guess where they were heading? South to the same place as the rest of my crowd. Dave insisted that it was a clear case of fate playing a hand and insisted I go too, 'cause who was I to spit in the face of fate? And honestly, I think it may have been fate, because what I came across on Ometepe was one of the most memorable adventures I've ever had.

Adequately describing Ometepe is difficult. First, you must picture a freshwater lake roughly the size of Rhode Island with its own tidal system and waves big enough to surf. That's Lago de Nicaragua. Now imagine two volcanoes, one active, rising 1600 meters (about 4500 ft) out of the middle of the lake. Now think if those two volcanoes had erupted so often that the lave had joined them and created a perfectly round, flat, tropical island at their feet. That's Ometepe.

We arrived with the intention of climbing the larger of the two volcanoes, the still very active, perfectly formed cone Volcan Concepcion. But as the boat approached the island and the volcano grew bigger and I saw more and more smoke rising from the top, I began to think perhaps this wasn't going to be so easy.

Now Ometepe, like many small places which have just recently started attracting tourists, has a preponderance of locals claiming to be "tour guides." They are usually just young men without other jobs who speak a bare minimum of English. They do NOT know anything about safety, history, or the flora or fauna of the area they are "guiding" you through. They do know, however, how much they charge and that price often increases halfway through the tour. Knowing this, we climbers (Me, Lydia, Tibor, and ze Germans) opted to go without a guide. You read that right. Six people with little to no mountaineering experience decided to climb an active volcano with an unmarked, barely existent trail alone. What's more, I still didn't have any other shoes, so I did it in Chucks.

It may seem like a foolish decision, but we took every precaution. We brought food, warm clothes, flashlights, more than enough water, and first-aid kits. There was also another group going up with a guide the same day, so there would be one on the mountain. But more about them later.

Off we went. At first it was simple hiking at a slight incline. We'd left early so the scorching sun wouldn't get to us, but even still it was very hot. A man stopped us at a little booth and we paid the US$1.00 "park entry fee." We were aware of this charge, but the man also tried to tell us that we were not permitted to climb the mountain without a guide so we would have to hire him for twice the price that we could have gotten in the town. This was, of course, nonsense. But rather than get upset, ze Germans, god love 'em, informed him that they were all card carrying members of the German Alpine Society and had ten times the mountain climbing experience of anyone on the whole island and furthermore they were being escorted by a member of the US Parks Dept. That'd be me. The man was duly impressed with our credentials (a few German driver's licenses and my health insurance card) and let us pass un-escorted.

From there, the ascent got much more difficult. The path, where there was one, was straight up. Often we were doing proper rock-climbing. But we kept the mood light; the Germans taught us dirty hiking songs (apparently that's a whole genre over there) and all of us telling jokes when we could catch our breath.

About three hours in we reached the clouds. We were already drenched in sweat, but as we climbed deeper into the clouds, we were further soaked with the cold water-vapor all around us. I was constantly wringing out my hair, and my clothes, which clung to my body in the increasingly strong wind, were so cold they made me shiver. The cloud got thicker. Soon our visibility was down to less than 20 yards and the trail kept getting steeper.

Eventually we reached a point where everything stopped. There were no more rocks or plants, just a steep slope of loose volcanic ash. We knew we were close, but our visibility had decreased so much that there was no way to see how close we were to the crater. We had a brief powwow, shouting over the screaming wind and now audible rumbling of the volcano beneath us. We decided we'd send two scouts, spread out to prevent a cave-in or landslide but close enough to keep each other in sight. We chose the lightest and the fittest, which were me and Mark, one of ze Germans. (Lydia was actually the lightest and fittest, but her going was immediately vetoed on the basis of us all being chauvinists.) Mark and I shook hands, spaced ourselves out, and slowly started climbing. The sand was so loose that we had to go up on all fours, and it blew in the wind, invisibly stinging our faces. Soon, I began to notice that my hands, which had gone numb from the cold, were tingling as they would if I'd just come in on a winter's day and put them on a hot cup of coffee. I laid my cheek to the ground and realized that the sand was hot...scorching in fact.

About ten meters further, the slope ended and everything fell away into a bottomless crater below. The rim was lined with white sulfur and the hot gases, visible because of the way they made the water-vapors shoot skyward, made everything stink like rotten eggs. The rumbling of the volcano and the tearing of the now gale-force winds were deafening. Everything was soaked and froze us to the bone despite the intense heat from the ground below us. It as violent, disorienting, primal, and frightening a place as I could have ever imagined; exactly how I would picture hell to be like.

Mark went down and got the others while I sat there alone, in awe of the spectacle all around me. The others arrived and we quickly congratulated each other and snapped a few photos, but we had to start down quickly. It was too cold to stay up there, we had no idea how stable the ground below us was, and a few members of our party didn't look like they had much left in the tank. Everyone started down, staggered and spaced as before. I was last, but just before I followed Lydia down I remembered that in all the stories I've heard, people climb volcanoes to throw offerings to the volcano gods into the crater. There were no virgins on hand, so I dug into my pack for something. Al I could come up with was my last half of a cheese sandwich. Before throwing it in, I said a quick prayer, then I felt satisfied and I went off to find Lydia...

The whole way up I had thought how nice it'd be to go down. The whole way down, I thought how stupid I'd been to think that. Going down was far more difficult. The rocks constantly gave way and we each fell a dozen times. It was torture on our toes, knees, and backs. We passed the group with the guide who had started before us but were going at half the pace. They were miserable. The guide that they had paid US$20 each for had no idea where he was going and was more interested in hitting on one of the Canadian girls in the group than reaching the top. The lunches he'd packed for them were a piece of bread, an orange, and a blowpop. They were already out of water.

By the time we reached the bottom, we looked and felt like we'd been through a war. Most of us were bleeding somewhere. I'd twisted my right knee and my left ankle. We were covered in dirt from head to toe and were still soaked, once again from sweat. But the feeling of accomplishment was undeniable. The clouds had finally cleared and we got a good look at how high and how far we'd climbed. And while there is no way to prove it, I'm willing to bet that I'm the first person to climb an active volcano in a pair of slip-on Chuck Taylors in the history of mountaineering. But don't tell the US Parks Dept. They may take away my membership.

I, who travel most often for my pleasure, do not direct myself so badly. If it looks ugly on the right, I take the left; if I find myself unfit to ride my horse, I stop.... Have I left something unseen behind me? I go back; it is still on my road. I trace no fixed line, either straight or crooked. –Michel de Montaigne

When we last saw our hero, he was once again alone and brokenhearted in Belize City, waiting for a bus to carry him back to the Guatemalan border, his latest band of international merry-makers having left him behind. But when his bus didn't show up and the agent informed him that it had experienced "electrical problems" and would not be arriving until the next morning at the earliest, it seemed to our hero like a sign from the travel gods. His choices were clear: spend a night in Belize City and return to Guatemala the next day, or try to find his friends somewhere to the south. If you'd asked him at the time, he would have told you that he chose the latter because he didn't want to backtrack or waste a night sitting around and blah blah blah. A more honest anwser, however, would have been that the prospect of chasing beautiful Europeans with a five-hour headstart across a strange third-world country without a hint or a clue or even a guidebook was so romantic and adventurous that it made him shake.

And that's how I found myself on a bus heading south to a tiny Garífuna town called Dangriga feeling like Jason Bourne the whole way. On the ride, I got to see Belize's real beauty--not just the sanitized islands or the scuzzy hustlers in the city, but rather the mountains and palm forests and orange groves that stretch for miles.

Seated next to me was a man who easily could have been a defensive lineman for the Kansas City Chiefs. He was squeezed against the window, butr when I offered to switch seats with him so he'd have more room, he repeated a sentiment I had heard repeatedly in Belize, "It's more important you be comfortable. Just tell everyone at home how nice Belize is and how comfortable you were here." These people know exactly how important tourism is to their country.

I pulled into Dangriga just after dark and walked up and down the dusty streets, peeking into cafes and bars like a bounty hunter who just rode into town. I wasn't sure if my friends were even here, but there was a good chance as this was the most logical place to catch a boat to Honduras. Eventually, I found a room for the night, but dropped off my bags and left again, this time to really canvas the town. I asked every shopkeeper and hotel keeper I could find, even some kids playing on the street, if they'd seen my friends. I described them repeatedly, figuring they'd be pretty difficult to miss. But alas, I had no luck and it was already too late to be strolling around the streets alone. So I stopped into a comedor to get some dinner and ate, thinking perhaps this wasn't the best idea I've ever had. But just as I was paying the bill, I hear a voice from outside shout, "that looks like Greg!" And there they were, running through the door: Kari, then Lydia, then Ida and Tibor. I acted as nonchalant as I could, saying, "oh, hey guys. What're you doing here?" But they all jumped me, nearly toppling a table in the process, showing that they were glad I'd come.

It took s two days to get to Utila. The road there involved cabs and busses and tw boats and the back of a pick-up and reaffirmed my hatred of border-crossings and customs officials, but it all went more or less to plan. We stopped for a night in a nowhere town where we celebrated Ida's birthday at the town's only nightclub. And finally, the next day, we made it to Utila, one of Honduras's Bay Islands and a SCUBA diving mecca.

My group were all beginers and took the PADI Open Water certification course. I, however, was already certified. This meant that, not only did I get some time alone to explore the island and lay by the pool while they took lessons, but I also got the same free accomidations as them without having to lay out the money for lessons. Sometimes it pays to travel in a big group.

But before I could think about SCUBA, there was a more pressing matter to attend to. See, we had arrived on February 3, a day like any other except in my homeland where its known as Super Bowl Sunday. Luckily, Utila sees enough tourists that it had several bars with cable t.v. I explained to my friends that this Super Bowl was about more than just football--it was New York vs. Boston. Yankees vs. Red Sox. Civility vs. Barbarism. Good vs. Evil. "So," they asked, "you're a Giants fan?" "No," I replied, "I am a Jets fan and generally hate the Giants." They were pretty confused, but wished me luck and cheered when I cheered and cursed and hit things when I did. The locals too, either by chance or because they saw us, were rooting fo rthe Giants as well. Noone really had much of an idea of the rules, but they still chanted, "Vamos Gigántes!" Now I don't have to go into the details of the game, but it was probably one of the best Super Bowls ever played and one of the most satisfying sporting events of my life. When Plaxico caught the winning touchdown I stood on a table and led the bar in a rousing rendition of "New York, New York" which later carried out into the street.

I did go diving a few times, but the visibility and variety of sea-life were not very impressive compared to Thailand. Still, it was good to strap on a tank again and the feeling of breathing underwater, weightless, never gets old.

Utila has a fairly impressive history, most of which is almost certainly made up for the entertainment of tourist. Several locals swear up and down that Robinson Crusoe's ship wrecked on that very island. And here I thought Robinson Crusoe was a work of fiction. The most plausible of these tall tales is that the island was once the hideout of Captain Henry Morgan, the dashing pirate who lends his name to a rum popular with Frat boys everywhere. There are caves about a mile from Utila town in the jungle where he reputedly stashed his booty. So one morning I dragged myself away from the pool, packed a lunch, and set out exploring the jungle, looking for pirate treasure. I hiked to where the road ended and then had to chop through the jungle. Eventually I heard the ocean and emerged on the other side of the island to one of the most spectacular sights I've ever seen. It was a beach of lava rock cliffs. The waves on this side of the island were huge and pummeled the cliffs, but the water remained a deep, bright blue.

On his third and fianl expedition to the West in 1521, Columbus landed in Honduras. What he saw must have looked a lot like what I saw as I sat at the edge of the cliffs--a land of stunning beauty and savage danger with brutal heat, dense jungle, and unforgiving oceans.

I was on Utila for six nights in total--far longer than I'd intended, but I'd promised the gang that I'd stay until they finished their lessons. Afterwards they were all heading to Nicaragua and I had every intention of finally going back to Guatemala. But for the third time, Lydia talked me into changing my itinerary and into yet another country. And the pathetic thing is, she barely had to try. Those Germans can be very persuasive.

"A good traveler has no fixed plans and is not intent on arriving." –Lao Tzu

"If you don't know where you're going, you might end up someplace else." -Yogi Berra

In my travels I have found several golden rules that I will follow under any circumstance. The first is to never refuse a request from a pretty girl. The second is if you have a chance to go to a tropical island with white sand and cold beer...go. The third is that a last minute change in plans is never a bad thing, even if it means completely altering the course of your entire trip. So when, on the evening I returned from El Mirador, I met not one but three beautiful girls who insisted I go with them to an island in Belize the next morning, I didn't even have to think about it.

Ida and Kari, two gorgeous Norwegians, and Lydia, a stunning German, had met in Antigua at a language school. They, along with a Dutch guy named Tibor, were traveling together for a month or two. I had not for an instant considered going to Belize as it was far out of my intended way and notoriously rough on a backpacker's budget, but when Lydia showed me a smile that would melt glaciers and said, "Oh ya, it will be so fun for us if you are coming too," it's not like I even had a choice in the matter. So the next morning I found myself on a bus going in the opposite direction of where I had intended and crossing the border to Belize.

Belize has a colorful history, very different from its Central American neighbors. Its entire coastline is guarded by the second largest barrier reef in the world which has a knack for tearing the keels out of ships trying to approach her shores. As a result, there were no European settlements all the way through the 17th century and the land was dangerous, lawless, and unprofitable. The only sailors skilled and reckless enough to brave its waters were pirates who turned the entire country into one big hideout. You know those scenes in pirate movies with pubs crawling with seadogs drinking rum, fighting and counting their booty? That was Belize. The British, seeking a foothold in the Spanish dominated region, finally tamed the country. To this day the queen is on the Belizan dollar and nearly everyone speaks Englishm though they probably also speak Spanish, Creole, Garífuna, a Mayan dialect or two, or some combination.

My new companions were not entirely green travelers, but they did balk at trading their Guatemalan quetzals for Belizan dollars with the black-market money laundererd you can find at any disreputable border crossing. But I find that as long as you don't show them enough to make it worth their while to stab you and steal it, they offer better rates and friendlier service than banks, and they don't charge a comission.

We had come to Belize at an interesting time. The national elections were just a week away and it was evident everywhere. The incumbent PUP (People's United Party) was up against the UDP (United Democratic Party). From what I gathered speaking to locals, the PUP, currently in power, were obscenely corrupt. The Belizan economy is worse than its been in decades and this is due to deals cut by PUP officials which made their wallets fat. These facts seemed to be accepted by supporters of both sides. The point of contention was whether the UDP would be ten times more corrupt which seemed to me entirely possible. Nearly every single residence and business had a sign or flag out front showing support for one party or the other. The signs, written in local dialect, were entertaining and biting. "Tings Haad. Tek Dem Money. Vote UPD." (translation: Things are hard. Take their money away.) Another read "PUP Hire, UPD Fire. Sup To You." Support was also shown with clothing--blue for PUP, red for UDP--and either support or admonishment was shouted from passing motorbikes, city busses, or third-story windows.

After a brief stop in Belize City, a town resembling Mos Eisley Spaceport, we piled into a water taxi to Caye Caulker. Just 45 minutes from Belize City, the Caye is a long island just off the reef. In reality, it is now two islands thanks to hurricane Hattie which literally tore the island in half.

Though fairly quiet for the start of busy season, there was still a preponderance of North American tourists, most older and wealthier than the backpackers we were all used tomixing with. The island's slogan, printed on a sign that greets you at the dock, is "Go Slow," and its taken to heart, many people calling it to me and my Manhattan-speed stride.

We lucked into a private apartment for the five of us. It came to USD$13 each a night--a fortune by Guatemalan standards but relatively little for a clean, huge place with a kitchen, hot water, two balconies, and kayaks out backs in the crocodile-laden lagoon.

Our activities here mostly involved laying on the beach, reading, drinking the local rum (a golden elixer called 1 Barrel which tastes so sweet and delicate you could put it on pancakes), dancing, playing basketball with the locals, and a few other things I shouldn't post on the internet. The food was terrific everynight, and cheap as we mostly cooked for ourselves. I made sauce the first night from local ingredients and found that jalapeños are way better than red pepper flakes. We had afeast another night with giant fish bought from a local fisherman. Tibor and I manned the grill while the girls prepared the feast. On the last night, we dined at a sea-side spot. The proprietor, a man pushing 400 lbs, pleaded with us to come in as things were clow and he really needed the money and was willing to give us a free side of baracuda with our lobsters. Who can turn down free baracuda? The spiny lobsters were each as long as my fore-arm and twice as fat. The price for this, plus garlic bread, mashed potatoes, rice and beans, the baracuda, and a complimentary Cuba Libre? Less than USD$10. It felt like we were robbing the guy.

But all things must pass and finally it was time to go. I was going back to Guatemala to get back on a non-existant schedule and they were off to Honduras and god-knows-what. We spent an hour-long boat ride saing "goodbye" and at Belize City we parted ways, never to see eachother again...

...or so we thought. Stay Tuned!

"A man should be resigned to knowing himself a little better each day if he hasn’t got the guts to put an end to his sniveling once and for all." –Louise-Ferdinand Celine

I regretted leaving my new crew behind, but Dave and Claire were heading south to Honduras, Silvia north to Belize, and I had a date with the jungles of northern Guatemala. Before I knew it I found myself alone again, heading back up the Rio Dulce and wondering when my next adventure would arrive. I didnt have to wait long.

Back in Fronteras, I decided to push on through to Flores, so I got a ticket from the first bus company I found. An old, beat-up Mercedes coach bus pulled up and when I climbed aboard, every seat was occupied and most of the aisle was full of people standing. I didn't relish the idea of standing for five hours on a bus with no hand-holds, but my bag was already below, so I gritted my teeth, grabbed a handfull of the headrest to either side of me and told myself that the driver would, of course, take it easy as half of his passengers were standing and squeezed and balanced precariously. Right.

Rather than slowing, he seemed to be driving more recklessly, almost pointedly so. He passed vehicles a quarter of our size like they were standing still, drove in whichever lane he wanted, and took curves at ludicrous speed. It may have been my imagination, but I was quite sure I felt the wheels on the left side of the bus lift off the ground during a particularly tight right-hand turn. Even the seated locals, who presumably ride these busses all the time, were making the sign of the cross and holding their heads in their hands. And just when I'm thinking, "How could this get any worse," I get my answer: it could start raining. A lot. And the windshield wipers could not work. But the driver just kept on going as if he hadn't even noticed the rain or the fact that his visibility had just decreased by half. Perhaps he hadn't.

On the rare occasions I get nervous on a bumpy flight, I remind myself what little I know about aerodynamics and why planes stay in the sky and besides flying is safer than riding in a car and blah blah blah and I feel better. Similarly, on particularly gnarly bus rides, I tell myselfthat the driver has been doing this forever and knows the roads like the back of his hand and besides he doesn't want to crash anymore than I do and blah blah blah but none of it seemed to work on this particular occasion. I've been on all sorts of treacherous trips from cabs in Manhattan to boats in Laos to turbulent flights over Chile to drunk drivers in LA, but this was the first time I seriously though to myself, "Well, this could be it. There's a very real possibilty I will not get off of this bus alive." But, of course, I did.

The good thing about having a suicidal maniac for a driver is that we reached Flores a FULL HOUR ahead of schedule. I took a cab to the first hostel in the Lonely Planet, something I never do, got a dorm bed, and gripped the sides until I stopped shaking.

Flores is a small town which covers the whole of a tiny island in the middle of Lago de Péten Itzá. It, along with neighboring cities Santa Elena and San Benito, have become the defacto base camps for visiting Tikal, the largest excavated Classical Mayan city in Guatemala and by far the most popular with tourists. As a result, it is a cute little town catering to tourists with money. Lots of souvenier shops, cheap internet, attractive hotels and eateries, and pasty whit people in shorts. Not exactly my cup of tea, but I had to do a little time there to get the details of my trip together.

See, I hadn't come to Flores for Tikal, but rather El Mirador, another ancient Mayan city still buried in El Peten, the Northern Guatemalan jungle. El Mirador has two of the largest Mayan temples ever discovered, was 16 square kilometers at the height of its power (significantly larger than Tikal), and dates back to the Pre-Classical Era (300 BC-300 AD). All of this, plus its pristine preservation by the un-yielding jungle, make it one of the most important and fascinating archeological sites in Central America. But El Mirador gets only a tiny fraction of the visiters that Tikal sees due to its distant location. There are only two ways to visit El Mirador. One, available only to the very wealthy, is a private helicopter. The other is an arduous trek through 124 km of dense jungle. You can guess which I took.

I booked the trip through a tour agency in Flores. I paid a bit more than I had expected, but unless I wanted to wait around in limbo in Flores, I had to sign on to the expedition heading out that Thursday. I also didn't mind shelling out a little more as this was to be a once in a lifetime experience for sure. Also, I've found that in cases like this, paying more doesn't necessarily mean that you will get more, but paying less absolutely guarantees that you will get less.

My traveling companions were two Canadians named Cailen and Steve. Cailen was a great travel companion; young, energetic, self-sufficient, and posessed of a vast knowledge of musical trivia. Nothing chews up the miles on a long hike like a heated debate about the merits of Motley Crue vs. Guns N Roses or the over-looked gems of Dylan's Jesus period. Steve, on the other hand, was a drag. You know those people that you're sure you're not going to like from the second you meet them but you give 'em the benfit of the doubt and everytime they do or say anything they prove your first instinct correct? Well that was Steve-O. He was basically a 30-year-old child who wore shorts and whined and complained and never helped with anything.But he was also so slow that he was usually a mile behind me on the trail and at camp he mostly just sulked in his tent. In any case, he did not detract from my enjoyment of the trip in any way.

Our guides were named Beto and Jose. Beto was 33 and had been taking groups to El Mirador for 12 years, basically since people had been visiting it. Jose was 62 and had only been leading groups for two-years, but he knew the jungle as well as anyone. He'd spent his life as a chiclero--a harvester of the sap of the chicle tree which is shipped off to foreign countries and turned into what we call chewing gum. Chicklets get their name from chicle. Beto had been married to Jose's sister the day before making them brothers-in-law and our expedition, in essence, his honeymoon.

Neither Steve nor Cailen spoke any Spanish, and Jose and Beto spoke even less English. This left me as the de facto translator. It was great practice and gave me a lot of confidence in my Spanish. It also made me indespensible to all members of the group and got me instant respect and deferential treatment from Beto who referred to me as "Capitán."

The five of us were joined by three mules who carried our food, water and gear. We left from Carmelita, a string of houses a generous person might call a town and the last settlement before the jungle that stretches deep into Mexico. We set out that first day, Beto and the mules in the lead, not waiting for us. Jose led the way with his machete blazing and we followed. As soon as we entered the jungle, two huge birds screamed a loud warning, either telling us to go back while we could or alerting the rest of the jungle that we were coming.

The sun rarely penetrated the jungle's canopy, but the heat was stifling nonetheless. The ants, ticks and mosquitos were unrelenting and ate right through 100 percent DEET. Even the plants are out to get you, often covered with thorns to stab, tear and sting your skin and clothes. And the trail itself was the worst enemy. The rainy season has just recently ended, but the muddy clay remained as thick and as sticky as cement. It was often knee-deep.

My biggest concern before this trip was my shoes, and by the end of the first day, my worst fears were coming true. The only shoes I'd brought from home were a pair of Chucks--suitable enough for city walking, versitile enough for the beach, lousy for a jungle trek. I had planned on buying some cheap boots at the market in Santa Elena. I found plenty of shoesthere, but had forgotten to account for the fact that my feet are about four sizes larger than any of their usual customers. The only pair I could find were some fake Nikes called AIR SHOE. I was concerned about the support and traction that these offered, but the problem ended up being the shoddy Chinese craftsmanship. After the first day, a difficult 20 km, the shoes were literally falling apart. The mud had sucked the soles halfway off, the fake leather was in tetters, and the laces were frayed. Beto assured me that if I got through day 2, something could be done at El Mirado. This was all well and good, but day 2 was to be more than double the distance, a grueling 8 hour hike of 42 km (roughly 30 miles).

Camp for the first night was at another Mayan ruin called Tintal. By the time we got there, Beto had already pitched the tents and had dinner cooking. Jose and I dropped our packs and climbed the temple. It was entirely shrouded in jungle, but upon reaching the top, the view was brethtaking. For 360 degrees there was nothing but jungle for as far as the eye could see. There were a few mounds here and there which Jose said were other unexcavated temples, some never even explored.

"Which on is El Mirador?" I asked. He pointed to a tiny dot on the horizon. That was where we were going tomorrow. I made sure to get a good night's sleep.

The next day's hike was indeed long and hard--30 miles is 30 miles--but it seemed to go faster than the previous day. This was largely due to the better terrain. We had moved from the swampy low jungle of the first day to the drier deep jungle where the canopy is so thick that little in the way of plantlife survives on the ground. About half the way we walked on the remains of Mayan Cladazas. These were once enormous highways connecting Mayan cities, this one running straight from Tintal to El Mirador. Two meters tall and six meters wide, these must have been stunning to see, blazing a bright white road through the jungle. Impressive enough, even in their disrepair, they were about the size of a four'lane highway and must have been an unbelievable archetectural undertaking.

There was wild life all around; tree frogs, foxes, wild turkeys, deer, catepillars, and moths of every color as big as my hand. But the most fun were the monkeys. Every once in a while you'd hear a loud crashing in the trees above and there would be a spider monkey looking down at you, often shaking the branches in hopes of scaring you away. A few even threw sticks and feces. Cute. The howler monkeys, though never heard, let out a fearsome chorus of roars each afternoon around sundown. Though they sounded like a pack of 1000 lb lions, I was asured that they are actual small, cute and harmless. I am still unconvinced.

Cailen and I finished the day in just under seven hours, including stops for lunch and water. I realized that I had just gone two miles further than a marathon through jungle in tropical heat wearing jeans and tattered shoes. And I felt great.

El Mirador is an active archeological site. As such, there is a sort of rudimentary base camp sut up there. The scientists had all left for the rain season, but about forty would be returning in the next few weeks. I would have liked to speak to them, but the deserted scientific camp gave me the uncanny impression that I was in a Micheal Crichton novel.

Steve came blubbering into camp, complaining of blisters and malaria and the heat and went immediately to bed, but Cailen and I were eager to see the temples, so we had Jose take us up to the top of La Tigra. The two main temples at El Mirador, La Tigra and Lan Danta, are believed to be the tallest and most massive pyramids ever constructed, respectively. The structure of La Tigra is aproximately 18 stories high, though it seems even taller as it is perched on what Jose called a small hill but a call a fucking mountain. There were some rudimentary steps built into the jungle which had claimed the temple, but getting to the top seemed more like mountain climbing than anything else.

I've heard the phrase "sitting on top of the world" before, but never understood what it meant exactly until I got to the top. Mexico, only 7 km away, seemed to stretch on forever in a sea of jungle. La danta and Templo Monos (Temple of the Monkeys) rose like mountains to either side. The air was so clean it seemed like you could fly. The sky was free of planes and no sign of modern man was evident anywhere. Jose and Cailen left to get dinner, but I stayed to watch the sunset.

I don't think I can adequately describe how it felt to sit there alone atop the tallest pyramid known to man...where only kings once stood. The endless jungle made the world seem unbearably vast. I tried imagining that somewhere to the west was Thailand, to the south Chile, to the east Italy, and Brooklyn to the north. But those places seemed made up, like they didn't belong in the same world as the one I'd entered.

The next day was to be a rest from hiking, but was one of the most physically demanding of all as we spent most of the day climbing these enormous temples. La Danta was especially tough. Only the top is excavated, but buried beneath 1500 years of dirt, rock and trees is believed to be the largest pyramid structure ever constructed. It dwarves the pyramids at Giza and beats anything the Aztecs ever dreamed of. Ankor Wat...child's play. The climbing was made extra difficult by the fact that I wore flip-flops all day. Early in the morning, Beto had taken my shoes and trudged off into the jungle, muttering to himself. He returned them that evening looking unrecognizable, but sturdier than ever. He'd stitched them by hand with a metal spike and twine. My repeated thanks were shrugged off, "it's nothing, Capitán. It's nothing."

In the afternoon, Jose and I went to a grassy field which is used as the helipad to rest and play a card game he'd taught me. In the middle of our third game, a helicopter touched down, us diving out of the way. Twelve men in fince civilian clothes piled out, eached armed with an automatic assault rifle, the clips duct-taped together in threes for quick reloading and a Glock 9 mm pistol strapped to their belt. They also had extra magazines tucked into every pocket. Oce the helicopter took off, nine of these guys dropped their duffel bags and ran off into the jungle while three stayed behind and began setting up tents. This would have been a shocking turn of events anywhere, let alone in the literal middle of nowhere. I turned to Jose and asked, "What the fuck!?!"

He responded simply, "El Presidente."

Sure enough, the newly elected president of Guatemala would be making his first visit to El Mirador the next morning and these were his personal Secret Service scouting the place and settign up all necessary defenses. Once the tents were done, the men, still armed for a medium sized skirmish, approached us, offering their hands. They introduced themselves and, pleased that I spoke Spanish, asked if I was an archeologist. I told them that I wasn't, I was just a tourist who had hiked in. "Jesus, that's a long way," they said. "On your holiday? You crazy? That's pretty tough, maybe you should come work for us." I laughed and said I'd be honored but I didnt know if I could handle one of those pistols. Without blinking, one of them unholstered his sidearm and handed it to me, laughing "take a shot." I suprised myself as much as them by flicking the safety and aiming at a nearby tree. But before I took the shot, the eldest one put a hand on my arm and said, "No, no, he's joking. If the others hear shots they'll come running." The soldier who'd handed me the gun looked as disappointed as I was.

We sat and talked to these men for about an hour. I had my picture taken with them and we all traded stories about women and booze. Jose filled them in on the drug-running in the area and they informed me that the presidente was coming as part of his platform during the election had been the total excavation and "modernization" of all Mayan sites, particularly El Mirador. This would boost tourist dollars, but would also kill Jose's business and he said so, not afraid of what the soldiers thought. When the rest of the soldiers came back, we left with hearty handshakes all around. All in all, my first encounter with the Secret Service for a head of state was very positive.

The next two days' hikes were far more difficult. Few words were spoken by anyone. We were spaced apart by about a half mile each. I just told myself that each step took me closer to a shower, to a bed, to cold drinks, to clean clothes, and away from evil insects. I stumbled into Carmelita twenty minutes behind Cailen who was waiting with a cold Cervesa Gallo. We shook hands like old war buddies and congratulated each other and spent the next hour playing with the kids and dogs and horses in town while we waiting for Steve-O to show up.

There's some kinda problem with that last post. Some can see it and some can't and I don't know why. The text is there, it's just invisible, but if you highlight it with your cursor, you can see it. Weird, I know. It's like a secret message. Enjoy.

Courage is doing what you’re afraid to do.There can be no courage unless you’re scared. –Eddie Rickenbacker

Boarding the bus to Guatemala City, I went through tighter security than anything I've ever seen at JFK. Each bag was searched by hand, I had to go through a metal detector sensitive enough to be set off by a single coin in my pocket, and I was then patted down just to make sure. Once aboard, however, it was a pleasant four hour trip to Rio Dulce. The first hour was through mountains but once we left the highlands it was jungle scenery all the way. Aside from the dubbed Jim Carey movies shown on t.v. sets at deafening volume, the trip was nice and uneventful.

Rio Dulce Town is where Lago de Izabal, the largest lake in the country, meets Rio Dulce which winds its way to the Carribean. The town is still often referred to by its former name of Fronteras, a reference to its position as the last settlement before the untouched wilds of El Peten, a vast jungle which makes up the northern half of Guatemala. This name became irrelevent only a few years ago when roads to Tikal and Flores became some of the newest and best in the country. The town itself is just a strip of souvenier shops, banks, and hotels. Immediately upon getting off the bus I met a beautiful girl from Finland with a mohawk in camo pants named Silvia. She had been on my bus and since neither of us had any plans, we got on a boat together to a place called Casa Perico.

We boarded a boat and headed out into the lake. The weather was a perfect 85° F with a slight hint of sea-breeze blowing from the un-seen sea. Silvia and I giggled with happiness and our smiles grew bigger as we pulled into a narrow lagoon crowded with mangroves and vines. Casa Perico is a secluded wooden complex in this lagoon, built and run by three Swiss guys. It was like paradise. Silvia and I took the upsairs of the very back dorm which became, in effect, our own private suite in a banana-leaved treehouse. The beds were clean, soft matresses on the floor with mosquito nets. So this girl I'd just met was now my friend and roommate in a tropical paradise.

Silvia told me a bit about herself: she was travelling for a few months through Mexico and Central America to escape the Finnish winter. She has to be in Cuba in two weeks to meet her girlfriend who is living there and they will go back to Finland together. At home, in Helsinki, Silvia is a legitimate t.v. star. This she reluctantly admitted when to Swedes recognised her as we were having beers. We met a British couple, Dave and Claire, who were staying downstairs from us and the four of us formed a little clique.

I was very curious about the name of the place as in New York, 'perico' is slang for cocaine amongst the Mexicans and Puerto Ricans I know. I doubted that the proprietors would be so bold as to name their hostal "House of Blow," and doubted it even more once I had seen the chilled out atmosphere of the place, so I asked one of the guys who worked there. He explained that a perico is a parakeet, the kind that chatter rapidly and nonsensically. The slang will make sense to anyone who has tried to have a conversation with someone coked out.

The two days that I spent in the House of the Parakeet disappeared into relaxed bliss. Our biggest accomplishment was taking a dugout canoe down the lagoon to a raft in the middle of the lake and getting a tan. Eventually we decided we had to get going, so we hopped a boat to Livingston.

Livingston is a town where the Rio Dulce meets the Carribean and immediately upon arrival you feel like you've reached the islands. Reggae blasts from unseen speakers and you are met by guys with dreads and joints who say, "Yeah, man, welcome to de Carribean. You want a room, you want ganja, I got it. You want nothing I got that too! Rastafarai, bwa!" Livingston is mostly populated by the Garìfuna, descended from survivors of a crashed slave ship who mixed with Carribean natives in the 17th Century. It is said that it took the British longer to establish rule over the Garìfuna (Black Carrib) than any other Carribean people. The survivors of the British conquest were deported to Honduras from where they spread up the coast to Guatemala. They are now a fascinating mixture of Mayan, African, Latino, and colonial cultures.

We'd spent more money than we had intended to at Casa Perico (many cheap beers add up to one expensive beer) so we looked for the cheapest hotel in town with a kitchen so we could save some additional money by cooking for ourselves. Once we got to the Hotel Meridian, we learned that you get what you pay for. It was filthy and old and beyond run-down. The rooms looked like cement jail-cells for unruly prisoners. But for US$2.75 a night, its hard to complain.

The tout who brought us to our hotel was named Francis. He asked where I was from and when I told him New York, he broke into a spot-on Brooklyn accent. "Fuckin, Eastern Parkway, yo. Fuckin, the Bronx. Yo, I got mad peoples in New York, son. My sister, son." He had never been to the states, but fell into the accent without a thought. It was amazing and a trait that I saw a lot in Livingston. There were Garìfuna who told Claire and Dave that they had "mates" in London and one even broke out a little trivia about Helsinki for Silvia. Many had fluent Italian, French, or German that they could break out if need be and I heard Garìfuna use Irish, British, and assorted American accents. They were chamelians of the first order who now find themselves with a surplus of monied tourists to impress. Invariably, these guys sit down next to you and just want some friendly talk. They ask where you are from and, wouldn't you know it, they have a sister from there and what do you say you get their next beer and maybe a cigarette or something to eat? Those who don't have the chamelian thing down have marijuana and lots of it. The smallest quantity you can purchase is a half ounce (12 grams) and the going price is 200 quetzals. I don't know if you've bought pot lately, but an ounce for $40 is a pretty good deal, even if those are tourist prices.

We walked down to the beach and sat under the orange sky, sipping Brahva beer in the cool Carribean breeze before buying groceries and a bottle of rum for dinner. Dave cooked an impressive dinner of pasta with chillies. He's an accomplished juggler as well. He and Claire have been partially funding their trip that way. He juggles while she passes the hat. So when some local kids came by looking for some money, Dave put on a show for them and they instantly forgot about begging. They were now our amigos and they wanted to climb all over the girls and a few challenged me to a rock throwing contest. I beat all comers. Then their big brothers showed up and wanted a go, so I beat them, too. But by the time the fathers got involved, I felt like I was going to need Tommy John surgery, but I still held my own. I guess it'll still be awhile before we see a Garìfuna in the majors.

After dinner we went to a little bar playing loud reggae and as we got our beers a rainstorm appeared out of nowhere. People poured in to escape the rain, but each came in dancing. Dave headed back to sleep (I think the rum and ganja where a bit stronger than he was used to) so I danced with Claire. The music was so loud and so good and so fitting that you couldn't help but dance a bit. When I sat back down I, being the only one who spoke Spanish and the only male, answered assorted questions. "Yes, she is my girlfriend." "Yes, the other one is my sister." "No, you may not borrow either of them even for a few minutes." "Why yes, I'd love another beer. Thank you." I even recieved a dissertation on the trials and tribulations of the lobster fishing business in the modern Carribean.

The next morning I was told by Dave that two of our new friends, Charlie Brown and King (those were the only names they would give), would like to take us fishing on Charlie's boat. They were friendly, fun-loving guys and a day in a boat in the Carribean seemed like a good day to me, so I said I'd love to join. But the relaxed pace means that things take a little longer in Livingston. First, Charlie Brown and I had to go get the boat. Even though the boat was very close, this took well over an hour as we had to stop and talk to his assorted uncles and aunties, most of whom insisted that we stop and have a beer or a smoke with them, and Charlie never refuses a beer or a smoke. Its a good thing I went, because Dave would have passed out before they got three blocks. The rest of the gang were supposed to go with King to get beer and fishing gears, but when we got back, they were just leaving. One of King's aunties had stopped by. By the time we were all in the boat and set it was well into the afternoon and the sky was getting a bit grey. And we still had to fill up on gas, which was another ordeal as noone had brought any money. So I had to borrow a bike and race back to the hotel to grab money. Finally, we were ready to fish, but as we went out into open water we met a tropical storm. Rain was coming down sideways. The swells were coming over the sides of the boat and over the iny out-board motor. Everything was soaked. Silvia and I laughed so hard we nearly fell out of the boat.

Charlie Brown, our fearless captain, guided us to a hut down the shore. It was a bar owned by, who else, one of his uncles. Over the bar was a picture of Mick Jagger between Bob Marley and Peter Tosh. Charlie's uncle cranked up the stereo. At home, when you hear "Don't worry about a thing. 'Cause ev'ry little ting, gonna be alright," it sounds nice and sweet and silly...like a fairy tale. But dancing in the warm rain on a beach where everything that could go wrong has gone wrong and its all still pretty great, those lyrics make all the sense in the world.

Eventually the storm passed and we piled back into the boat. Abandoning the idea of fish, we went to a place called Los Siete Altares--The Seven Waterfalls. To get to this natural wonder, you have to hike up a gorge in the mountains. The river is divided into a series of smoothe pools. Usually, these pools are crystal blue, but today they were clouded by rain. We were pelted by huge drops from the rain-soaked jungle canopy. But when we got to the top, it was all worth it. Seven streams of water came pouring out of the middle of a huge boulder into a large, deep pool. It was very much like the scene in 'The Beach' when Leo and the gang have to make their leap of faith. I climbed to the top and, let me tell you, 30 feet seems a lot higher from the top than it does from the bottom. But King called out, "Hey Yankee boy! Don't disappoint me! Judgement comin', man! Bwa!" And I dove.

Upon returning to the boat, Charlie alerted us that there was a problem with the motor. Worse, we were losing sunlight. King and Charlie wanted to push out and try to fix it as we went, but neither seemed too confident. Dave and Claire were too spaced out to be any help. So silvia and I huddled for a moment. It was 5 1/2 kilometers back to town along the beach. One of us should be on shore in case they get stuck at sea. "If I run," I said, "I can make it."

"There's no lights or anything. What if someone wants to rob you?"

"That's why I'll run."

"I'm coming with you."

"No, I'll go faster alone. And someone has to stay with Dave and Claire. I'll be fine. If you get the motor going I'll see you pass by. Otherwise I'll come back with help." With that I tied a bandana around my head, picked up a stick big enough to brandish, just in case, and was off. Soon after starting I saw the little boat zip along with my friends safely aboard. Now it was just me against the night. I don´t know if I've ever run 3 miles at a dead sprint in my life, let alone over unfamiliar sand and rocks in failing light. Certainly never barefoot. But sometimes you find out what you're made of. And when I reached the edge of town at sunset, barefoot and bare-chested, weapon in hand, I felt like a mighty warrior returning from battle.

At the hotel, Silvia met me at the door. "It's unbelievable. We only got back 15 minutes ago. How did you make it so fast?"

"I was coming to rescue you," I said and collapsed on the bed.

"The thirst for adventure is the vent which Destiny offers; a war, a crusade, a gold mine, a new country, speak to the imagination and offer swing and play to the confined powers." –Ralph Waldo Emerson

You may ask, "Why Guatemala?" Well, I found a cheap airfare, its someplace I've never been before, its 80° F in the middle of January, and I speak Spanish. There are also more than 30 volcanos (many active), untold beauty, countless Mayan ruins, and acres upon acres of virgin jungle. Guatemala also has a long history of violent revolution from the Mayans to the Conquistadors to the expulsion of Presidente Jorge Serrano in 1993. Many parts are still desperately poor and the rest is just as third world as third world can be. The phrase "Banana Republic" was coined in reference to Guatemala. And it is where I will spend the next 6 weeks...for better or for worse.

The flight in was smoothe and easy, other than the hour we spent on the ground at JFK waiting for god-knows-what. Guatemala's airport is directly in the city, so after circling to descend (and missing a volcano by about 10 feet) it appeared we were going to crash land on top of a group of tin shacks which go right up the the runway. Having been to Shea Stadium, I can only imagine how loud life is in those shacks, though judging by their conditions, noise is the least of their problems. Once we touched down, I was nearly thrown from my seat due to the rapid braking...Guatemala has one of the shortest commercial runways in the world.

Although Guatemala City is the largest city in the country and its capital, every guidebook and website advises that a smart traveler will give it a pass and get directly to Antigua, one hour away. I, clearly, am not what is considered a smart traveler. I will get to Antigua in due time, but I did not want to start my adventure in a place designed to be soft and cushiony for the average tourist. I wanted to get a feel for the real Guatemala, so I ventured into the heart of Guatemala city.

My first impression of Guatemala City was that it is dirty and rough and old and parts seem to be crumbling before your very eyes...in short, I loved it. I was also struck by how quiet it seemed. There are many people on the streets and the cars and busses, with no mufflers, spit out huge plumes of black exhaust every time they accellerate, but still the place seems sleepier and quieter than a city of 3.1 million has any right to be.

I checked into the Hotel Fenix, a crumbling old place in Zona 1. Guatemalan cities are divided into Zones or districts, 1 usually being the center. The little old man at the desk scooted around showing me different rooms with a huge smile on his face. He scooped up a fat, dirty pigeon that apparently couldn't fly and lived in the hallways and chastised it for trying to run away. I dropped my bags and went out to explore. I took it as a good omen that the pharmasy next door was called Pharmacia Brooklyn.

Guatemala City is light on tourist attractions and sights, but it is a perfect place to get a feel for Guatemalan day-to-day life. My first order of business was to get some local money--queztals--from an ATM, then to get some food. I stepped through the swinging doors of a place called El Portal and was instantly transported to a cantina in the old west. Cast-iron chandelliers hung from high ceilings. A group of old men stood huddled in the corner playing guitars and singing about heartbreak. A long bar stretched across one wall and was lined with men watching Italian soccer on a flat-screened tv, the only apparent concession to modernity. I ordered a portion of tacos which were rolled and fried and delicious. With every beer, the waitress brought another plate of tapas...crackers with tuna, potato salad, pickled jalapeños, tortillas with beans. I get the feeling that going hungry will not be a problem in this country.

Before calling it a night, I stopped into one more place called Las Cien Puertas in reference to the courtyard in which its located and, legend has it, has 100 doors. The walls of the bar are covered with graffiti written by the patrons, mostly students. Che Guevara once drank there. The music was low and sounded like Tegan and Sara in Spanish and it sounded like a lullabye to my first day back out on the road.

I rose early the next day and walked for miles with no real aim or purpose. I stopped for a cup of coffee in the morning, but rather than getting the famed Guatemalan Blend, I recieved a cup of hot water and a jar of instant coffee crystals. Apparently the good stuff is exported and the locals do not mind. I stumbled upon the US Embassy outside of which was a full battalion of cops in full riot gear. It seemed quite unnecessary untill I looked across the street and saw a gathering of perhaps 100 farmers in cowboy hats. The group was seething and churning like a beehive. They were there to protest something, though there were no signs or chants. I wanted to ask someone what was up, but the cops seemed preoccupied and the proximity to the US Embassy didn't seem like an accident, so asking the group was out, too. I snapped a quick photo, which was neither unnoticed nor appreciated, and beat it the hell out of there.

These riot police were not particularly well armed--just billy clubs, vests, helmets, and side arms--but there are "security guards" all over the city with enormous shotguns, and I mean they are EVERYWHERE. Every bank and pharmacy has at least one, many stores have a few, some just patrol streets. They are mostly young men. Its nothing new to see guns in plain view, but this was something else. I guess when a country has a past as violent as Guatemala's has been there are a) a lot of scared people and b) a lot of guns left laying around.

Before long I found myself in a market very similar to the ones all over SE Asia. One street was ligned with vendors selling either watermellons or bananas. Thats it. Each had piles and piles of their wares, but supply seemed to far outweigh demand. In fact, I had lunch across the street and saw only one transaction take place for a few bananas. I was back at my hotel by 1:30 for a siesta. I had already gotten a sunburn...I'll have to watch that being so close to the equator.

The next morning I rose early again to get a bus to Rio Dulce. As much as I like Guatemala City, it is time to get out of Dodge and I am never one to overstay my welcome. After a quick, not-so-warm shower I packed and went downstairs to check out. There were a few other guests. Judging by their accents and, um, style, I am guessing they were Argentinians. The bell rang and in came a few cops dressed in severe black uniforms. With their pants tucked into their knee-high boots they were reminicent of Nazis or the stormtrooper pilots on the second Death Star. A few of these guys rolled in and I figured there had been a robbery or something, but more and more kept coming till there were about 15 in the small lobby. A few came to us while the rest set about knocking on doors. This was, btw, 7:30 AM. I overheard one stormtrooper say to one of the Argentinians that this was a routine search for illegal immigrants, but judging by the look on the face of the boy at the desk, this was not exactly "routine." One noticed me skulking in a corner and marched up to me. "Identifictión," he barked. Never one to be easy on the cops, I said, "Sorry, no speak Spanish." Now I've said it before and I'll say it again, cops are the same in any country and any language: bad haircuts and no sense of humor. Well, this one was the same and, refraining from smacking me in the face, gestured to everyone else who was showing their passports. "Oh," I said, "identificay-shun." I showed my passport and he studied it, especially the Laotian exit-visa. I guess they don't get many of those around these parts. Satisfied that I was not an illegal migrant worker coming from New York to the golden fields of Guatemala, he handed it back and said I could go. I don't know if he heard me thank the desk clerk in perfect Spanish, but I did not stick around to find out. All I know is that its a good thing I was already awake because if some jackbooted Nazi-looking bozo had woken me up at 7:30 in the morning there would have been one less Gringo in Guatemala.So, here I go again, on my own. Another adventure. I hope you enjoy it...I know I will.

"Life's a voyage that's homeward bound."

--Herman Melville

"Let the tourist be cushioned against misadventure. Your true traveler will not feel that he has had his money's worth unless he brings back a few scars."

--Lawrence Durrell

"I'm going back to New York City...I do believe I've had enough."--Bob Dylan

The Island of Ko Phangnan is often mentioned in the same breath as Ibiza. It is world renowned for its infamous Full Moon parties. I'd seen and heard enough of these techno/trance laden beach side raves to know that it probably wouldn't be my cup of tea. But I have also heard of quiet, secluded beaches and old-school backpacker scenes if you could find them. I had a hot tip, so I decided to make it my last stop.

Hat Rin is the place on Phangnan that hosts the full moon party and the vast majority of visitors to the island. Upon arriving I was pleasantly surprised at how uncrowded and (relatively) mellow it was. Granted, it could have been a beach town anywhere in the world, but the beach was spectacular and there was no shortage of pleasant and cheap accommodations. I spent the day on the beach and at night ventured out to see the party scene up close.

The full moon party takes place once a month on the night of the full moon (so long as it doesn't conflict with a Buddhist holiday) but the beach turns into an out door club every night. There are fire dancers and blaring techno and enormous, cheap, and strong drinks just like on the full moon...just fewer people to appreciate them. The drink of choice is a "bucket." These concoctions are serves in a red or green beach pail, hence the name. They cost around 200 Baht ($9 USD) and get you as drunk as you dare. Each bucket is filled with ice, a bottle of M150, which is like syrupy Red Bull, a can of soda, and a fifth of cheap liquor, usually Thai whiskey. I ran into a couple that I had met in Laos and we sipped our buckets until the music was less grating and the neon lights began to fade into the palm trees. I must admit it was a fun, and distinctly Thai experience.

But the next day I had had enough, so I sought out a place I had heard rumors of: a hold over from the days before Phangnan was "discovered..." a place called The Sanctuary. It is only reachable by boat taxi, entirely hidden from the rest of the world. As my longtail boat pulled around the point into the private bay of Hat Thian, I couldn't help but think of Alex Garland's the beach.

The Sanctuary is a cross between a beach resort and a hippie commune. "Good vibes" abound. The restaurant is vegetarian and largely organic. Each night there is a "family meal" and everyone eats together. Afterwards, anyone whose holding (which is pretty much everyone) rolls a joint and passes it around. There are three daily Yoga courses, as well as regular lessons in meditation. They run a popular "cleansing" program which involves fasting for 3-7 days and regular colonic irrigations. It is possible to get your palm or aura or tarot read just about any time. Overheard conversations are likely to involve "karma," "oneness," "chakras," "chi," or "higher states of consciousness." The playlist on the radio varies from new-age to Bob Marley to Stereolab...but no electric guitars are permitted. My first inclination was to cynically laugh at the hippies, but the groovy, chilled-out vibe is so cool and welcoming that it's quickly contagious. Between the spa and the beach and the hammocks and the thoughtful atmosphere, it really does feel like a sanctuary from the rest of the island, the rest of Thailand, and the rest of the world.

It's not like The Sanctuary is a secret. It's been reviewed by Time Magazine and, strangely, the New York Post, and has a listing in Lonely Planet. But they manage to keep a low profile. It seems like in SE Asia, and particularly Thailand, anyplace cool has a six month shelf-life before it is "discovered" and consequently over-run. The Sanctuary, however, opened in 1991 and has remained more or less how it was before. True, they have added some bungalows and there is now e-mail access and 24 hour electricity, but the feeling remains the same. They keep their anonymity partially because of the place's inaccessibility, but it is also a closely guarded secret by those that know. It's not like you're asked for a password or a signed reference when you check in, but it seems understood that this place is special and should be shared only with those capable of appreciating it. Do I feel any qualms about singing its praises in a public blog? No. No one reads this thing anyway.

Here's a perfect example of the difference between the Sanctuary and the rest of the backpacker scene: Every restaurant in Hat Rin and Vang Vieng and Ko Sahn Road and every other "backpacker's hub" plays western movies. In Hat Rin I saw at least two showing "Wedding Crashers," one with "Shrek," "Spiderman 3," and THREE showing the new "Pirates of the Caribbean." There's nothing wrong with any of these movies. I've seen them all and they are terrific diversions and ways to relax your road-weary brains. But the night I arrived at The Sanctuary was movie night. After we finished our meal or organic Indian Dahl and brown rice with sea-weed and tofu soup, and after the hash spliffs were twisted up, the owner rolled out a big screen and a DVD hooked up to a projector. Everyone lay down on the floor and the played "Being There," an old Peter Sellers movie--a thoughtful, talky movie that takes intelligence and patience to appreciate. If it had been shown in Hat Rin, there would have been a revolt. I knew this was the place for me.

As you can imagine, The Sanctuary attracts a wide variety of guests. There were families with young children, a few old school hippies who never left the sixties, a few burnouts who went overboard on the psychedelics, some Young Urban Professionals on their yearly two-week vacation, and a few travelers like me who got a hot tip and lucked into the place. And everyone in between. I befriended a French couple named Hugo and Elise, a couple from Sheffield named Claire and Sabastian, Jaques, a South African who seems like he just stepped out of an adventure movie, and Shelly, a Cajun rapper (MC Shell Shock!. Check out her MySpace, yo) who has been working there for the last two months and before that lived in Willamsburg. We sort of formed a crew and took a boat trip round the island that involved snorkeling, waterfalls, lots of sun, and endless laughter. That night there was a party up on the hill. It involved the same blacklights and trancy techno as the party on Hat Rin, but was infinitely more enjoyable due to the intimacy of the group of people...and the freely shared hallucinogens.

There were two major drawbacks to the place. One was the gigantic mozzies which were just dripping with Dengue Fever. Two people came down with it while I was there. But if you're gonna catch a non-deadly disease which just makes you want to sleep a lot, I can't think of a better place than a magical beach with a 2-1 hammock to person ratio. The other drawback was that it made the fact that my trip has come to an end that much harder. There were times on this trip when I was more than ready for familiar people and foods and things. But I could have stayed at the Sanctuary for a long, long time. It's widely accepted that everyone stays longer than they had planned, and if they are ever able to drag themselves away, they come back. Usually sooner than later. Last night before I got a ferry back to the mainland, Shelly and I swam out to the raft in the middle of the bay. She tried to cheer me up by reminding me of all the good things about Brooklyn in the summer: the rooftop parties, the concerts, the afternoons in the park. And it struck me that I felt this same melancholy when I was leaving New York to come on this trip. So...

Do I have any conclusions about my trip? Well, I honestly believe that I have learned more here in four months than I did in four years of college (and for significantly less scratch). And I don't mean the abstract things that people refer to when they talk about travel, like "broadened horizons" and "greater world-view." I feel healthy physically, mentally, and dare I say spiritually. I don't know what lies ahead of me tomorrow...literally, I don't know where I'm going to go when I get off the plane. But that's the way this whole trip has been, and I think the secret to its success. I'd like to have a little more adventure in my life at home. And while it may be easier to find adventure in a strange and distant land, there's plenty of it in New York City or New Jersey or Tuscaloosa, Alabama. You just have to look for it. So I thank you for reading this blog and sharing my journey with me. I hope it was entertaining. And I'm sure I'll be on the road soon...I hope you will be too.

"Like all great travelers, I have seen more than I remember, and remember more than I have seen."

--Benjamin Disreali

"Man's chief purpose is to live, not to exist: I shall not waste my days trying to prolong them. I shall use my time."

--Jack London

It will come as no surprise to anyone who has made a habit of reading this blog that I have found myself in some dangerous, harrowing, and exhilarating situations. I've done things that very few people in the world have had the chance to experience. I've been places I thought I would only see in the movies or on t.v. Almost accidentally, daring and adventure have become the themes of this trip. But as I stepped off the ferry onto the white sand of Ko Tao, I assumed all of that was behind me--that I had nothing but lazy days on the beach with girls in bikinis and boat drinks ahead of me. I mean, what kind of hair-raising adventures could I possibly get into on a tropical island paradise that Lonely Planet describes as "a dreamy, romantic place where you can read a book in a hammock strung between palms or experience a traditional massage in an open-air bungalow when the sun disappears into the ocean"? Well...

Ko Tao, which means Turtle Island, is 21 sq. km and about 40 miles off the east coast of Thailand in the gulf of Siam. It is surrounded by crystal clear water and coral reefs with all manner of sea-life. But, unlike its larger and more famous neighbors Ko Samui and Ko Phang Ngang to the south, Ko Tao remained relatively unknown to most island hopping tourists looking for the perfect beach and non-stop techno. Until recently, the only people to pay any attention to this gem of an island were the scuba diving community who embraced Ko Tao for its rich, clear waters. Today, Tao is starting to be discovered by the backpackers, but diving remains the major industry. Each of the 50+ hotels and resorts on the island offers diving trips or lessons and many will only take guests who sign up for a dive or course.

Heather, the girl I traveled with in Vietnam, had talked endlessly about Ko Tao. She had taken lessons there before we met and was hooked on diving. It had never really intrigued me that much to be honest. But I liked the movie "The Life Aquatic" and I figured if I was ever going to strap on a scuba tank, this would be the place. Besides, I had time and the girls in bikinis and boat drinks weren't going anywhere...so I signed up for a course.

Now, you can't just grab a tank and jump in. Scuba diving is generally safe if done correctly, and to be sure that it is, PADI (the Professional Association of Diving Instructors) has put together an international training course for certification in all levels of diving. This goes from beginners to advanced to rescue divers all the way up to professionals. Ko Tao is one of the cheapest places to get these certifications due to the number of dive schools and the number of instructors, most of whom came to the island to learn how to scuba dive and just never left. I enrolled in the Open Water Course, the beginners level.

The Open Water course involves three classroom sessions, one contained water lesson, and four dives. In the classroom lessons, you learn about how to set up the equipment and the physics of diving--like how to breath and how o ascend without getting the bends (which is now called Decompression Illness or DCI). The classes were actually fun and interesting and the 50 question final test was a breeze. (I'm pleased to report that I, along with a Brit named Terry who looked like he just stepped off stage at a Soho rock-club, got the highest scores in the class.) But I was very anxious to get in the sea and start breathing underwater. So it was with great anticipation that, after passing the necessary swimming tests, I got into a wetsuit, strapped on the tank and BCD vest, pulled on my fins, adjusted my mask and hopped in. [Note- When speaking to a diver, do not refer to his fins as "flippers" or his mask as "goggles." They get very upset.]

It was on of the most incredible and enjoyable experiences of my life. Yes, it takes some getting used to. Breathing constantly and slowly through a regulator is tough enough. But getting used to it whilst having a heavy tank and weight belt strapped on, learning to control your buoyancy, remembering to equalize your ears and mask, keeping an eye on available air, and avoiding the other divers who are flailing around trying to get used to the same things all in a basically zero-gravity environment...it's a little tricky. But by the end of the first dive I felt comfortable enough that I was able to start paying attention to my surroundings. I wasn't prepared for the sheer numbers and different varieties of fish. Underwater video doesn't begin to do justice to the vivid colors, the fluidity of their movement, or the distinctive silence, broken only by the sound of your own air bubbles and and the occasional muffled sound whose origin is impossible to determine. Best of all, as far as the fish are concerned, you're just a bigger one of them. They don't see you as a threat and treat you the same as they would any other fish--which in most cases means they ignore you completely--so you can get as close as you want. Or in some cases, as close as you dare...

I saw all manner of soft and hard corals, angelfish, bannerfish, triggerfish, an ancient sea turtle (very cool), sting-rays (not scary), moray eels (a little scary) and hundreds of other fish and animals. I enjoyed it so much, in fact, that as soon as I had finished the course I signed up for the Advanced Open Water certification. The regular Open Water allows you to go diving anywhere in the world, but it's like a learner's permit. There are certain restrictions, like you always have to dive with a licenced PADI diver and you cannot go deeper than 18 meters. Advanced Open Water (AOW) allows you more freedom and more adventurous diving, and it's the first step towards professional certification.

The AOW course involved five dives, each focusing on a separate skill or technique. There was Underwater Navigation, Peak-Performance Buoyancy (which teaches you better control and as a result helps you use air more efficiently), Naturalism (which teaches about underwater ecosystems and how not to negatively impact them), Night Diving, and Deep Diving.

The night dive was particularly interesting. After dark, certain animals go to sleep, and some come out to hunt. The sting-rays are particularly active at night. [Sting-rays, btw, have no idea that the barbs on their tails are poisonous. If someone or something is "stung," it is the inadvertent result of the animal trying to flee. Steve Irwin was an idiot and probably trying to mess around or ride the one that killed him.] But the really cool ones are the barracudas. There are juvenile barracudas around during the day, which look fairly mean, but at night the adults come out to play. An adult barracuda is commonly 6 ft or bigger. But they do not (generally) bite divers. In fact, night divers are a barracuda's best friend. They use our lights to hunt. So often, you'll be swimming along and look to your right and swimming beside you like your best buddy in the world is a monster barracuda. This, as you can imagine, can be a bit disconcerting in the dark, but once you get used to it, it can be quite fun finding a helpless little squirrelfish, shining your torch on it, and watching the carnage unfold right before your eyes.

As much fun as the night diving was, the deep dive was far and away the most memorable. Advanced divers can go as deep as 40 meters, but it is strongly advised that you limit your dives to 30 meters. There are several reasons for this, like air is so dense at that depth that it gets used up very quickly. There is also the vastly increased risk of DCI. But mainly its because of Nitrogen Narcosis. No one knows exactly why we are affected by Nitrogen Narcosis, but it is basically when too much nitrogen dissolves in your blood. It happens to some people in less than 30 meters and some people are immune to it even past 40 meters. If six people go diving, three may get "narked," as they call it, and three not be affected at all. The next day, the same six divers may go on the exact same dive, and the other three get narked and the rest be straight. It's a tricksy little thing. But most people don't seem to mind. See, the effects of Nitrogen Narcosis vary from person to person, but symptoms include euphoria, elation, inappropriate behavior, poor judgement, and short-term memory loss. Yep, you get high underwater. Nitrogen Narcosis in and of itself does no harm to the body, but I'm sure you can see how it could cause problems when you are suddenly wasted and 100 feet under water. But once you ascend a meter or two, it goes away and you don't even get a hangover. As you can imagine, most divers look forward to getting narked and are disappointed when they feel nothing and have to babysit their buddy who is busy talking to fish and trying to find Nemo (a clownfish, btw). Before the dive we were all given simple arithmetic and manual dexterity tests which we then repeated at 30 meters. The other two guys messed up royally, but I had no problems whatsoever. The dive master accompanying us looked at me and shrugged as if to say, "yeah, me neither." But the type of fish at that depth were really cool. There were three Giant Grouper and we swam right through a group of tuna.

For some reason, I seemed to keep finding myself way ahead of the group. And I seemed to be using my air faster than usual, even for a deep dive. I had just started pondering these questions and more when behind me I heard Andrea, the gorgeous and usually unflappably cool Czech dive instructor, shouting "Mmmmm! Mmmmmm! MMMmmmmm!!!" through her reg. I turned and she was pointing just over my left shoulder and holding her other hand vertically in front of her forehead. I had learned that hand sign earlier in the naturalism course. Let's see, it wasn't angelfish or batfish or scorpionfish...what was it? Oh yeah, that means shark. SHARK?!? I spun around and there, no more than 10 feet away, was indeed a 2 meter black-tipped reef shark. A real live fucking shark. And me without a cage. What did I do? I giggled.

Now reef sharks very rarely attack humans, but that's not what goes through your mind when one is gliding through the water in front of you like a mass of muscle and teeth. So why was I giggling? It took no notice of me and went on its way, presumably to terrorize some other sea life. After it had gone, I indicated that I only had 50 bar of air left which is the sign that it's time to start going up.

When we got back on the boat, Andrea said to me, "Wow, you're lucky. You got narked and got to see a shark up close all on your first deep dive."

I said, "What do you mean? I wasn't narked."

She laughed. "Really? You used your air up because you were swimming double speed against the current. I had trouble keeping up with you. You also were chasing after tuna fish."

"I was?"

"Mm-hmm. And do you remember trying to grab that barracuda that swam past you?" I had to admit that I did remember that, but it had seemed like a perfectly reasonable thing to do at the time. She said she had been about to bring me up a few meters to sober me up when the shark showed up.

So to my list of once-in-a-lifetime experiences and adventures, I can add "swimming in shark infested waters whilst so high on Nitrogen that I didn't even realize it." With only a week left before I go home, I can't imagine topping that. But who knows what awaits me...

"Some men go skimming over the years of existence to sink gently into a placid grave, ignorant of life to the last, without ever having been made to see all it may contain of perfidity, of violence, and of terror."

--Joseph Conrad

Kanchanaburi, Thailand is best known as home to the famed bridge over the Kwai River thanks to the classic movie starring Sir Alec Guinness and William Holden. The history of this bridge is grim, and the story of the entire stretch of track, known as the Thailand-Burma Railway or, more colorfully, The Death Railway, is even worse. Some 16,000 allied soldiers died laying those tracks. Twice that many "workers" from India, Burma, Malaya, and Thailand perished while laboring in conditions that varied between indentured servitude and slavery. The history is fascinating--the events leading up to the bridge's construction, the story of those who built it, and the inhuman conditions they had to survive in while working. They suffered through disease, exhaustion, lack of food and clean water, and the heat. Kanchanaburi is surrounded by deep jungle even today and the sweltering heat is oppressive. I am sure I have been in hotter places, but I have never felt as drowned by the air as I was there...and I've never sweat so much. All of this is described in detail at the well done and very informative Tailand-Burma Railway Center Museum. The atrocities committed by the Japanese in WWII were comparably barbaric to those described in the war museums in Vietnam. The difference for me was, of course, that these offenses were not perpetrated by Americans, but rather upon Americans. The vast majority of Allies who died in and around Kanchanaburi were British, and they are followed closely by the Aussies and Dutch. But it is still much easier being on the morally just (and winning) side of the stick. The comment book at the exit was interesting. There was none of the venom directed towards the Japanese that there was towards Americans in the same sort of books in Vietnam. If there had been, it would have said something like "You lousy Japs! How could you do this? And now you want your military back? Shame on you Mr. Abe. When will you people ever learn?!?" Instead, each entry said something like "Interesting museum. So sad. Let's us no forgetting. Sven, Finland."

The bridge itself is fairly unimpressive. The one that stands now is a reconstruction of the original and neither one was very impressive in and of itself. The original was blown up by the allies, but not by Alec Guinness. That is just one of the inaccuracies in the movie. The Japanese did not need any help from the prisoners with the engineering plans, for instance, and the height of the bridge and scope of the project was nowhere near as grand as the movie suggests. But the conditions for those who built it were far worse than those shown in the film. There were about thirty POW camps along the railway and they got progressively worse as you moved farther into Burma. One prisoner, Major A.E. Saggers of the Malay Hamlet prison camp, wrote in his journal "Never have I dreamt that I would see the day when human life would be held so cheaply." They were starved, beaten, lived in muddy jungle, packed into tiny railway cars when they needed to be moved, and still were expected to work full days of backbreaking labor.

In the center of town is a beautifully landscaped cemetery for the Allied soldiers who died in the bridge's construction. A plaque at the entrance to the grounds reads, "1939-1945, The land on which this cemetery stands is the gift of the Thai people for the perpetual resting place of the sailors, soldiers, and airmen who are honoured here." I searched for the American tombstones but couldn't find a single one. I learned later that all of the American bodies had been dug up and sent back to the states to be buried in Arlington National Cemetery. But the hundreds and hundreds of stones marking the graves of British, Dutch, Indian, Australian, and Malay soldiers were more moving than I expected them to be. There are also about 100 markers that say simply "A soldier of the 1939-1945 war, Known unto God." I found myself thinking about that war and how, though it's a cliche, my grandparents' generation really did make unbelievable sacrifices. It's a reminder that war, whether it be just or not, is ugly.

But enough of that unpleasantness. I guarantee the next posting in this blog will be more entertaining. It involves my greatest adventure yet...

"For my part, I travel not to go anywhere, but to go. I travel for travel's sake. The great affair is to move."

--Robert louis Stevenson

"Maybe you should cut your own hair, 'cause that can be so funny. It doesn't cost any money and it always grows back...it grows even after you're dead."

--Regina Spektor

About 200 km north of Bangkok is a city of 57,000 people called Lopburi. It is one of the oldest cities in Thailand and is scattered throughout with ruins and temples spanning the last 12 centuries. It has sprawling markets and lovely, still-functioning Buddhist wats. But the reason people really go to Lopburi, and indeed the reason I went, is for the monkeys.

The entire city is over-run by these primates, which are actually a type of macaque, but let's just call them monkeys. Local legend has it that the tribe of monkeys once lived exclusively in and around the San Phra Kan Shrine, a Buddhist temple near the center of the old-town. At night they would cross the railroad tracks and bed-down in the ruins of Prang Sam Yot, another much older temple. But somewhere along the line this monkey tribe had a difference of opinion and split up. The renegade group lead by a giant, one-eyed male (I swear I'm not making this up) left the comforts of the temples behind and joined the hustle and bustle of city life. They can now be seen all over the city swinging from shop-fronts, stealing food from passers-by, hurling excrement willy and nilly, and generally making hilarious nuisances of themselves. It is apparently a wide-spread (and half-believed) myth amongst Lopurians that these city-dwelling monkeys often hop onto trains headed to other provinces and return to Lopburi once their curiosity is sated.

The locals put up with these little terrors for several reasons, the first being that they're mostly Buddhists and are therefore discouraged from hurting the monkeys in any way. Others believe that the monkeys are the children of the Hindu god Kala and to harm one would bring the wrath of that god upon your head. The other, and perhaps more influential reason for the locals' tolerance, are the tourist dollars brought to the city by the rambunctious simians.

To say that a tribe of monkeys resides at San Phra Kan is a laughable understatement. The place is teeming. I counted thirty-five of them in a small area near a large tree before I lost track of which I'd already counted (they move fast). Some play or fight or groom each other, but mostly they are just interested in eating. Fortunately for them, there is no shortage of people willing to feed them. A few stands are set up around selling treats to feed the monkeys, but while I was there about every ten minutes a local resident or shopkeeper would bring a large basket of food and dump it in a pile. These offerings included sugarcane, bananas, leechies, papayas, peanuts, plastic bottles of milk (which the monkeys had no trouble opening and drinking) and hard-boiled eggs (which were a real favorite though they only ate the yolks). As soon as one of these offerings was dumped on the ground, a pile of monkeys would swarm onto it. It seemed that they weren't even always very hungry, just taking a bite and throwing the rest away before grabbing another. As a result the grounds were a disgusting mess of half rotten fruit and eggs and plastic food containers mixed with monkey shit.

Once I'd had my fill of semi-organized monkey fun I set off into the rest of town to see the renegades. They were more aggressive and destructive than their cousins who live on the temple grounds, but less concentrated into one area making them seems less intimidating. I saw two of these punky monkeys corner an old lady with a bag full of fruit. She was apparently on her way to the temple to give an offering to the other tribe, but she was, as far as I could tell, mugged by macaques. Later that evening I saw a young man pull up in front of a 7-eleven in downtown Lopburi. In the basket of his motorbike was a big bag filled with several containers of fried rice. It was, presumably to be his family's dinner for the evening. He ran in for a few moments to get some drinks for the meal. But mere seconds after he disappeared into the store, a gigantically fat monkey swung down out of nowhere, ripped open the bag and started shoving hand-fulls of steaming hot rice into its mouth. The biggest indignity for this poor guy, however, was not when he came out and realized that his whole dinner had been spoiled, but that the monkey would not let him get back onto his bike, so he had to stand there and watch his meal be devoured and despoiled by "someone" else. But rather than curse and stomp around, he sat on the curb, opened one of the beers he had just bought, and watched. I even saw a little smile on his face, the way a parent would look at a child who had just made a horrible mess, but was too adorable to be angry at.

After over three months without a hair-cut, I was beginning to look a bit like an ape myself. But I was not about to let some Thai barber mess with my hair...I've seen some of the hairstyles around here. Besides, how would I explain "just take off, like, an inch, but layer it, you know, so it's not so big around the outside and don't cut off my fledgling sideburns that I've been working so hard to cultivate, mkay?" to someone who doesn't speak English? As I was contemplating this I was listening to the Regina Spektor song quoted above and thought, you know, I can do this myself. What, I'm brave enough to shoot guns, race motorcycles, explore untamed jungles, and cross live minefields, but I'm too chicken-shit to put clippers to my hair? And like she says, it always grows back. So without another thought I marched to the market, purchased a pair of scissors and a comb and went back to my room and started snipping. And you know what? It came out great. One of the better haircuts I've had, in fact. Of course, I can't really see what the back looks like, but I haven't noticed any strange looks, and the hookers on the corner insisted later that night, "You handsome man! You take me home, okay?" So I musta done okay.

I made a pit stop in Bangkok to get a few days of comfort and air-conditioning and also to meet up with some friends of my friend Angela before I go to the famous islands in the south. But before I go to the famously pristine beaches and infamous parties, there is a river called Kwai which someone put a bridge across and I intend to see what it's all about.

"The man who wishes to wrest something from Destiny must venture into that perilous margin-country where the norms of Society count for nothing and the demands and guarantees of the group are no longer valid. He must travel to where the police have no sway, to the limits of physical resistance and the far point of physical and moral suffering."

--Claude Levi-Strauss

"Countries, like people, are loved for their failings."

--Yeats

Lampang is a mid-sized Thai city about two hours south of Chiang Mai. I immediately discovered why it was hardly mentioned in any of the guidebooks: it is boring. Refreshingly, there were no signs in English, the few resturants in town do not offer English menus, and the cab drivers at the bus station didn't know what to make of me. After walking around the city for a while I became starved and nearly caved into going to the one familiar sight in town: KFC. But the old traveler spirit pulled through and I staggered, hot and hungry, into a shopping center (not really a mall--more like and vertical street market) on which an entire floor was food stalls. I approached one and, not being able to read what was on offer, held up my finger and said "One, please." This was good enough for the lady because she started whipping me up some noodle/fishball/dumpling goodness that cost about a quarter and tasted like heaven. And to think I almost went to Col. Sanders' house of crud.

But why was I in this town in the first place? Well there is not much in Lampang, but 33 km outside of town is a place called the Elephant Conservation Center of Thailand. It is a unique facility for rehabilitating illegally poached or injured elephants. It also has an elephant hospital, the first of its kind in the world. I have viewed a few elephants in my travels and seen many advertisements for elephant rides. But these are usually offered on the backs of elephants which are horribly mistreated, malnourished, and occasionally tortured by their handlers. Elephants, once the most prized animals in Thailand, indispensable for logging and farm-work, have been replaced by machines. Their natural habitat has also disappeared quickly. in 1900, it is estimated that there were upwards of 100,000 domesticated elephants working in Thailand. There are now 2,300. Wild elephants have fared even worse, and there are now has as few as 3000 where there were once hundreds of thousands. Ironically, tourism is one of the things keeping elephants alive in Asia as the ECCT and places like it could not survive without the money from visiting tourists. So as desperate as I have been to feed, ride, and hang out with an elephant, I made a point of waiting until I was able to do so in a humane environment.

A mahout is an elephant trainer. Elephants usually have two mahouts, one older and one younger (often father and son) who are with the elephant from it's childhood to the end of its career. Under Thai law, elephants must be retired and freed to the wild at age 61. It is not uncommon for them to live to be 80. The relationship between mahout and elephant is very personal and deep, or it should be. Many improperly trained mahouts mistreat their elephants. So another role of the ECCT is training patient, humane mahouts. The ECCT offers a one or three day program in mahout training for tourists, where you are assigned to an elephant and learn commands and care for it. You also get to ride the animals without a "saddle" like the mahouts do and get to bath the elephants, which I have read is one of life's most distinct and pleasurable experiences. Unfortunately the mahout program was not available during the days that I was in Lampang. So I resigned myself to just have the regular tourist experience.

Upon arriving early in the morning I signed up for an elephant ride through the jungle. Since there was no one else there yet, I set out alone on an enormous elephant with its mahout. The mahout rode on the elephant's neck and I sat in a large wooden seat on its back. The feeling in one of those seats is similar to a roller coaster bench. I was satisfied to feel the power of the elephant and watch his trunk sway and grab at leaves as we went. But as soon as we were deep enough into the jungle to be out of sight of the other ECCT employees, the mahout turned around and said conspiratorially, "You mahout?"

"Huh?"

"You," he said pointing at me, then where he was sitting. "Drive elephant. Mahout."

"Are you kidding?" I thought. Of course I want to drive.

"100 Baht." Of course. You can grease anyone's palms around here...even a kindly mahout. But three dollars was a small price to pay, so I forked it over and slid slowly down to the neck of the giant beast. The muscles beneath me were so immensely powerful I could hardly believe it. There was no question of me "driving" as I couldn't have gotten this elephant's attention with a baseball bat. It was well worth it though to be so close to the animal and to feel its movement--its power. The mahout, who had climbed down, took some pictures for me, and called some commands to his elephant who was busy stuffing its face with everything it could get its trunk on. I was amazed not only how much it ate, but how forcefully it went about getting its food. The elephant wrapped its trunk around bamboo chutes and small trees (and some not-so-small trees) and pulled. It's aim was the leaves, but occasionally it got the entire plant. No matter, it all went into the animal's mouth. I learned later that a fully-grown elephant eats about 20 kg (44 lbs) of food and drinks about 100 Liters of water a day. I was told by the mahout that my elephant, whose name I could not understand, was 26 years old. How do you like that? This 2 ton beast is a younger than me.

After switching back to the seat we returned to the Center were I also watched a performance by ten of the elephants where they display some of their strength and some tricks that they learn from the mahouts including playing musical instruments and painting (poorly). I was exhilarated by my day with the elephants and was in a very good mood as I boarded a bus to Mae Sot, a town 2 km from the border of The Kingdom of Myanmar.

Mae Sot is an interesting little town. Once a center for smugglers and traders from Burma to Siam, it still retains a feeling of seediness. Roaming the streets are a bizarre mix of Burmese men in their sarongs, heavily armed Thai Army Rangers, women carrying their wares on their heads, Indian and Pakistani immigrants, Chinese merchants and the odd ex-pat in town to cross the border just for the instant 1 month visa extension that act brings. In theory I was there for that very purpose, but if I was being honest with myself, there were other ways to go about it--I was really there for Myanmar. I've heard and read so much about this mysterious country, once called Burma. Just the name conjured images of drug-smugglers and danger. It meant adventure and repressive government agents and clandestine meetings of resistance forces and freedom fighters. In this spirit, I checked into the Siam Hotel, a place Lonely Planet describes as such: "Although it's basically a trucker's and gem smuggler's haunt, local rumour has it that Myanmar intelligence agents frequent the Siam. It has comfortable, if stark, rooms." Perfect.

I had an early dinner and went to sleep dreaming about the wild, unknown country ahead of me...

You have to take a sawngthaw (pick-up cab) to the border. The whole way I thought about what lay ahead. I thought about danger and intrigue. I expected East Germany mixed with Nigeria mixed with Shangri-La. I thought it would fall somewhere between the Casablanca from the movies and the Casablanca in Morocco. But I was disappointed. From the very start, Myawaddi, Myanmar was a very plain, very calm place. The poverty was there, no doubt, but by border-town standards it was nothing to write home about. It was cleaner than Poipet and calmer then Tangier and safer than Tijuana. Hell, I'd had more trouble with the law getting into Vancouver, BC and out of Amsterdam than I did in and out of Myawaadi. I simply had to leave my passport and 500 Baht (a "deposit" that I never expected to see again) with the border guards and was told to be back at the border before 4:30 pm.

I walked the 2km length of Myawaadi's one main street. There is no doubt that Myanmar is poorer and less developed than Thailand. And just because the poverty was not as desperate as I had anticipated, it was still unmistakably poverty. I happened to visit on one of the hottest days I have ever experienced, including the scorching sun of the Sahara desert. This may have contributed to the lack of touts pestering a rich tourist like myself. But that is not to say that I didn't attract attention. Although several farang cross this border every day, most simply turn immediately around and go back to Thailand, only interested in getting a new stamp on their passports and a new month to live in that country legally. I got looks that varied from fear to shock to wonder. One girl, about 15 years old, stared directly at me, mouth agape, as if I was something she'd never seen before.

I stopped at a little cafe and ordered a Myanmar brand draught beer. It is the government's brew and not something I should have supported, in retrospect, but I wanted to try it nevertheless. It was much better than Singha or Chiang and, most importantly, it was cold.

Lonely Planet said that there was a casino, called the Riverside Club, about a kilometer north of town. I had this fantasy that I'd win big, not only providing myself with a fantastic story ("There I was at the dark tables of a Burmese casino. The government official in dark glasses eyed my pile of chips unhappily before staring me down...") but also allowing me to then distribute my winnings among the good and needy peoples of Myawaadi. But the government had shut down the casino a few months ago. So I crossed back over the bridge (The Thailand-Myanmar Friendship Bridge, of course) slightly disappointed with my trip to not-so-exotic Burma.

The next morning I saw on BBC News that the Myanmar government had extended the house arrest of Mrs. Aung San Suu Kyi. Mrs. Suu Kyi was the leader of the National League for Democracy (NLD) and won the popular election by an overwhelming majority in May 1990. But the ruling military junta, the ironically named State Peace and Development Council, refused to relinquish power and instead imprisoned Mrs. Suu Kyi. She has remained in jail or under house arrest for going on 17 years and her sentence is extended every year just before it is set to expire on May 27, the day she was elected and imprisoned. Laura Bush and "the women of the United States Senate" held a press conference Friday and wrote a letter to the UN Secretary General protesting Mrs. Suu Kyi's imprisonment. Frankly, the whole thing stunk to me of a gross publicity stunt for Diane Feinstein and Kay Bailey Hutchinson and the rest. Why the first lady and the women of the Senate? Mrs. Suu Kyi has never sought to identify herself as a feminist figure--she's too busy trying to free her entire country from a brutal military dictatorship. Imagine if all the MEN from the US Senate drafted a letter in support of a male political figure and excluded all women from signing it? But that's neither here nor there. The real point is that all of this happened on the day I visited the country. Myanmar rarely makes international headlines, but it did the day I was there. And I thought it looked peaceful and boring. What did I expect? You can't visit any country for a few hours and get a real feel for it, and you definitely can't visit the border town, frequented by tourists, of a country run by repressive military regime and expect to see the true goings on. The people of this country don't advertise their plight--they'd be put in jail if they did.

"Homesickness is one of the traveler's ailments, and so is loneliness. Fear--of strangers, of being embarrassed, of threats to personal safety-- is the traveler's usual, if often admitted, companion. The sensitive traveler will also feel a degree of guilt at his alienation from ordinary people."

--Paul Fussell

"A man travels the world over in search of what he needs and returns home to find it."

--George Moore

As you may have gathered, my birthday had left me physically and emotionally drained, and spending the last eight hours of if on a cramped, sweaty, over-night bus did not improve things. So it was with great joy that I exited the bus at 4:30 am the next morning back in Chiang Mai. I went back to the guesthouse which had been so helpful in finding my lost bag, and though the night watchman was unable to check me in, he said he'd guard my bags so I could wander around the city. Big cities are wonderful places to stroll around at 5 in the morning, and Chiang Mai is no exception. Many bars are still open, and the drunken tourists and hookers are still around, though they all seem about ready to pack it in for the night and any attention they give you is foggy and half-assed. They mix with the tuk-tuk drivers and shopkeepers just beginning their day with a big bowl of fishy-smelling soup. I eventually got a room and slept until noon.

I awoke craving a cheeseburger and fries. I was ravenous as I hadn't been able to eat the day before. I've been remarkably good about sticking to local foods and not going for safe, familiar western fare. But this morning I thought, in honor of my birthday the previous day, I'd treat myself, and I knew just the place. There is a burger stand called Mike's in Chiang Mai and I'd eyed it longingly the first time I was in town. Like many burger joints, Mike's is full of ironic and kitschy Americana on the walls. Interestingly, however, instead of the usual soundtrack of Elvis, Buddy Holly, or the Everly Brothers--real American rock n' roll--Mike's played Jay-Z, Eminem, and Outkast. I guess the soundtrack of America has changed. Now hip-hop is what they world thinks of as quintessential American music.

The burger itself wasn't anything to write home about, but it's greasy familiarity was heaven. So as I sat there rapping along with Biggie Smalls and picking at the last of my soggy fries, I decided that I would continue my belated birthday celebration with even more non-Asian indulgence. I set off to the mall (natch) where there is a multi-plex which plays first-run American movies in English (subtitled in Thai, of course). I've become so fond of Thai shopping malls that I fear I may start frequenting them when I return home. But this time I didn't dawdle in the mall--I went straight to the movies and purchased a ticket to Spiderman 3. What's more American than that? Superheroes and sequels are right up there with baseball and apple pie.

I've noticed that going to the movies in another country can be just as much of a cultural experience as a street festival. Yeah things are similar, and when the lights go out and the movie starts it's all the same, but as Vincent Vega so famously said, "It's the little differences." In Spain, they stop the movie in the middle for an intermission (which everyone uses as a cigarette break). In the Netherlands you can buy beer at the concession stand. Well here in Thailand they have some differences, too. When you buy your tickets, you have to choose your seat on a t.v. screen, like when you select your airline seats online. They have regular seats and "honeymoon seats" which are just two seats together with no armrest between them. Another difference is the price. I was purchasing a ticket for a film that had just opened world-wide one week before, a film which is demolishing every box-office record there is, and how much did a ticket cost? 100 Baht (US $3.00). That's $9.00 less than it would cost in Manhattan, assuming the prices haven't gone up since I left. At the concession stand I ordered a soda and popcorn for 80 Baht. Here I encountered the best thing about the Thai movie-going experience, something that I hope will soon be seen in American theaters: In addition to regular movie-theater pop-corn, they also sold "cheese flavored" and "sweet" pop-corn. The cheese flavored just has that SmartCorn white-cheddar powder on it and the sweet stuff is just cheap caramel popcorn. It's the stuff that they sell in big tins around Christmastime in the States and it is absolutely delicious. I can't think of a single reason why it's not available at theaters at home. America is supposed to be the land of choice AND empty calories, and this fits with both.

Before the movie, they ask that everyone stand (which everyone did) to honor "His Royal Highness, the King." Then they pipe in the national anthem which is accompanied by a video of happy Thai children, laughing Thai peasants, and stock photos of the king looking alternately benevolent and jolly. The movie finally started and, like the burger, it wasn't particularly good, but it hit the spot. Seeing Spidey swinging from the skyscrapers of Manhattan, and Venom and Sandman then blowing up those same buildings, made me feel like I was back home. [Quick note--what's up with Sandman's lips? Was it a character choice to wear about an-inch-too-much freaky lip-gloss or is Thomas Hayden Church auditioning for the part of Closet Lady-Boy in Spiderman 4?]

Afterwards I went back to the guesthouse where I ran into Gavin and Cardie, a couple from Birmingham whom I had spent a lot of time with in Hanoi where we were also staying at the same hostel. I can't begin to guess what the chances of running into them again were, a month later and two countries later (while I had gone through Laos, they had gone south through Vietnam and through Cambodia), but I bet they would have been pretty long in Vegas.

The next evening I took a cooking class, because after eating all of this amazing Thai food, I figured it'd be nice to know how to make some of it when I get home. The teacher's name was Meow and she had a whole routine. It was more like a stand-up act than a class, but when it came to cooking, she did a good job of showing us what to do and explaining the ingredients and what could be used as substitutes back home. My fellow students were a blond girl from Salt Lake City and three bozos from Edmonton. One of them I had passed earlier in the day on the street and made fun of in my head--he was an albino with fake, died-red dreadlocks. He looked like a bleached, latter-day Axel Rose. I was prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt until he opened his mouth and turned out to actually be dumber than he looked. [Note- Hands down, Canadians win the prize for unintentional comedy in the category of Overboard-Hippie. It's like they're just getting back from Lallapalooza circa 1997...and just graduating from Jr. High School. Not all of them, of course, but the ones who go there, go there.] I was only really interested in Thom Yum and Pad Thai, but also learned how to make Green and Red Coconut Curry and Stir-Fried Chicken w/ Cashews, as well as Mango Sticky Rice. It's all fairly easy, provided you have a wok, a gas stove, and a recipe book (which they gave us). So anyone wants to try some authentic Thai food, you provide the ingredients and the wok, I'll provide the know-how.

I met up with Gavin and Cardie that night for one last drink (although the way we're going we'll probably end up at the same hostel in Bangkok) and I bid them and Chiang Mai adieu. I'm heading for a visa run to Burma, but first I've got a date with some elephants.

"I dislike feeling at home when I am abroad."

--G. B. Shaw

During the time that I thought I may have to replenish my entire wardrobe, I was told by the owner of my guesthouse about a little known second-hand district in Chiang Mai. Even though I had gotten my stuff back, I decided to go check it out. I found myself wishing that the bag had stayed missing. This place put Beacon's Closet in Williamsburg to shame. Six warehouses full of clothes and shoes cast off by 10 years worth of travelers. You want vintage Pumas or leather Chuck Taylors or a t-shirt with ALF on it? This is the place for you. And the biggest miracle was that there were only Thai people there. It's less than a kilometer out of the city-center, but no tourists know about this. Those same people who spend hours trolling through every night market in Asia looking at the same exact souvenir crap over and over again are missing out on possibly the greatest shopping secret on the continent, if not the world. Seriously, it's like a hipster's Mecca. I limited myself to two key purchases: an orange Maynard G. Krebs-style shirt and a black, light-weight Korean cop-coat.

In the morning I checked out of my guesthouse and was annoyed to find that my ATM card didn't work at any bank. I called Washington Mutual (at my own cost, because Thai phones don't do 1-800 numbers) and was perturbed to learn that my card have been blocked due to "suspicious activity." After being put on hold for about $5 worth of time, I was connected to the fraud protection line. A women with the most grating Texas accent this side of George W Bush told me that someone had withdrawn $200 on my card in...gasp...Thailand. I tried staying calm whilst explaining to her that I was in Thailand and I had made that withdrawal and that I'd let WaMu know that I was going to be traveling to certain countries before I'd left so that this sort of thing wouldn't happen and I've been making withdrawals in Asia for the past three months, so if someone had stolen my card they'd be a little late, now wouldn't they? And you know what this Texas cracker says to me? "I'm very sorry for the inconvenience Mister Vee-yola, but this sort of stuff happens when you go to strange places." I really lost it, telling her to activate my card immediately and throwing in a few words that are not polite to say to a lady, even if she is some bigoted, mouthy bank employee. Anyway, by the time I got to Pai, my card was working and my cash was flowing once again.

Pai is this really strange little town in the far northwest of Thailand. It feels like a cross between a private artists compound and a hippie commune and a tourist trap all in one. There are lots of little restaurants and bars and a few shops. Most of the bars have live music at night and most of that music is bad covers of Bob Marley songs sung by Thai people whose mastery of basic English is spotty, and whose Jamaican is just plain laughable.

In the minivan up to Pai, I met a girl named Chris. She's a 19 year old Dutch girl. She's just quit her modeling career and is using the money she made to pay for this trip. And when she goes back to Arnhem she wants to be a zoo-keeper. I swear to god, I couldn't have made this girl up if I tried.

We checked into a guesthouse and decided to relieve the stress of the day with a sauna and a Thai massage. I have had several massages on this trip, but there is nothing quite like the beating that you get from a Thai massage. They twist you and bend you and bang you and at the end you feel like a new person. If I could have one every day, I would. And at less than $5 a pop, if I lived in Pai I could.

The next day I rented a motorbike which is one of the main things to do in Pai. There is not much to keep you busy in town during the day, but the surrounding area is beautiful. There are caves and waterfalls and villages and all sorts of beauty to be discovered. I cruised around for a while and remembered a sign that I had seen just outside of town. I didn't remember exactly what the sign had said, but it was one of those hilarious translation mix-ups you see all over the place in Asia. Menus offer "french frieds" and "souping." Signs on the side of the road encourage you to "remember your drive safe please." A sign by a waterfall warns "cautiom: be slip down!" I've been seeing these for months, but the one I'd seen from the bus had struck me as particularly funny and I'd really wanted a picture of it. But I couldn't remember what it said, perhaps because I was at the time distracted by the 19 year old Dutch model sitting next to me. Anyway, I had a vague inkling of where it was, so I set off to find it. But as soon as I got a few miles out of town, the skies opened up and the rainy season lived up to its name. I headed back to town wet and cold, but not defeated, for I still had the bike for the next morning. So I got up early and set out once more in search of the mysterious sign. This time I got farther out and was climbing a steep mountain road when the bike sputtered and died. I was out of gas. And just as I stopped, a big bus from Chiang Mai swerved around the corner and nearly flattened me. I pointed the bike downhill and coasted for a while. Once I got up some speed I was able to kick-start the bike and had just enough fumes to get me to a roadside shack where they sold gasoline out of bottles. And just as the tank was full...it started pouring rain again. That was it. I was defeated. I didn't even remember what this sign said. I couldn't even swear that it existed at all. And I had wasted a full afternoon and morning, nearly been run over and stranded, and soaked through with rain twice. So with a heavy heart I headed back to town. But just a few miles in that direction, the rain stopped. And what's more, something about the curve up ahead looked familiar. Yes, I've seen that building before...it's a church. Yes, yes! And there it is! The sign that had put me through so much. I sat on my motorcycle by the side of the road and laughed and laughed. It had all been worth it. Was it juvenile? Absolutely. But I'd have gone through it all over again to get a snapshot of this sign, advertising the name of a ragtag Thai congregation. This is what it said:

"CHRISTIAN FELLOWSHIP OF TEEN-TARD"

The next morning Chris and I said our 'goodbyes' as she was going to Chiang Mai and I was on to a town near the Burmese border call Mae Hong Son. I got to town, had some dinner, watched the Chelsea v. Manchester United FA Cup Final with some guys from London and went to bed. I woke nearly two hours later with what is, hands down, the worst bout of food poisoning I've had in my life. I don't want to go into too many details, but I didn't know which end to point at the toilet. And the waves of cramping in my stomach felt like someone was stabbing me with a big O.J. sized knife. As I lay there on the bathroom floor, shivering, I realized that it was past midnight which made it May 20. Happy birthday to me.

I woke in the morning weak but feeling better and I was determined not spend my birthday alone in a crappy, dirty hotel room. So I put on a brave face, showered, checked out, rented a motorcycle, and set out to see what I had come to this town for in the first place: the Padaung Villages. Now you may be saying, "gee, riding a motorcycle in the rain over slick, unpaved roads after spending a night puking your guts out doesn't sound like quite the move." Well actually, the fresh air and the warm rain did wonders for my physical and mental state. I did get one of those wimpy 100cc automatic sissy scooters rather than a real motorcycle, because I couldn't be bothered with things like changing gears.

The Padaung are a group of Burmese Karen tribes-people who fled the horrid social and economic disaster that their lives had become in the brutal Myanmar. They set up semi-permanent refugee camps just across the border in Thailand. But the reason people come from all over the world to see them is their 'long-necked women.' Most of the women in the tribe wear continuous copper coils around their necks which depress their collarbones giving the appearance of an elongated neck. You have undoubtedly seen pictures of this in National Geographic. The coils do not cause any pain or physical problems for the women aside from the obvious cosmetic deformity. It is unclear even to the Padaung how this tradition got started. Some say it was to prevent their women from being carried away by the throat by tigers. Others say it was to make their women less attractive to rival tribes, though I think there is a distinct beauty and elegance about these long-necked ladies. What is known for sure is that the custom was dying out, but it proved such a great curiosity to travelers that the entire village has been able to survive because of its re-emergence. I had read some accounts of people being put off by the zoo-like atmosphere of the village, people just walking around taking pictures of these 'bizarre' looking women. But I didn't find it like that at all.

First of all, it should be noted that in Myanmar these people, along with most other ethnic hill-tribes, had no rights, no money, and were entirely marginalized. Their lives were constantly threatened by ethnic war. Here in Thailand, though they still live in conditions that many would see as squalid, they have a steady source of income. Before entering the village, all visitors must pay 250 Baht ($8) which goes to the community for schools and festivals. And each family sells handicrafts to the visiting tourists which fetches them a significant living, in some cases up to 4000 Baht a month. $118 a month might not sound like much, but it is a fortune to many rural Thais and an impossible sum to nearly anyone in Burma. And all that they have to do is smile and pose for pictures.

While at the camp I met a member of the tribe named Ong. He was playing a guitar and asked me to play something for him. I haven't picked up a guitar in a while, but I banged out a version of "Blackbird" as most of the kids in the village gathered around. He was to be the English teacher in the new schoolhouse built by Japanese donors. He took me around to different parts of the village, introducing me to his family and his friends and his future students. I had some postcards from New York and gave them to the kids. They had never seen the Empire State Building and couldn't grasp the fact that it was really that big. They would say (through Ong's translation), "So, it's as big as that tree?" And I'd say, "No, like a hundred of those trees" and they'd laugh like I was clearly off my rocker. I was lucky to be one of the only visitors to the village today, aside from a group of obnoxious French tourists who blew in, took pictures and blew out without exchanging a single word with any of the villagers. I spent the whole day sitting with them and talking. They kept offering me food, but I explained my stomach issues and they understood.

Finally I had to leave, so I said goodbye. I bought a whole bag full of souvenirs that I don't really have room for, but it would have been rude to just give them money. As I drove away I thought about how hard these people's lives have been, and continue to be, and still they were as warm and friendly and smiling as anyone I've ever met. And back home I grumble and bitch and moan because I have to work an extra hour or I got a stain on my new jeans or a cab driver went the long way over the wrong bridge.

If you'd told me that I was going to spend my 27th birthday in a refugee camp, I probably would have been skeptical. But I spent the day with a family...a whole village in fact. And though it wasn't my family, it was nice to be there.

"The enjoyment of the world is immeasurably enhanced not just by meeting people who think, look, talk, and dress differently from yourself, but by having to depend on them."

--Michael Palin

"Don't touch my bags if you please, Mr. Customs Man..."

--Arlo Guthrie

I didn't really realize the fact that I'd spent over two months in third-world countries until I stepped onto the Thai-run bus out of Vientiane. Rather than shabbily dressed and heavily armed boys, the driver and his assistant were well groomed and wore pressed uniforms similar to those worn by airline pilots, with the bars on the shoulders and everything. Once we'd crossed the border it was like going back to the future...every road was paved! Cars outnumbered motorbikes 2 to 1! Cows and chickens are kept (generally) off of public highways! When I saw a McDonald's, I realized that the previous two months were the first time I had ever been anyplace without McDonald's or Starbucks or 7-11 or child-labor laws. Even though I'd only been in Bangkok for a week at the start of my trip, crossing the border from Vientiane to Udon Thani felt a little like coming home.

But before I got across that border, I had to clear customs. Vientiane and Thailand are separated by the vast Mekong River. The Thailand-Laos Friendship Bridge connects them. Completed in April 1994, the 8. 2 km structure was only the second bridge ever to be constructed across the mighty Mekong (the first being somewhere in China). Strangely, the Thailand-Laos Friendship Bridge was built by...Australia. At the start of the bridge we were all let off the bus to get our Laos exit stamps. Knowing that my new passport with its Ministry of Foreign Affairs stamp was not what these people saw every day, I was prepared with all documents in hand: the police report and the letter from the US Embassy and even the bullshit form I had gotten from the corrupt officer at the immigration office. And, as expected, the man looked at my passport and looked at me, not happy with what he saw. I launched into a preprepared explanation which I'm sure he understood very little of. He took my bundle of documents and, without a word, disappeared into a back room. A common joke amongst ex-pats in Laos is that LPDR does not, in fact, stand for Laos People's Democratic Republic, but rather 'Laos: Please Don't Rush.' This holds true for customs agents, apparently. I stood there for about 15 minutes, smiling apologetically at the people who had unluckily chosen my line instead of the other four which were moving like a supermarket express lane. I was not worried about getting out of the country...my documentation was all valid and if it came to that I still had time on my visa so I could go back and get it sorted out and leave the next day. But what I was worried about was that the bus would leave, as everyone else had cleared customs a long time ago, and my bag with all of my clothes in it would be gone with it. (In retrospect, this was a supremely ironic worry, but I'll get to that in a moment).

Finally the man returned, looking none too pleased with whatever he had learned in that back room. Slamming things around, he grudgingly gave me my stamps, as slowly as humanly possible and returned all of my documents. I ran to the window where you pay the 2500 Kip ($0.25) Laos Exit Fee and sprinted to the bus where the driver was revving the engine. As soon as I was aboard we pulled away and the attendant asked, wondering what had taken me so long, "You bring drugs?"

"I wish," I replied. I don't think he understood my joke. But I was home free. We drove across the bridge, which is just an ugly cement thing, and stopped at the other side for the Thai customs. I had a much easier time here, and the Thai customs man gave me one of those ear to ear Thai smiles and I just about shivered with happiness. I enjoyed most of my time in Cambodia and Vietnam and Laos, but I was back in the modern world. "It's all smooth sailing from here," thought I. Yeah right.

The bus dropped me off at Udon Thani, an unpleasant city that functions simply as a transit hub for northern Thailand. I was ushered from one bus station across town to another bus station where I purchased an overnight ticket to Chiang Mai. After killing a few hours by wandering around aimlessly in the dirty bus station and eating several bowls of noodle soup, I boarded the bus which was comfortable and air-conditioned. I watched 'Rocky Balboa' on my I-Pod (another Vang Vieng purchase) and eventually fell into a deep sleep which was aided by the last of my Cambodian Valium.

Around midnight I awoke to murmuring around me and shouting outside the bus. I foggily registered that we had stopped on the side of the highway, it was pouring down rain, and the passengers had just been told something unpleasant. I was the only farang on the bus, so no one bothered translating for me, but I gathered that our bus had some mechanical problems (flat tire, perhaps) and wasn't going to make it to Chiang Mai. I didn't see much I could do about it, so I just went back to sleep. About two hours later, the woman next to me woke me. Everyone was getting off the bus into the rain. I saw through the fogged up windshield that another bus had pulled up in front of us. My fellow passengers were boarding that one, so I grabbed my bag, stashed it with the rest in the luggage compartment under the bus, got on, and immediately fell back asleep.

I awoke the next morning and we pulled into Chiang Mai's Arcade Bus Station only two hours behind schedule. There was an old lady sitting next to me on the aisle and she waited until everyone else was off the bus before she stood up. As a result I was the very last one off. But I was in a good mood. I was well rested. I was in Chiang Mai, second largest city in Thailand. What could go wrong? I went to get my bag from the luggage hold...but it was empty. I had no doubt that it had been stolen. We had made a few stops in the night, I know, and people had taken their bags from the compartment. Plus, while I was sitting with Granny on the bus just now, anyone could have swiped it here at the station.

I couldn't believe it. I had just gotten my passport back two days ago, and now my bag was gone. It wasn't a total catastrophe. I still had my backpack which contained my passport, moneybelt, camera, I-pod, and journal. My other bag just had a few souvenirs I'd picked up in Laos...and every article of clothing that I wasn't wearing.

I spoke to the bus driver, who spoke to the guy in the tour company's office, who made a phone call to who-knows-whom. They all kept smiling and saying, "it's okay, no problem." I was not amused. They seemed to be convinced that my bag was still on the other bus and had been brought back to Udon Thani. "No," I tried to explain, "I put it on THIS bus."

"No, no. No problem. You come back tomorrow. 9:00. Bag here."

Even if they were able to produce my bag, what was I supposed to do until then? I had already been wearing these clothes for two full days. And what about the cab fare it was gonna cost to come here and back tomorrow? Are you gonna reimburse me for that? Huh? Huh? They just smiled. "Sorry. You come back tomorrow."

I was fuming, but figured I should just go into town and figure it out from there. As I rode in the back of the tuk-tuk, I started realizing that it wasn't that bad, anyway. Nothing in that bag was valuable. I am in a modern city, so I can get new clothes, and I'm only traveling for another month anyway, so I won't need many. And I happened to be wearing my favorite black t-shirt. And isn't this why I got travel insurance?

By the time I got to a nice looking guest house I was feeling pretty good. I checked in and explained my plight to the woman at the front desk. She was so upset for me that I ended up consoling her. She offered to help in any way that she could, and I thanked her and asked for directions to someplace I could buy some socks and underwear and a toothbrush. She sent me to the Central Airport Mall. It was about a mile away, but I wanted to stretch my legs so I walked. Central Chiang Mai is still surrounded by a moat and there are still pieces of the old city walls scattered around it. The city has spread well past these, and the once protective moat now has fountains and fish in it. Unlike Bangkok or Hanoi where the modern and the ancient seem at odds, or Vientiane and Phnom Penh were one or the other is clearly winning, Chiang Mai feels equally comfortable with its past and future. It's busy and bustling like a modern big city, but with a certain calmness that you find in little towns and villages. I was immediately charmed.

Just before I reached the mall, I came across a driving range behind a large grocery store. It was strange seeing a huge driving range in the middle of the city, but it occurred to me that swinging a metal club at something may be just what I needed to clear the last bit of resentment about my missing clothes from my mind, so I went in. I went through two racks of balls and totally exhausted myself whilst soaking my only clothes with sweat. But it was worth it. I directed every bit of frustration and anger into those swings. There's something to be said for golfing angry. Despite the fact that I haven't swung a golf club in about six years, and I was using a 5 iron which was three inches too short for me, I was consistently hitting the ball 200 meters and out-driving men using fancy drivers who looked like they golfed every day of their lives. Maybe Tiger Woods should hire someone to steal his shit just before a big tournament.

Tired and sweaty, I strode into the enormous and air conditioned mall on blistered feet, due to the fact that my socks were too dirty to wear and my sandals were in the missing bag. If you remember my experience with malls in Bangkok, you'll know that a Thai shopping mall is a sight to behold. Teeny-bopper music blared. And cool teenagers strode around in every direction. I stopped into the first department store I saw and got some socks and underwear and two more black t-shirts. I didn't want to spend too much money on the off chance that the bag did turn up as the bus people insisted it would. So figuring that I'd bought enough to get me through a day, I sat down for some sushi and an Asahi. I don't know if it was because I was starving or if being so close to Japan helps, but that was the best sushi I've ever had.

The next morning, I had the nice lady at the front desk call for me to find out if my bag had arrived. She reported that they said that someone had forgotten to put the bag on the bus and that it would probably be in Chiang Mai that night, or maybe the next morning. "Fuck that. They're lying. I'm not wasting any more time," I thought, and went straight to the tourist police station to file a report so that I could just file an insurance claim and get on with my life.

When I got to the Tourist Police station (which never seems to be in an area where tourists frequent), the place was packed with cops. One came out and when I explained my situation, he asked if I'd kindly wait outside as they were having a meeting. I said that I had nothing else to do so I'd be happy to. A few minutes later one of the police came out and sat next to me with a packet of papers. It seemed to be in English, so I started reading over his shoulder. It seems that the purpose of this meeting was to give the CMTPD a test to see if they could read, write, and understand English. The cop saw that I was reading over his shoulder, and I could almost see the light bulb above his head. He handed me the papers and a pen and indicated that I should do the test for him. It was like a 4th grade reading comprehension test and took me about 2 minutes. He was thrilled. As I was finishing, a few more cops came out for cigarette breaks. When they saw that their brilliant colleague had gotten a ringer to do his test for him, they gave me their tests to do, too. Before long there was half the police force outside, all standing around me, copying over my shoulder. They were laughing and high-fiving. I wondered if I should feel bad blatantly helping half of an entire police force cheat on a government-implemented test, but I figured if it gets these guys on my side perhaps they could lean on the bus company, or at the very least, speed along my police report.

Finally, everyone turned in their test forms, all of which had exactly the same answers and all of which were 100% correct. [I'd like to apologize to anyone who may, in the future, need the assistance of a Chiang Mai Tourist Police officer and not get very far due to his lack of English skills. It is my fault.] They all left laughing, a few thanking me and shaking my hand and bowing. I was ushered in and a man who had done his own test, but seemed to know that I had helped his colleagues out, was assigned to my case. He listened to my story and had me fill out a report. "This is gonna be easy," I thought. All I have to do is send this to the insurance company, go back to the mall, have a little shopping spree, and I can put all this unpleasantness behind me. But when I finished the report, the cop read it and frowned a bit. "The company says they have your bag?"

"Well, yeah, they say they have it...but they also said it would be here today and it's not."

"Give me their phone number. I will call." And call he did. Using his best official police voice, he gave whoever was on the other end of that call a real ear-full. He hung up and smiled. "Your bag will be at the bus station tomorrow morning. No problem." I hung my head in frustration.

"No, sir, that's what they said yesterday."

"It will be there."

"Listen, it's not that I don't trust you, but I am wearing dirty clothes. And I've already wasted two days of my vacation. I want to see your beautiful city [I was really laying it on thick] but I have been spending all of my time with this problem. I'm afraid I'll go there tomorrow and they'll say come back the next day. And it'll go on and on and on. I'd rather just have the police report and be done with it."

He looked at me quite seriously and leaned forward. "I understand and I am sorry for your inconvenience. But your bag will be there tomorrow. They promised me." He accentuated the word 'promised' so I was lead to believe that a promise to a cop was indeed a very serious thing around these parts. Either way, I wasn't getting my police report so I shook his hand and left empty handed.

I wanted to do something other than wait around in this city, so I bought a ticket to a Muy Thai Boxing match for that night. Thai boxing is a martial art similar to American kick-boxing, but it is supposed to be one of the most violent and vicious martial arts around. The "stadium" was just a warehouse with a boxing ring in the center. I was ushered to a ringside seat and was soon joined by George, a fellow traveler from London.

The first fight was between two boys, probably 11-12 years old. I thought, "Awww. This'll be cute." Then they started to beat the hell out of each other and I was soon worried that one or the other was going to get hurt which, really, is the point after all.

Gambling is technically illegal in Thailand, but at boxing matches it is everywhere. There is no official gaming body or anything like that; the spectators just bet amongst themselves. There was one man going around to all the farang tables offering to take bets, so for the second fight--the first one between adults--I took the guy in the blue corner for 100 Baht. It looked like I had picked the wrong guy...he was getting pummeled. But wouldn't you know it, at the end of the second round the fighter in the red trunks kicked my guy in the head so hard that he broke a bone in his foot and couldn't go on. So I won by DQ.

I won the next fight, too, between two women. This was the best fight of the night and one of the only ones to go all 5 rounds. My girl, who I had picked because she did her hair up like Pebbles Flinstone, won by decision. The next fight was so violent that George was splattered with blood after a particularly nasty roundhouse kick. (I told you we were ringside). This fight ended in a literal knock-out, the losing fighter was out for a good couple of minutes and even when he did come to, he was basically dragged out of the ring.

I don't mean to paint the impression that this is purely a bloodsport and just about violence. It is a martial art. Before every fight, traditional music is played over the loudspeakers and the boxers do impromptu dances and poses, bowing to each other, the crowd, and each corner of the ring. They touch gloves not only at the beginning of each round, but also regularly during the fight. They smile at each other in appreciation after a particularly good combination. And each fight is set to music--the fighters dance around each other to the rhythm. Admittedly it is probably not fo everyone, but I had fun. For the night, I lost a total of 100 Baht ($3.00). I should have finished the night ahead. In the last bout my fighter won 3 out of five rounds by George's and my estimation, but the ref did not agree.

When I woke the next morning I asked the lady at the desk to call about my bag one more time and to my utter disbelief, they said that they had it and it was waiting for me at the station. I didn't want to get my hopes up. I mean, how could that be possible? I put it on the bus, and when I got to Chiang Mai it was gone. Either I had been hallucinating when I thought I moved it to the new bus or the bus company was trying something fishy and my Police buddy had scared them into doing the right thing. Well, whatever the case, there it was waiting for me with every last sock accounted for. What a miracle. I celebrated by putting on some fresh underwear.

"I am on a lonely road and I am traveling, looking for a key to set me free."

--Joni Mitchell

To break up the bus ride from Phonsavanh to Vientiane, I stopped once again in Vang Vieng. There's not much to report on the stop over. It was a nice day, so I went tubing again. I left a bottle of sunscreen by the river. It's funny how you can get attached to insignificant things when you travel. The bottle was nearly empty, but when I got back and discovered that it was gone, I was genuinely upset with myself. Now I can easily buy more sunblock anywhere, but that bottle has been with me from the beginning, you know? I snuck it through security at JFK airport even though it was 6 oz. of liquid...perhaps my first adventure of the trip.

I had dinner that night with a German whom I'd met on the river. He seemed nice enough, but soon launched into a diatribe about American imperialism and wanted to condemn all Americans for everything from slavery to the slaughter of Indians to the war in Iraq. When I suggested that holding me accountable for slavery was equatable to holding him accountable for the holocaust, it nearly came to blows (and I almost wish it had) but just in the nick of time a lovely Australian girl I'd also met on the river showed up and took me away from there, leaving the German to stew in his solitary self-righteousness.

I called the Embassy and they said that my passport was ready and waiting for me, so I hopped on the next bus to Vientiane. I arrived at the embassy bright and early, anticipating a long day of bureaucracy and hassle. But the passport was waiting for me. I just had to sign it and take an oath swearing to uphold the blah blah blah and promise to blah blah blah and not blow up any blah blah blahs. I still had to sort out my visa status, as my visa was in the passport and I wouldn't be allowed to leave the country without it. I was given a letter, signed by the US Ambassador, Mrs. Someoneorother, saying that I was a US citizen, so please be nice to me and give me an exit stamp. I was then directed to the Laos Immigration Office down the street.

The immigration office was a ramshackle office building. The lobby was filled with sweaty men in shirt-sleeves smoking cigarettes in front of ancient electric fans. There were old wooden benches and desks. No computers in the whole place, so there were stacks of paperwork everywhere, presumably all in triplicate. It reminded me of the place Sam Waterston works at the beginning of 'The Killing Fields.' I imagine that the place has changed very little since the 1970s.

A uniformed man took me up a narrow, dreary stairway into a backroom which was air-conditioned--the only concession to modernity in the whole building. It quickly became apparent that this man was not able to help me in any way. He knew that and I knew that, but he wanted to wet his beak a little. Initially he asked for $20, and when I demanded to know what I was paying him for, he whipped up a formal-looking document with a signature and a stamp and a seal and absolutely no practical purpose to me or anyone else. I talked him down to $2 (he wasn't much of a bargainer and I was in no mood to mess around) and he directed me to a building where there would be someone who could actually help me: The Ministry of Foreign Affairs.

To get there, I walked down a wide boulevard which, other than the riverfront tourist drag, is as close to a main street as this sleepy city has. It is lined with governmental buildings like the Ministry of Defense, the Laos Government Radio station, and the Ministry of Agriculture, as well as Embassies to India, France, Malaysia, China, Australia, and Vietnam. The Ministry of Finance looks like it should increase its own budget--it hasn't has a fresh coat of paint since sometime in the mid 1800s. The Education building was one of those charmingly no-nonsense Soviet cinder-blocks. Eventually I reached Le Ministere des Affaires Etrangeres. It was a massive building, probably seven floors and the equivalent of a city block. It had armed guards...the works. I wondered how I'd ever find the person I needed, but it was only 10:00 and I had no pressing engagements for the day. Besides, it might be fun exploring a building that looked like the Vientiane Hilton but was actually a branch of the LPDR (Laos People's Democratic Republic). So I walked right up to the front steps where I was surrounded and all but tackled to the ground by armed men. I whipped out my letter from the US Embassy and they all backed quickly away like they were cops and I'd just told them that my uncle was the police commissioner. I think they thought I was a US Ambassador or something, but I'm not sure, 'cause none of them would talk to me. Eventually someone showed up who spoke some English and directed me to another, much smaller and shabbier building around the side.

As soon as I stepped inside I knew that I was in the right place to find someone with a rubber stamp. It looked like a cross between the DMV and OTB. People who looked like they had been waiting for a long time were packed into every inch of the large room. Each wall was lined with numbered windows. There were several tv screens showing a soccer match, Thai music videos, and one showed scrolls of text which I think is the government's propaganda channel. There was a cloud of smoke like you see in cartoons filling the upper 1/3 of the room. It was over everyone else's heads, which is to say it started at my shoulders.

There didn't seem to be a number to take or line to get on, so, remembering the old axiom that it is best to start at the beginning, I approached window #1. Window #1 did not speak a word of English, but she pointed vehemently at window #14. Window #14 was not much help either, but when he saw my US passport he directed me to window #11. This went on for awhile until window #8, who spoke excellent English, sent me to window #28 where a curt gentleman took my passport and the many forms and documents I've accumulated relating to it. He indicated a bench I should wait on, next to the only other farang in the seemingly misnamed Ministry of Foreign Affairs. This guy, Don, was in a similar situation as I. He too was waiting for an exit stamp on a replacement passport, though his was British. We chatted a bit, and after fifteen minutes, our stamps were ready. I was inexplicably given a free one-month extension on my visa, which is nice but unneeded. Don got no such extension. Outside the building, Don, who had taken a liking to me, confided that he had not actually lost his passport, but rather sold it for about $1000 to someone who planned on selling it on the black market, or so he assumed. Not only did he get the cash, but he had effectively erased the fact that he'd overstayed his visa by about nine months. And all he had to do was file a few false police reports, commit a few international felonies, and possibly enable a terrorist or violent criminal into his home country. He offered to introduce me to his "connection," assuring me that US passports fetch twice the price, but I declined. He understood and offered me a ride on his motorcycle back to my hotel, which I also declined.

So for you keeping score at home, in the four days total I've spent in Vientiane, I met a possible bank robber, a drug smuggler, a black market passport dealer, and a corrupt army official. How the hell do I meet these people? I don't know.

Tomorrow I'll be leaving Laos, crossing the Mekong one final time in my triumphant return to Thailand, the Land of Smiles. Hoorah.

"Whenever you feel like criticizing anyone just remember that all people in this world haven't had the advantages that you've had."

--Nick Carraway's father

(The Great Gatsby, F. Scott Fitzgerald)

In Vang Vieng there is a fancy looking internet place called The Magnet. In addition to the usual services of internet, international phone service, and CD burning for memory cards, this place also advertises that they will "Pimp Your Pod." By this they mean that they will upload music or movies onto your I-pod for a nominal fee. I have been spending a lot of long hours on buses and trains and boats and planes and I thought it might be nice to have a different kind of diversion, and since I have a video I-pod anyway...I got the sixth season of The Sopranos.

But it takes a little while to load them on, so while I waited I stopped at a cafe called "Jaidee's Bar and..." Really. The "..." is on the sign out front. Now this being Vang Vieng, that "..." could only mean one thing. And I didn't have anything to do that night and my body was still aching from the tubing and I was leaving the next day anyway, so I thought what the hell. Before coming to SE Asia, see, I had set some goals for myself...things that are possible here that are not possible at home. One was eat dog. Check. One was shoot a gun. Check. And one was to try opium. Jaidee (rhymes with 'chai tea') is the proprietor of the place and didn't even bother giving me the food and drink menu. He knew what I was there for. I ordered an opium tea, which Jaidee told me quickly to refer to as 'Mr. O's Special Tea.' I would understand the need for code if I weren't holding a laminated menu with the word OPIUM written all over it and pictures of poppies to boot. But I wasn't gonna argue with the man. Two minutes later he returned with a steaming Mickey Mouse mug filled with cloudy, yellowish tea. As I was the only one there, Jaidee asked me what kind of music I'd like to listen to. My mind went blank. What kind of music is good when you are on opium? And furthermore, would Jaidee have it? I blurted out "Bob Dylan." Jaidee smiled knowingly. "Bob Dyran," he said. "My favorite." I took a few sips and I don't mind telling you that it tasted awful. But that didn't bother me for long as my mouth soon went pleasantly numb and the rest of my body soon followed. I finished off the tea and played a game of pool with Jaidee during which he rolled an opium cigarette and we smoked that, too. I won't try to explain what the rest of the night was like, but it mostly involved me laying in bed and smiling. I figured that when I smoked opium it would be in a tribal village far up in the mountains, not in a bar listening to Blonde on Blonde, but the world is a strange place sometimes. I will just say that it was a (mostly) enjoyable experience but I wouldn't want to make a habit of it.

In the morning I awoke refreshed and ready to leave Vang Vieng, but I wasn't quite sure where to go. My passport wasn't quite ready in Vientiane, but I didn't want to go too far away as I'd have to come back whenever it was ready. I decided, quite spur of the moment, to go to Phonsavanh, a town to the east. It is a place that had planned on going to, but had scratched due to its proximity to nothing and the underwhelming reviews it's gotten from other travelers. But it was the only idea I had, so I hopped on the first bus and went. The six hour bus trip flew by like nothing thanks to The Sopranos.

Now before I tell you about Phonsavanh, I need to explain some things about what happened in Laos in the sixties and early seventies. In the 1962 Geneva accord, Laos was explicitly declared a neutral country, making it patently illegal for any other country to have any sort of military presence or activity within Laos borders. However North Vietnam, the United States and, to a lesser extent, China all violated this agreement, in the case of the North Vietnamese almost immediately. The US presence was so top secret that it was highly classified for many years after the war. Needless to say very few members of the press and near none of the western public were aware of this "Secret War."

The name of the country was banished from all official communications, referred to simply as "the other theater." CIA agents were disguised as foreign-aid officials and ran te operations, training local tribesmen to fight with US built equipment. Air Force officers were temporarily made civilian pilots and flew their missions in civilian clothing. These men were all volunteers and often some of the most gung-ho fighters in the military. Their casualty rates were staggeringly high, some say 50%, but then again they didn't have to follow any rules of engagement as they weren't even really there. The story of all this fighting is fascinating and too complex to get into detail here, but if you're interested, the book 'The Ravens' by Christopher Robbins (not the one from Winnie the Pooh) is pretty good. The point I'm trying to get to is that the secret air force in Laos dropped an average of one planeload of bombs every eight minutes, 24 hours a day, for nine years. That's about 1.9 million metric tons, or if you like, over half a ton of explosive for every man, woman, and child in the whole fucking country. This gives Laos the distinction of being the most heavily bombed nation on a per capita basis in the history of warfare. The real problems are that many of these bombs still remain scattered about the country unexploded. These Unexploded Ordinance (UXO) as well as forgotten landmines are a major hazard for the Laos people. Cities and towns, and of course all tourist sights, have been cleared, and there are several international groups working every day to clear more areas, but about 60 casualties a year still result from these UXO.

Now this is all fascinating and terrible, but what has it got to do with me and my blog? Well in the words of Bill Cosby, "I told you that story to tell you this one."

Phonsavanh's main attraction, its only attraction in fact, is the mysterious Plain of Jars. Just a few kilometers from town, The Plain of Jars is as big a mystery as Stonehenge. It's a large area of grassy meadows covered with large stone jars of varying size. No one knows what they were used for, who made them, or even how old they are. It is estimated that the jars are roughly 2000 years old, but there is no way to tell as there has been no organic material related to the jars (like food or bones) discovered so precise dating is impossible. They may be much older. I joined a couple, Nick and Emily, who were going on a tour and needed a third to bring the price down. They seemed cool and it would have been quite expensive to go on a tour alone, so I happily joined them. They had organized the tour through a local agency who promised to take us not just to the Plain of Jars, but also to some caves (I'm frankly getting quite tired of caves) and some local relics from the war.

The Plain of Jars is quite impressive, if not surprising. It is, in fact, a large plain with several hundred stone jars. Some are quite big. Some are quite small. Some have lids. Some do not. The area has a weird and mysterious calm, or it would have were it not for our guide, Mr. Ken. Mr. Ken is a nice guy, though very loud. His English is spotty at best and he was constantly trying to impress us with how "Westerner-hip" his manner was, which was invariably just loud and brash and obnoxious...Actually now that I think about it, he got the Western-hip thing down pat.

Anyway, we drove farther to an old, destroyed, rusted out Soviet tank left over from the war. It is in what is now someones front yard, but they sell water to the tourists that come to see it. I was unimpressed, I mean you see one busted tank you've seen them all. But the next stop was far more interesting.

Mr. Ken told us we were going to a special sight that he usually doesn't take tourists to. We were going to go to an old CIA airstrip, their base in this part of Laos which was one of the busiest due to its proximity to Vietnam and the Ho Chi Minh Trail. The old airstrip was not much; it's just a gravel road now. But nearby there was a big grassy hill which Mr. Ken and our driver started climbing beckoning us to follow. We did. At the top was a big hole in the ground. "From bomb," Mr. Ken said proudly.

About halfway back down, Emily wondered aloud about the small metal ball half buried in the ground in front of her. "Probably a landmine," I joked. But as soon as the words left my mouth, all three of us stopped dead in our tracks. The words in our Lonely Planets came racing through our heads: "Take care when walking in the fields around Phonsavanh as UXO are common. Take care to stay within marked areas and stick to worn footpaths." We were in the middle of a field which was neither a marked area, nor did it have worn footpaths. We were on a hill next to what was once a CIA airstrip. We had just been shown an enormous crater that, now that I thought of it, didn't look overgrown like the other ones I'd seen, but rather looked pretty fresh. And we were looking at a metal object that looked just like the dimpled baseballs they use in batting cages. And if I had to guess, I'd say it looked about 30 years old. Give or take. It was a "bomblet," an unexploded piece of cluster bomb, the most common UXO in Laos and something you would definitely NOT find in a place that had been cleared of bombs and mines. "Ken!" I yelled, feeling it was time to drop the formality of calling him 'Mister.' "Get over here!" He came trotting over, with every step my heart stood still. "What is that, Ken?"

"Bomb. Don't touch." And he turned and started walking down the hill again.

"Ken," Nick said slowly, "is this field safe?"

"Oh yes. Safe safe."

"So it's been cleared of bombs? There are no landmines?"

"Not cleared. Still bombs. Still mines. Safe." And with that he walked off. Now I don't know if you've ever found yourself standing in the middle of a live minefield with no way out other than walking, but I can tell you it is, um, exhilarating. Once my heart started beating again, every inch of my body was alive. I was so pumped with adrenaline that if I had stepped on a landmine I probably would have hurt it more than it would have hurt me. That is not to say that I wasn't scared. I was petrified. I felt like crying and screaming and shitting in my pants all at the same time. But I did none of those things. I took out my camera, got a video 360 so that I could remember this moment forever and prove it to all you skeptics out there, then set off, one foot in front of the other, to catch up with Emily and Nick who were already a long way ahead of me as they had followed close behind Mr. Ken, assuming he knew where the hell he was going.

We all got back to the van alive and in one piece. Nick wanted to punch Mr. Ken's light's out. But Emily stopped him and asked, far calmer than she had any right to be, almost like she were talking to a 4 year old, "Ken, why would you take us through a live minefield?"

He looked genuinely puzzled and even, I suspect, a little bit hurt at our disapproval. "Why," he asked. "You are afraid of bombs?" This simple question suggested two things that Mr. Ken may have been thinking. The first was that all of the bombs and mines in that field were American made and if Americans are going to go litter other countries with explosives then maybe they shouldn't be afraid to walk amongst them. Secondly, Mr. Ken and the driver both had walked right through with zero hesitation as would, I'd imagine, most people who had lived their whole lives in Phonsavanh because UXO and landmines are a dangerous yet inevitable fact of life here just as rats and muggings and terrorism are in New York. I'm quite positive that Mr. Ken didn't mean any of this. I think he just wanted to show us something cool, something that other tourists don't get to see, and it never occurred to him that we would be bothered walking through an active minefield. So I let my pulse slow to a near normal rate before getting back in the van and riding back.

When we got back to town we went to the office of the local mine-clearing NGO. We explained where we'd been and what we'd seen and we showed him our pictures. The American man there listened very calmly and said, "You kids were very lucky. That is indeed a very dangerous sight. I've never even been there myself, actually. We haven't even gotten that far out. But a colleague has and said it's a real live place. You definitely were in a great deal of danger today. I'm glad you're all alright." We asked if we should report Mr. Ken. He laughed bitterly. "To who? The police? The tourism board? I imagine your man isn't even licenced, so there's not much they can do to him. Besides, most of these people have been walking through fields like that their whole lives. Hard to fault them for not being scared anymore." We thanked him and said goodbye.

Later that night Nick, Emily and I had dinner together. We agreed that when all's said and done, we'd walked through a live minefield unharmed which is something that few tourists, in fact few people in the world, have done. It's far cooler than shooting an AK-47 or thwarting a highway robbery or smoking opium. So the $15 we paid for the tour was worth it. But Jesus Christ was I scared.

"Certainly, travel is more than the seeing of sights; it is a change that goes on, deep and permanent, in the ideas of living."

--Miriam Beard

After leaving the embassy in Vientiane I ran into Derek, an Irish metal-head I had met in Muong Ngoi. He is slightly insane but good company so we decided to meet up for dinner that evening at one of the riverside restaurants. During the meal we were met by Bob, Derek's Nigerian acquaintance who lives in Vientiane for the present time. Bob doesn't work, nor does he have any money, but you'd never know it to look at him. He has a cell-phone which he is constantly on, nice, brand-new clothes, and a general happy-go-lucky air about him which makes you think he's never worried about a thing in his life. So what does he do? He hustles. He scams. He lives on credit. And he steals. But he was very nice and since I was a friend of Derek's I was a friend of Bob's. Derek asked Bob when he was returning home to Nigeria. "Oh man," Bob sighed, "maybe someday when I have enough money to buy the plane ticket." He stopped and thought for a moment, then quite matter of factly stated, "Maybe I just rob a bank."

I thought he surely couldn't be serious, so I made a joke, saying "Why don't you just rob the airline's ticket office and steal the tickets? Cut out the middle man."

He seemed to genuinely ponder my suggestion before shaking his head gravely. "No, the airline would cancel ticket before I make it to airport. No good."

"Sorry," I said. "I'm new to the robbery game."

"It's okay," he said, brightening. "You American. You don't need for robbing banks. You just leave that to us Africans." He laughed long and hard at his joke and I bought him a beer.

Derek and I took our leave of Bob and went to a bar on the roof of a five-story building by the river. We had some beers and chatted at length. Derek's a fascinating guy. He's toured Europe with a variety of death-metal and black-metal bands (which are totally different as he explained at length). He's been all over the world, most recently China where he opened a successful guesthouse, the sale of which has been funding his current trip. And all the while, through all his travels he has been smuggling drugs over international borders. Most recently he's been smuggling hash, and though I was fully prepared to believe him, as proof he produced a fist-sized brick from his pocket. It was enough, he assured me, to land him in prison for 100 years in Laos and god knows how long in Thailand. He said he had ten times as much back in his room. But he was the most intelligent, well-read, and interesting international drug-smuggler I've ever met. When we said goodnight he offered me a chunk of the hash, but I declined it, remembering what the man at the embassy had said to me just a few hours earlier about not getting arrested without a passport.

The next morning I got a bus back north to a town called Vang Vieng. It was a public bus, meaning no air-con and I was once again the only whitey on the bus. The entire aisle of the bus was piled with cargo, mostly boxes of orange juice, making it impossible to get to any seats without climbing over them. A fire hazard to be sure. As we were going back up Rte. 13, there was also another boy with a big gun, but this time I did not notice him (or the driver) drinking beer.

Vang Vieng has become the biggest backpacker draw in Laos and one of the must-visit destinations in SE Asia. It is located half-way between Luang Prabang and Vientiane amid stunning scenery, surrounded by hundreds of caves and right on the Nam Song river. But along with it's popularity has come a lot of change to the town. As a result, travelers either love it or hate it and I've met many people on both sides of the spectrum. Lonely Planet has this to say about what's become of Vang Vieng: "The most common complaint is that in earning its stripes as a fully paid-up member of backpacker world, Vang Vieng has lost its soul." The town itself is nothing but guesthouses and bar/restaurants aimed at backpackers and is crawling with 20-something travelers in various states of inebriation. This is due to the t.v. bars and happy pizzas, but more about those later.

The main attraction in Vang Vieng is tubing down the Nam Song river. It started years ago as a relaxing way to pass a day, but has become an ongoing party and a sort of rite-of-passage amongst backpackers. Sometime in the day, usually around noon, you hire a large rubber inner-tube and catch a tuk-tuk 3km upriver. You jump in the river and float down with the current through some very, very minor rapids until you get back to town. Or at least that's what used to happen. Now the 3km stretch of river is lined with bamboo bars and restaurants, each one blasting music and offering drink specials. Some have volleyball and some have bonfires, but everyone of them has a "flying-fox." This is either a zip-line or a trapeze-like rope swing out into the river. They go from platforms of varying heights, most in the range of 30-40 feet, which is a lot higher and scarier than it sounds. Doing a flying-fox is one of the most exhilarating things you can do, and is probably fairly unsafe, especially if you throw in free-flowing BeerLao and free shots of Lao Lao (homemade rice-whiskey). When you want to stop at one of these bars, you wave to one of the people who works there, they extend a long bamboo pole to you and pull you in to the shore. You hang out, meet some people, buy a beer, play some volleyball if you want, watch people almost kill themselves trying to do flips on a flying-fox, or try one yourself. And whenever you want you just hop back in the river with your tube and float to the next one. It is simply an ongoing, ever moving beach party on the river with countless bikinied and bathing-suited backpackers. It was one of the most fun days I've had.

Unfortunately, my body did not have as much fun as my brain. In the course of the day I nearly dislocated my shoulder doing a flying-fox dive, nearly broke my toe on a rock, got the worst dead-leg and biggest bruise I've ever had from a collision with a half-naked Swedish girl on a volleyball court, and got huge amounts of water in my ears which really began to hurt. So when I got back to town I simply wanted to lay in bed and moan, but I was convinced by my many new friends that the only way to cap such a glorious day was with a happy pizza.

Now the main drag of Vang Vieng is lined with t.v. bars, which are simply restaurants and bars with t.v.s blasting movies or American sitcoms. Strangely, the vast majority of these show episodes of the Simpsons or Friends. The tables do not have chairs, but rather mats on the ground for reclining. So at any time of the day or night you can pass dozens of westerners laying on the ground, facing the same direction, staring vacantly at the antics of Joey, Ross, Rachel, and the other ones who I can't remember right now. I had been warned that it is a horrifying sight--in the middle of SE Asia, a land with so much history and beauty, why lay there and watch the most banal and idiotic television programming? And at first, it did strike me as a little gross. But then I thought, there's nothing wrong with taking a little vacation from the rough and tumble life on the road. And if people want to waste a night watching t.v. and recharging the old battery, then who am I to judge?

The thing about these t.v. bars, though, is that they all have a regular menu with the usual assortment of Laos and Western and Thai fare, as well as a list of drinks and beers. But there is also another menu, usually an insert in the back, called the "happy menu." These menus are broken up into three categories, "weed," "mushrooms," or "opium." On the "weed" section there are a "happy pizza," which is a pizza with tomato sauce, mozzarella, garlic, and marijuana. Or you can have an "ecstatic pizza" which is the same, but with LOTS of marijuana. You can also have a "happy shake," or "happy brownies." Then there is listed a joint, and next to that, just a bag. The list of options is the same on the mushroom section (and these ain't portobello), but the opium section leaves off the pizzas, for some reason.

The gang and I went to one of the few places without a t.v. blasting and ordered our happy meals. I went for the classic happy pizza as I thought it might dull some of the pain in my ears and my body as my shoulder felt like I had pitched both ends of a double-header without warming up and my legs was a throbbing mess. To be honest it was fun, but just the same as eating a pot brownie or anything else...it takes awhile, you get a nice pleasant body high, then a sort of calm sweeps over you. I slept like a baby.

"I am sleeping under strange, strange skies. Just another mad, mad day on the road."

--K. Richards and M. Jagger

When we last saw our hero, he was sitting in Luang Prabang, head in hands, having just realized that he committed the most unforgivable sin of travel: he lost his passport. But our hero is not without hope, as he thinks he has a fairly good idea of where he lost it...

After the initial shock of realizing what I'd done, I thought about it logically. It must still be in one of the dry bags provided by the company that ran the kayaking trip, or else I lost it in the caves. There would either be a simple way to retrieve it or no way at all and I'd have to go to Vientiane earlier than I'd planned and try my luck convincing the US Embassy that I am not a terrorist. I saw Rorie and Jake briefly on their stop-over before leaving for Bangkok and they told me that there was an office of the kayaking company in Luang Prabang. I found the office (after being sent all over the city by rival tourist agencies) and when I finally got there the employees were remarkably friendly and helpful. They called the office in Muong Ngoi who in turn searched the bags that I thought I had left my passport in. No dice. But they insisted on helping me further so they called my guesthouses in Muong Ngoi and Nong Kiew. Neither of them had the passport, but it was very nice of them to actually show some concern for my situation. If anyone is planning a trip to Laos, I recommend the people at Laos Youth Travel very highly.

So there was no easy way to get the passport back. Rather than stress myself out I decided to go for an herbal steam bath and a massage to clear my head. In my relaxed state I reasoned that Muong Ngoi is a relatively small place...there are only so many places I could have lost it...all I'd have to do is go back up there, retrace my steps, perhaps offer a reward to some village kids. It would be like a treasure hunt in the jungle! I resolved to leave the next day.

But then I got to thinking about when my wallet was stolen in Greece, how I'd wasted three full days trying to hunt it down, and when I finally gave up, I realized that even if I had found it it would not have been worth the time and effort spent searching. Plus, the ordeal and my state of mind had soured my memory of the entire trip to Greece and to this day it is the first thing I think of when I remember that country. So I called the embassy. The woman I spoke to was the most friendly and helpful US government employee I've ever encountered. She said it would not be a problem, all I'd need was a police report and about a hundred bucks. So I scrapped my treasure hunt and decided to go the easy route. I'll lose all my stamps and visas and things in my passport, but I'll gain piece of mind and preserve some happy memories. Besides, the chances were pretty good that I never would have found the damn thing anyway. As my sister so eloquently put it, "a monkey's probably wiping its ass with your passport already." I hope that monkey appreciates that its toilet paper is US government property.

By the time I came to this decision it was Friday morning. It would take a day to get to Vientiane and the embassy wouldn't open until Monday. So I had another few days to kill in Luang Prabang. But first I had to get a police report.

Now I've had the pleasure of filing police reports in four different countries and on three different continents. But cops are the same no matter where you are. I walked into the tourist police station and there were four little Laotian cops sitting there watching t.v. Two were in the military-like tan uniform. Two were plain clothes. What is it about cops and their fashion sense? You could have put these guys in any city in any country in the world, and you'd know within an instant that they were cops. The expensive and clean, but still shabby clothes...the tucked in polo-shirts...the shiny shoes...the bad hair-cuts. Anyway, they were none to pleased to see me. I guess they thought they would have a nice Friday afternoon with no paperwork. But the head-cop, one of the plainclothes, sat me down and tried to be a real hard-case. He looked me up and down, taking a lot of time between questions, acting like he didn't believe a word of my story. He scrutinized my photocopied passport with a shrewd and squinting eye and finally scoffed, pushing it back at me like I was trying to pass off a counterfeit. I think in this policeman's mind I really had my passport--I was filing a false police report to try to make a fool of him and indeed the entire LPTPD (Luang Prabang Tourist Police Department). Well I wasn't gonna get away with it--not on his watch! His slicked back hair (which was cut too short so it stuck up in the back and he had to constantly try to flatten it down) told me that I wasn't dealing with some flat-footed beat cop. "You come back sree-sirty (3:30). Maybe we have report for you then." I had already written my report. All he had to do was photocopy it with the photocopier sitting right next to him, but as he was my only means of getting an official police report and therefore my only ticket to a new passport, I bowed my way to the door, suppressing a smirk and thanked all of the pigs for so graciously listening to my tale of woe. Eventually I got the damn report.

The next day I rented a bicycle and started riding. I had no particular destination in mind, but wanted to see some of the outlying areas and get a little exercise as well. After riding for about a half hour, I noticed a few signs saying that I was on the road to the waterfalls which every tuk-tuk driver in Luang Prabang is desperate to take you to. I recalled the Lonely Planet saying that it was common for people to ride a bike out to the falls, so I thought, "Hey, I've come this far. Why not?" I rode for another hour and a half and the road got progressively more hilly until I was in some serious mountains. And this was not a mountain bike I was riding, but rather a one-speed bike they rent to tourists for $1 a day. I pulled of at a small road-side stand for a bottle of water and a Miranda Soda (the red ones are bubble-gum flavored. Delicious) and asked the man working there how much further to the falls. "Same same as Luang Prabang," said he. "You mean I've only come half-way?!? I've been riding for two hours!" He just laughed and slapped my back and asked if I'd like to join his family for lunch. I had suddenly lost my appetite. Since it would be the same distance to the falls as it would to turn around, I figured I might as well keep going. And indeed, two hours later, I arrived at the park for the waterfalls. The parking lot was filled with tuk-tuks, most of which had passed me along the way, the tourists they carried all waving and shaking their heads in pity for me, the dumb kid who decided to ride a bike to save $6. I locked up the bike, totally spent and drenched with sweat, but with a certain sense of superiority to all of these lazy people. Despite what the Lonely Planet said, there was only one other bicycle there. I had triumphed.

The falls are actually a series of falls which form bright blue swimming pools. They are beautiful and pristine, like something out of "The Blue Lagoon," but without Brooke Shields. I hadn't intended on going there when I set out in the morning, so I didn't have my swimsuit or towel. I considered just jumping in in my clothes or boxers (which is what all the locals were doing...shoes and all) but I didn't fancy a ride back to town in cold, wet clothes. I met some girls in the parking lot and they let me ride in their tuk-tuk back to town. We threw the bike on top. Now I am as tired of writing about horrible bus/train/boat rides as you are of reading about them, so it is with great relief that I can report the 7 1/2 hour bus ride down to Vientiane was a breeze. It started a bit cramped, but people got off along the way and by the time we pulled out of Vang Vien, I had the whole back row to myself.

There was one thing about the bus, however, that made me a bit uncomfortable in another way. The bus attendant , a young man who rode next to the driver and collected tickets and handed out water had an AK-47 on his lap the whole way. He carried it with him when he got off the bus for bathroom breaks and when he went with the driver to have a beer at the 10:00 am rest-stop. He did make the slightest effort to conceal it under his jacket like a gangster in a movie, but it was still fairly obvious he preferred everyone to know he had it. He winked at me when he noticed I was looking at it--a wink that said, "Don't worry. I ain't gonna shoot you. This is for your protection." And indeed it was.

The road from Luang Prabang to Vientiane, Route 13, was notorious for violent banditry and gangs of rebel Hmong tribesmen. See, the Hmong were villainized for their role in aiding the United States during the secret war (not like they had a choice in the matter). They were trained and armed by the C.I.A. to fight the parts of the war that landmines and 100 lb bombs couldn't take care of. As a result, it was all but legal to shoot these men on sight once the Communists won in 1975. So the Hmong went guerrilla and pretty much controlled Rte. 13 the way the James Gang controlled the railroads. But several years ago they hijacked a tourist bus, just like the one I happened to be riding, and shot and killed all sixty some-odd passengers, most of whom were westerners. Everyone seems to believe that the problem has sorted itself out with the Hmong receiving more rights and the military taking more of an interest in Rte 13, but the armed boy literally riding shotgun on my privately operated "VIP" tour bus seemed to be unconvinced.

But there wasn't even a sniff of trouble the whole way. We did pass a head on collision on one of the hairpin turns through the mountains, but everyone seemed to be alive...though the driver didn't stick around long enough to be sure.

Now I've been told over and over that Vientiane is a sleepy town, especially for a capital city. It's population of 201,000 is nearly ten times that of Luang Prabang (26,000). But it sure doesn't show. My first impression was that Vientiane is a ghost town. I'd had a hard time imagining what Phnom Penh was like after the Khmer evacuated it, but I can picture it now that I've seen modern day Vientiane. The architecture is more French colonial than any city I've seen yet, but these big colonial mansions seem deserted; many of them actually are deserted. The few young locals hanging around seem much hipper and fashionable than their Luang Prabang counterparts...I even saw some skaters. And the restaurants are more modern and urban--but everything is old and run-down and dirty. And there just is never anyone around.

I walked around to see what I could see and stopped for a beer at a little cafe on the river. Thailand is just across the river (the Mekong) and apparently you'll be shot if you try to cross it. As I sat there I saw storm clouds moving towards us down the river, but no one seemed too concerned. You could see where the rain started because the black cloud seemed to reach to the ground. I figured it would just blow over, so I brought my beer under the bamboo hut of the bar as it started to rain. The storm arrived and it was the most violent storm I've ever been in the middle of. There were lightening strikes every few seconds and thunder that shook you to the core. The bar's hut provided no protection from the sideways rain or the gale-like winds. The town's power went out in about two seconds, so there was no chance of making a run for it to the guesthouse through flooded, dark, and totally unfamiliar streets. So I, along with several locals, a British couple and a Kiwi who works for the New Zealand Embassy, stood soaking wet, laughing at our bad luck and enjoying a unique close up view of what I'm told was the worst storm in years. We were quite safe as there were no trees or metal around. When the storm let up a bit Mike, the Kiwi, said he admired my travels (which I'd filled him in on during the storm through chattering teeth) and said he wished he'd done something like that when he was my age. He bought my beers and wished me luck. I went back to the guesthouse, had a long hot shower, watched King Kong (which is just as bad the second time) and slept.

This afternoon I found the US embassy. To enter they take your camera and phone (if you have one) and there's the bag x-ray and metal detector. But once through you are on US soil and I gotta say, it felt pretty good. Everything was clean and new and air-conditioned. Everyone spoke perfect English (though they were mostly Laotian) and they called me "Sir" and treated me like everyone else--not an oddity or a walking mark with dollar bills tattooed on my face. The process to get the new passport was no sweat. Just a few forms, the police report, my driver's license, two photos, an oath, and $97. I had the money in Kip, but the man at the counter strongly suggested that I go convert it to dollars and come back. Now you'd think that the US State department would give their own citizens a fair conversion rate...at least close enough that it wouldn't be worth paying the commission to a money-changer, right? Wrong. The fucking State Department give a conversion rate of $1-12,500K. The worst I had seen previously had been $1-10,500K and the markets list it in the paper as $1-9,600K. That is a serious rip-off. Just another example of how poorly the dollar is doing and how much the government doesn't want to admit it. All this under big photos of George W. Bush (looking goofy), Dick Cheney (scowling), and Condie Rice (smiling with an inhuman number of teeth exposed).

So after all the worry and fear about this passport situation, it is being processed and should be ready in one to two weeks. There shouldn't be a problem traveling without it. But as I was leaving the embassy, the one non-Asian American working there said, "Be very careful until you get the new document." "What?" I laughed, "You mean I shouldn't get arrested?" "That's exactly what I mean," he said, unamused. Jeez...some overseas government employees have no sense of humor.

"In man's evolution he has created the city and the motor-traffic rumble. But just give me half a chance and I'll be taking off my clothes and living in the jungle."

-Ray Davies

I guess I just have bad luck when it comes to transportation. The latest harrowing trip was my boat ride from Luang Prabang to Nong Kiew. I decided to take the slow boat up the Nam Ou River even though it is twice as expensive and takes almost twice as long as the bus. I had hear that it is infinitely more comfortable and stunning scenery. Both of these are true.

The small slow-boat left Luang Prabang at just after 9:00 a.m., as close to on-time as transport gets around here. There were two other westerners on the boat, Mike, a small Londoner prone to pessimism and misanthropy, and Rich, a moronic know-it-all with an annoying speech impediment and stupid opinions which he made known to everyone. I was unsurprised to learn that he is from Sacramento. Not the choicest of boat-mates, but they left lots of room to stretch out. Other than the three of us, there was the "captain," his wife, and their son. I got the impression that since there were only three of us going up the river that day we were switched from the normal public boat to a private family trip up-river. But as long as we got where we were going, I wasn't bothered. It was a beautiful day and I settled back to doze a bit in the cool morning air. About a half hour out of town, however, I was jarred awake by a big bump and the sputter of the engine. I gathered that we had hit one of the many large rocks in the river and damaged the propeller. I knew by the look on the captain's face that it was not good. He stripped to his purple underwear, jumped in, and pulled us to shore. He tied us to a rock and, shouting a few words to his wife, dressed, turned, and ran into the jungle. I did not know what to think, but figured this kind of thing must happen from time to time and this guy has probably been on this river his whole life and he'll be back...won't he?

One hour passed. Mike climbed onto the roof to tan, I climbed to shore to do the same, Rich explained to no one in particular that he was prone to burn in the sun and told us about his new wife whom, I'm sure, is just as stupid and boring and Californian as he is.

Another hour passed and just as I was beginning to consider walking back to town through the jungle, our captain shows up in a water taxi. He chatters to us in Laotian and takes the propeller and half of the engine and speeds back towards town holding up one finger as if to say "I'll be back in one minute."

Another hour passes. Finally Captain Rocky comes back and gets the boat working (again in only his purple briefs) and we are off. It is now 1:40 and we have only traveled for a half-hour into what was supposed to be a six-hour trip.

I am not bothered, however, because this whole trip is supposed to be about relaxing and seeing the jungle and the journey is more important than the destination and blah, blah, blah. The mountains and jungle around are breath-taking. There is a point where it feels like we are in a Tolkien adventure, battling upriver against rapids with majestic mountains looming like colossal statues on both sides and impenetrable jungle all around.

Then we ran aground again. This time the propeller didn't break, but we were in approximately 1 1/2 inches of water and the captain and his wife had to get out and push us till we were deep enough to safely start the engine. This set us back another 20 minutes. By this time I had little confidence in the seaworthiness of my captain or his ship, but we were miles from anywhere, so I just had to trust we'd get there and be ready to jump ship should it come to that. It almost did.

There were very few villages and no real towns along the river, but periodically there would be groups of naked children playing in the river and there were pairs of fishermen every half-mile or so. They all must have come from villages farther in the jungle, and they were all very friendly, smiling and waving. When we were, by my estimates, about three hours from our destination, one of these fishermen pointed to our boat and started screaming in Laotian. I couldn't understand what the commotion could be. Did he knew our driver? Was he saying hello? Did he want a lift upriver? Did he need help? Well, I saw our driver's eyes get very big and run head-long to the back of the boat. From what I saw there, I assume the fisherman was yelling something like, "Hey! The back of your boat is on fire! Hey, I'd put that fire out before it reaches the gas tank and you all blow up!" Sure enough the engine had set the plastic tarp on fire which had set the back of the wooden boat on fire. Huge flames leaped into the air. I had my bag in my hands and was ready to jump ship (the river was pretty shallow) and take my chances with the kindly fisherman (who was laughing his ass off) but the captain dumped river water on the thing and seemed satisfied that we could keep going. And keep going we did.

The mountains around us got higher and the jungle got deeper and I was more and more sure that coming all this way was worth it. But between the fire and the pushing and the change of engine parts, we had been delayed about four hours and it was starting to get dark. As I mentioned, we were going against the current on a fairly shallow and rocky river...and this guy had already run aground twice in broad daylight. How was he gonna manage in the dark?

Luckily I never had to find out because just as daylight was about to fail we reached Nong Kiew, a place that time and tourism seems to have forgotten. It is now just a stop-over on the way to Muang Ngoi, a smaller, more remote, but also more tourist savvy village accessible only by boat. Many people bus or boat to Nong Kiew and go right on to the hour long boat ride to Muang Ngoi, but I had planned to spend a night there...not like I had a choice. It is a neat little town of wooden shacks. There is one road that runs through the village. Most of the town has electricity for a few hours, though my guesthouse, desperate to attract some of Muang Ngoi's tourists, has it's own generator which supplies electricity all through the night. Laos is cheap in general, but out here inexpensive takes on a whole new meaning. The most expensive room in town was $10, but most are $1 or $2. A full meal and a few beers should be about $3.

I slept very well under my mosquito net and decided rather than taking the first boat up river to explore the village and take the later boat. I read about some caves a few kilometers out of town so I hiked to them down a road through the jungle. It is amazing how loud a jungle can be. The birds and insects, which you almost never see, hoot and call and screech and buzz to the point where you forget that there are no cars or people or phones or planes or anything for miles. The caves themselves are unspectacular...they sheltered another village during the second Indochinese War, but these caves were high up in mountains and nowhere nearly as well preserved as the ones I saw in Vietnam. The only way to enter was up enormous bamboo ladders which looked like the definition of rickety, but actually proved to be quite stable. There was, however, a sharp edge and I got a bit of a gash on my hand. I didn't notice it till I was down and leaving the caves and by that time my hand was covered in bright red blood. It looked like I had dunked my hand in a bucket of red paint. This came in handy as two local boys who had followed me into the cave and half-heartily tried to act as tour guides asked for money for their non-services. I held up my bloody hand and did my best Bruce Willis which weirded them out enough to leave me alone and made me laugh. I washed it in a river and wrapped it in my trusty red bandanna and saw that it was not as bad as I suspected.

The boat ride to Muang Ngoi was brief and smooth, though much more crowded than my trip the previous day. The town itself is a perfect example of the paradox of much of SE Asia. Before tourism came to Laos, Muang Ngoi was among the most primitive villages in Laos due to it's remote location, distance from a road, and general lack of anything to attract attention. But once the country opened to tourists in the '80s, these exact things attracted attention to Muang Ngoi. The people of the village, realizing that it was easier to run a guesthouse without electricity or plumbing than it is to be a subsistence farmer in not-particularly-fertile land, went headlong into the tourist game. The result is current Muang Ngoi. It is still a tiny village, still has no automobiles, still miles from the nearest road, still with limited electricity or phone service, and still full of charming, friendly, poor local villagers, but of the 40 or so huts and houses in town, at least 25 are guesthouses, another 5 are shops selling bug spray, bottled water, flashlights, Pringles, beer, and other backpacker-necessities, and the rest are homes which offer laundry, massage, or other services to tourists. Strangely, though the entire town has become a jungle tourist-trap, it still feels authentic. The guesthouses are everywhere, but they are still just bamboo bungalows on the river with a shared out-house and cold water showers. The one road through town is still a dirt path, still teems with chickens and pigs and dirty children. And though there are some rustic restaurants in town, you'll still wait upwards of an hour for your order, because the kitchen is a women with one pan over a camp-fire. Perhaps I still got this authentic feel because it is low season and the guesthouses outnumbered the guests. I may have felt differently at the height of busy season when the streets are flooded with loud, fat farang.

I splurged and checked into the most expensive place in town, a fancy guesthouse with electricity and an indoor (though shared and cold-water) bathroom. This lux lodging set me back $3. At the restaurant in front that night I met a group of people who had taken the earlier boat together. I met one of them, Jeremy, a Canadian, at the bar. He invited me to join the group and I did and was the final member of what became a very close, very fun group. We were practically inseparable for the whole time we were in this town. Jeremy was traveling with his girlfriend Liz. They had been living in China, teaching, and were returning there in a few days. There were Nico and Katyushka, a hilarious and fun Chilean couple from Crown Heights. They were crazy performance artists and just loved to laugh and we talked about Brooklyn and music and made everyone jealous that they don't live in New York. And finally there were Rory and Jake, a couple from Breckenridge, Colorado, their beautiful 4 yr-old daughter Piper, and their friend Alyssa who was traveling with them under the guise of nanny to Piper. Jake is an ex-straightedge punk, full sleeves of tattoos, former singer in a hardcore band, who made a small fortune in construction out in Colorado and has been traveling and surfing with his wife and daughter. The group was a perfect blend of backgrounds and temperaments and senses of humor and it just felt right so when we all met up for breakfast the next day it was no surprise that we had all independently made the same plans to hike to some caves in the jungle.

These caves, which do not have a name, are amazing. From the jungle path, they don't look like much, but once you climb inside they open into a huge chamber. A fresh, black river flows out of the mouth of the cave. You can wade in with a flashlight and dive under a low wall and you are in the heart of the mountain, surrounded by different caverns and chambers and rocks to climb and underground rivers to wade and swim in...all in total silence and pitch-blackness. I was glad my new friends were with me, as I probably would not have had the courage to explore as deep as I did alone. As it was most everyone was afraid to enter until Jake and I made a scouting run to see that it was perfectly safe and indeed a lot of fun.

Afterwards the group went back, but I hiked on to another village I had heard a rumor about. It was the first time I've been truly alone in the jungle. It was an exhilarating feeling. There are so many smells and sounds and movements out of the corner of your eye...it feels like a busy place. Eventually the path came out of the jungle and into a huge dried-up rice paddy with herds and herds a water buffalo. The buffalo seemed to be totally unimpressed by my presence and they barely budged as I walked amongst them, close enough to reach out and touch these huge, hulking creatures. All around were mountains of thick jungle and I thought perhaps this village did not exist, when I spotted a small hut on the other side of the field. As I approached, I saw that it was indeed the village I had sought, Ban No. This village was how I imagined Muang Ngoi before the tourists came in. It was shabby and quiet and poor but proud and charming all the same. A sort of restaurant was set up, as I was not the first traveler to hear about this place, but it did not seem like it supported anyone's family. There was a French couple there who had discovered the village the same way I had--through word of mouth. But they had come a few weeks before and now more or less live there. They had learned to speak Laotian and we sat and spoke of politics and travel and ate and drank beers in the hot sun in a private village. I have never felt more like a character in a Hemingway novel. Eventually I had to leave if I was going to make it back to town before sundown. The jungle at dusk becomes temporarily silent, and at sundown explodes again with noise. I watched the sun disappear behind the trees and climbed out of the jungle sweaty, exhausted, and filled with the satisfaction of a full day of adventure and experience. The gang were waiting with a cold beer and cheers for my successful trek and wanted stories and pictures and they sang and we danced. They had all agreed to hire kayaks down the river to Muang Ngoi for the next morning and they weren't sure what my plans were but had reserved me a spot anyway. Of course I was thrilled.

We set out bright and early. Even though we were going with the current, what had taken one hour in a motor-boat took all day in the kayaks. It was hot, hard work, but great exercise and a lot of fun. Besides, we all got great tans and if we got too hot we could just jump into the river, which we did regularly. There were two parts of the river with "rapids" which were fun. In the second I got to be a hero. Nico and Katyushka's kayak tipped over and Nico was able to hold onto the boat and a rock, but Katyushka floated away. The guide and I were the only ones who hadn't already passed the rapids. We both paddled right towards them, and when we got close he indicated that he would help Nico, I should, "Get girl!" So I paddled on and caught up with her, struggling to keep her head up in a life jacket about 3 sizes too big for her. I yelled to grab my boat which spun us around. Just as I was about to reach shore, she lost her grip and drifted away, so I was back in the rapids. This time I grabbed her, lifted her onto my kayak and got her to shore, by which time we were both laughing just to ignore how dangerous a situation she had just been in. But she was able to save her vintage white sunglasses from Williamsburg and I said she should stick to taking the subway and eventually Nico showed up with the guide and thanked me for not letting his wife drown.

By the time we go to Nong Kiaw we were all exhausted and happy with a day's work. We all checked into the guesthouse I had stayed in a few nights before. We had the place pretty much to ourselves, so we threw a sort of last hurrah party. Jeremy, Liz, Nico and Katyushka were going north to China the rest of us were going back to Luang prabang and on to points south. But we made the most of it with bottles of cheap wine and music and stories and jokes. Nico taught us a card game which we played for Kip (Laotian money). I lost 10.000, which is about a dollar.

Rory had taken to calling us "the family" and when we said our goodbyes the next day it felt like leaving a family. Those are the relationships you travel to make. They may last a lifetime or they may last a weekend, but they are real and pure and true.

I took a bus back to Luang Prabang rather than go by boat again. Now when I say bus, I mean something called a Songtheaw (song-taw) which is not a bus at all but rather a pick-up truck. These are extremely cheap, extremely common, and extremely uncomfortable means of transportation for medium length (10-100 km) trips. The bed of the pick-up is covered, and on each side there is a narrow, thinly padded bench. When these fill up they place tiny plastic deck chairs, the kind that belong at a child's tea-party, down the middle. I was one of the last ones on, so I got one of these chairs. My truck was particularly packed, and the balance on these chairs is not great. So I was forced to hang on for dear life from the metal bar on the roof. Three hours of this would have been rough anyway, but after a full day of kayaking the day before, my arms felt like they were going to fall off by the time we got to town.

It was a successful trip through the jungle and I made it back alive...but without a passport. Once I got to Luang Prabang I realized that it was gone and it felt like a kick in the stomach. The next week will most likely be a hunt for my passport or the long arduous process of getting a replacement. Either way it should be trying and interesting. Stay Tuned!

"The rigours of the road were wearing on me mightily. I longed for a spot of peace in this land of over a billion people--most of whom barely managed to pull their curious eyes away from me long enough to remember they had something they could sell me."

--Tim Nollen

As I sat on the Soviet model prop-jet that was Vietnam Airlines flight 865 with direct service from Hanoi to Luang Prabang, Laos, I realized that it would, in all likelihood, be a very long time before I returned to Vietnamese soil. The country is impossible to understand entirely, and I do not pretend to have done more than scratched the surface in one month and a day. But I do have a general feel for the place, I think. So I tried to draw some final conclusions, and in the list of adjectives that I scribbled down in my journal, one kept popping to mind and ultimately seemed the most honest: 'difficult.' Vietnam is difficult. It is, ultimately, extremely rewarding if you can stick with it. There is unfathomable beauty, ancient and complex history, world class gastronomic delights, wonderful arts and culture, and warm, inviting people who can treat you like family the second they meet you and expect nothing in return. But Vietnam is also dirty and rude, ugly and dangerous, loud and unfriendly. As a Westerner, there is no way of avoiding the fact that you are an outsider and with that comes a mark on your back; privacy is out the window, solitude is unheard of, and everyone wants something from you, be it your money or your attention or your time.

Many of these things, of course, can be said for many countries and are probably not earth-shattering observations to anyone who has travelled. There is just something about the way that it is all pushed on you at once in Vietnam--the beauty and the filth, the kindness and the anger, the ancient and the modern--that makes it all...well, difficult. It is not a place that I would recommend to everyone, but it is a place for anyone seeking to learn about the world and themselves. It is a wonderful place and I'm glad I got the chance to see it. In my time there I had adventure, good times, bad times, hard times, I've made friends from every corner of the globe, had several romances, eaten some of the best and worst food I've ever had in my life, and seen things I've only heard about in history books, as well as things I never dreamed to be real.

But overall I was ready to move on to the slower, lazier pace that I had heard awaited me in Laos. And I have not been disappointed.

Almost to a person, everyone who travels in SE Asia lists Laos as one of their top two favorite countries. It's lack of ocean-front property lowers it for some, but those people are idiots because Laos has huge lengths of rivers and mountain lakes and waterfalls and all other manner of land-locked water fun. But beyond that there are jungles galore, and villages, indeed entire cities, as yet unsullied by the hand of tourism. The weather is perpetually warm and the air blissfully clean, especially compared to that of Bangkok or Vietnam. They say that the real Shangri-la was somewhere near here. I don't doubt it for a second.

Flying into Luang Prabang, the plane clears several mountains and must circle whilst descending very quickly. The city is surrounded by mountains and there is not enough space between them to descend normally. The airport is ridiculously small...You walk down the steps of the plane and directly into the one building.

The difference between Laos and Vietnam was evident immediately. Outside the airport, no one accosted me or my fellow travelers for taxi rides, no one tried to sell us anything, there was no question of being pushed into any guesthouses or trips that we did not want. We simply went about joining the city like anyone else. Plus it was about 30 degrees warmer.

I shared a van into town with two girls from Scotland, a Canadian girl, and a guy from Murray Hill in Manhattan. He turned out to have just finished his medical studies at NYU and will be beginning his residency at Bellevue in two weeks when he returns. We decided to share a room to save on the price.

Luang Prabang is not a city at all...it's barely a town. It is situated where the Mekong meets the Nam Kham. The town is similar to Hoi An...very old and quiet and sleepy. There is a happy feeling amongst everyone here, tourists and locals alike. I suspect that they sort of rub off on each other. After finding a guesthouse, an ATM, and some much needed deodorant, I had a shave and sat by the river drinking a gin and tonic, listening to the sounds of the jungle, and watching the sun disappear into the green mountains. This is life in downtown Luang Prabang.

Thailand, Cambodia, Myanmar, and Loas celebrate New Years from April 14-16...at least most of Laos. Luang Prabang continues the celebration for a full week. I missed the first three days of the celebrations, which apparently involve a lot of water being thrown on anyone you see and getting as drunk as humanly possible, but I was here for the final days which are the more spiritual parts of the celebration and much more interesting. And drier. Upon our arrival we were asked by the owner of our guesthouse to join him and his family and staff, as well as the other guests, for a prayer and ceremony. Everyone knelt around an alter and the oldest member of the group chanted and sang a prayer for 15 minutes. Everyone either touched the alter or someone who was touching the alter, making a web of people. There was no solemn stodginess or anything...kids laughed during the prayer, people made jokes, the man giving the prayer stopped to turn off his ringing cell phone which brought a big laugh from everyone. It was just a very warm, sweet ceremony. Afterwards, everyone got pieces of twine which they all tied around each other's wrists. These pieces of twine represent the wish or prayer for the New Year that you give to the person you tie it to. I couldn't understand any of the wishes I received, but I hope there was some mention of safe travels and another Yankees World Series Championship.

The National Museum in Luang Prabang is not spectacular, but there were three things that particularly interested me. One was the King and Queen's royal bedrooms which had been preserved just as they were in the 1960s. The Queen's room was the same size as my apartment in Sunset Park, but with less furniture (if you can imagine that) and no window. The King's was barely bigger and had just as little stuff. It makes me feel good to know that I live like a king (or at least a queen) in Brooklyn...and I have a much better record collection. I just can't understand--they clearly spent loads of doe on thrones and jewels and swords and glittery wallpaper...you'd think they could splurge for a rug or a wet-bar or a chest of drawers--even a chair for chrissakes.

I also quite liked the display of all the gifts received from foreign heads of state. China gave vases and plates. So did Japan. India gave some religious figurines. Canada gave a sterling tea-set. Thailand gave a library of books. Know what President Nixon gave? A tiny Laotian flag that had apparently been taken to the moon and back on Apollo 11, a plastic model of that spacecraft, and three tiny pebbles of moon-rock encased in a snow globe. How weird is that? I guess America bombed Laos more than any other country in history because they were trying to cover up an embarrassingly bad gift. The only country to top us was Australia, who gave a boomerang. That's it. Just a crappy wooden boomerang. That's like when a little kid gives you something they made for x-mas. You act like you love it but really think "what a piece of crap."

The other cool thing was this story, told in a series of pictures and plaques, about an ancient Laotian prince. It's supposed to be the most important myth to the county, but it is utter madness. There is no obvious moral or lesson, characters are rewarded for terrible actions, punished for benevolence, and the princess in the story has recurring dreams about her nipples being dug out. Needless to say it is the best story I have ever read.

I'd love to write more, but I have a big day of sitting around and reading and not being too concerned with anything. Ta-ta.

*Editor's note- This entry was written several days ago, but Blogger decided not to publish it. So here I sit in a remote village using the only computer for miles to re-enter it. The things I do for my fans. Why am I in a remote village with one computer and limited electricity? Read on, dear Reader!

"No one realises how beautiful it is to travel until he comes home and rests his head on his old, familiar pillow."

-Lin Yutang

There are no trains that go directly to the town of Sapa, so I took and overnight train to Lao Cai. Lao Cai is right on the border with China. I was so close to that huge nation that I could have hit it with a rock, but I probably also would have hit a Chinese border guard or Chinese national and I didn't want to start an international incident. The hour long bus ride to Sapa was typically windy and mountainous and hair-raising. The drivers actually seem to speed up around hairpin turns. Just like every other driver in this country, the only evidence that he actually had a driver's licence was the prerequisite moustache.

I was unloaded in Sapa in front of a small tour agency. Sapa is a small town far up in the mountains. It was founded about a hundred years ago by the French, but little of their influence remains as Sapa was blown to bits in just about every conflict Vietnam fought. The French, Japanese, and Chinese each took turns smashing it to bits, though the Americans left it more or less alone. The town is small and quaint and built into the mountains, but the real reason to visit Sapa is the scenery and the hill tribes. The mountains for miles around Sapa are inhabited by several tribes of people, most of whom are of Chinese descent and came to the area around 300 years ago. They still refer to themselves as montaignards, which is what the French called them. These people are subsistence farmers, mostly growing rice and corn in great, sweeping tiered paddies and fields which seem to layer the mountains like a cake.

Each of the tribes also still wear their elaborate, traditional costumes. The most noticeable are the H'mong who wear embroidered purple robes. The women wear these black leather leg-warmers and carry either a basket or a baby on their backs. They also wear piles of silver jewelery. The Black Dai dress all in black and look a little like characters from a samurai movie. The Red Dao switch up their costumes, but the women all hide their shaved heads under seven or eight bright red scarves.

Tourism has touched this place and these people, but not excessively. Yet. The tribes people still carry their wears to Sapa every day and sell them at the markets, but now they are selling them to tourists instead of locals. They also wander the trails talking to hikers and trekkers hoping to sell a scarf or a bag or something.

My trek was to leave from Sapa at 10 am. I waited at the tour agency but no other trekkers showed up. Then at 10, a young man introduced himself as my guide and said we could start. Apparently I got unbelievably lucky and got a private trip, just me and my guide. His name was Pie and he too was a montaignard, though he did not dress in the traditional clothes. He outlined the trip for me: we would take motorbikes 8 km into the hills, past the most touristy villages where people on day trips go and hike to a village called Ban Ho where we'd stay with a family in their home.

The motor bike ride was excessively fast, but I think my guide was more shaken up by it than I was. We hiked about 15 km through the hills and paddies before stopping for lunch. Then after lunch we went another 4 km to Ban Ho. The scenery was amazing...neither words nor pictures will do it justice. The final decent into the valley was particularly spectacular. Jungle and mountains surrounded us as we climbed down through rice paddies to where two rivers converge and the conical valley reaches its point.

We came to the house we were to stay at. The man of the house, who I later learned was the chief of the tribe, had gone to Sapa for a festival, but his wife was there and extremely gracious. Pie and her are very friendly and they made me feel instantly at home. The house itself was huge and built on stilts, but inside there was no furniture at all. The floor is very thin bamboo laid over 2 x 4s which bend under my feet. They were not built to hold someone my size. My "room" was a loft in one corner of the house. It consisted of a floor, a window, and a mattress with a blanket and a mosquito net, but it is far more than anyone else in the house had.

The mom became a maniacal sweeper as soon as I arrived and was still at it when Pie and I set off through town for a swim.

As I said, two rivers, the H'mong Hoa and the Veela converge in the middle of Ban Ho village. The H'mong Hoa comes down from Sapa and is a milky, brownish color from all the silt it picks up in the fields and paddies. The Veela comes from high up in another mountain and the water seems jet black but is actually clean and cool. Just above where they meet the Veela tumbles out of the jungle in a rushing waterfall and this is where we had our swim. It was indeed cold, but not as cold as I had anticipated. There is no snow in the hills.

After we returned to the home I bought Pie a beer and we talked about Vietnam and her history, particularly that of the region. He told me that he longs to see a plane or a helicopter someday, and I realise not a single one has flown overhead. He is 22, has a wife and a three year old son. He was a porter before he learned English well enough to become a tour guide. The job brings him good money, about $5.50 a day which is much more than the farmers or peddlers in the region. He hopes to perfect his English, which is already good for no formal training and only one year, and then learn French. There are hardly any French speaking guides and many French tourists, so they command a much higher price. Eventually he would like to save enough money to open his own tourist office and I think he has the wherewith all to do it, if not the business savvy. What he really wants to do is go to California. He believes that there is a large H'mong community near Fresno, which I don't doubt, and that they are well-known and influential in American politics...I didn't have the heart to tell him otherwise.

After our chat he left to cook dinner with the lady of the house and refused to even entertain the thought of my helping. They prepared it on an open fire in the kitchen, under a full pig's head and legs left to smoke and dry since Tet. Other than being a little unsettling (reminds me of Lord of the Flies) it looks pretty tasty.

I am left to write and sit and smell the smoke of the fire and the onions being chopped. I hear them chatting and chopping through bones...my name comes up occasionally and they laugh. A huge assortment of animals roams under foot: cats, dogs, piglets, ducklings, roosters and chicks. Water Buffalo meander by from time to time. I am surrounded by rice paddies, mango trees, coffee trees, bamboo, and banana palms. The old lady next door is also cooking and periodically calls a question or a joke through he bamboo walls. The children of the village run around playing and shoving and laughing, occasionally stopping to gawk at me and say, "Hello! Hello!" The beer was warm and there were mosquitoes everywhere...and I couldn't have been any happier.

When dinner was finally ready it was the best meal I've had yet...Pie started with french fries fried in oil and butter and garlic and salt. There was tofu in a tomato sauce, greens in garlic, pork with onions (and huge slabs of pork-fat), spring rolls, and rice. Everything was made from scratch. It was magnificent and I ate far too much.

There was also an Aquafina bottle full of homemade rice wine. It tasted like strong sake. Pie said it was 40% which would make it 80 proof or about as strong as vodka. I don't think it was that strong, but my hosts started getting silly after just two slugs.

I slept very well and very long and was awakened by roosters. Pie made crepes with bananas and we were off another 6 km to a village of the Red Dao. They are among the poorest people in the country and have had trouble cashing in on the tourist's curiosity as they are the farthest out and very private. They don't allow tourists into their homes and don't pose for pictures for money. It's a shame that they should be penalised for their pride and honor.

After, we hiked back out and I was drenched in sweat. It was nearly straight uphill and I started seeing spots near the top, but I felt great. It was a true adventure and one of the great highlights of my trip.

Back in Sapa I had some time to kill so I had an overpriced lunch at a reputable looking restaurant...

The folks at the tourist office put me on a bus back to Lao Cai where I'd get the train. I was so happy and relaxed from two magnificent days of hiking that I didn't even mind the lady next to me sleeping on my shoulder. We got to the affiliated restaurant in Lao Cai where I was to pick up my train ticket. The lady at the desk said, "Man with your ticket not here. He come later. You sit down and eat." I have seen this move far too many times now and refuse to reward businesses that hold you hostage like that. I said "I need ticket. Train leave in 30 minutes." She laughed, "He has ticket! He know what time train leave!"

I waited for ten minutes, then twenty minutes, then at 7:25, five minutes before my train was to leave, I said to the lady, "Call him. I demand that you call him. I know he has a cell phone. Get him on the phone." She looked like I had just asked her to put her hand in a fire, but she called and, two minutes later, a young man on a motorbike came roaring up and shouted what seemed like a litany of expletives in Vietnamese and Chinese. He said something to the lady, who pointed to me and backed away. He sneered, handed me my ticket and practically threw me on his bike. We sped off to the station where I ran as fast as my flip-flops would take me and jumped on the train just as it pulled away from the station. The train ride was all downhill from there...

My cabin mates were a Vietnamese professor and a couple of very chatty businessmen from Singapore. I talked to them for a while so as not to be rude then I put on my headphones and went to sleep. That was about 8:00 pm.

Around 9 pm I awoke with a head-ache and a sharp pain in my stomach which would cramp up and relax in one minute intervals. There was no doubt in my mind that it was that meal I had eaten in Sapa. I've been told a thousand times not to trust tofu around here, but it seems so benign. I guess it soaks up the MSG or whatever...either way it was doing a number on me. I lay there thinking over my options. I'm usually pretty iron-stomached--could I gut out seven hours of food poisoning on a dirty train? I decided to lay there and hope it went away, but just in case grabbed a plastic bag. Needless to say it did not get any better, in fact it got progressively worse until I was fairly sure that my dinner would not be making it to Hanoi. So I got out of bed and headed to the WC, but first, in a stroke of mad-genius, grabbed my rain coat. See, the clothes I was wearing were all I had with me and I didn't want to sit in puke stained clothes all night. I figured a rain coat would be easier to clean. Pretty clever, eh?

Of course, the bathroom was a squat toilet. Train toilets are always nasty, but this one was particularly gruesome, and I was not at all sure how I was going to aim my vomit into a small hole in the floor. I rolled up my jeans, figuring I'd just have to wash my feet off, and squatted the opposite way on the toilet, ready to do it to it. But magically, when I got into the squat, the cramping went away and the urge to chunk slowly disappeared. I stood up and the feeling came back...squatted and it went away. Though on the one hand I wanted to just get it over with, I knew that with food poisoning once you start puking you're committed for hours.

I couldn't stand to stay in that filthy toilet all night, and my cabin was out of the question as it was too dark and too small. So I went in a little corner between the cars. There I squatted, in a filthy train, leaning against the wall, in my raincoat, with my pants rolled up Huckleberry Finn-style, holding my head in my hands, body aching from nearly 40 km of trekking, and wished for the first time on this trip that I was back home in New York. Who says travel isn't glamorous?

I drifted in and out of sleep for several hours and eventually crawled back to my bed where I dozed in and out of sleep. When we arrived in Hanoi I was the first one off the train. I was particularly surly with the moto-drivers who harassed me for a ride. But it was 4 am, I was sick as a dog, and I didn't feel like repeating myself fifty times that, no, I didn't need a ride. Especially when every one of them had just seen me refuse a ride from fifty other drivers. So I snarled and cursed and beat a hasty retreat with my head down. Of course I walked the wrong way. I was stumbling around the pitch-black streets in Hanoi's seedy underbelly. There were men on street corners drinking and playing cards and women slaughtering giant pigs. I walked like I knew where I was going and, miracle of miracles, I found a park that I recognized. Of course, it was on the exact opposite side of town from where I wanted to go.

I thought about taking a moto, but I thought the fresh air was doing me good (although the early morning air of Hanoi's backstreets is anything but fresh) and so was the exercise (though, as I said, I had done 40 km of mountain climbing in the past two days). Finally I stumbled into the hostel. They guy at the desk saw what a state I was in and took pity on me. He gave me a bed even though it was seven hours before check-in.

The next morning I felt like I had the worst hang-over I've ever had. Every inch of my body is sore. I look like a wreck. But I think the worst of the food poisoning is over. It's a shame that I am spending my last day in Vietnam laying around and moaning, but tomorrow I fly to Laos and I want to look and feel my best for a new country.

"Travel only with thy equals or thy betters; if there are none, travel alone."

-The Dhammapada

Halong Bay is a large bay in the Gulf of Tonkin famous for it's 3000 rock islands that jut up out of the water. Covered in jungle and many as tall as a hundred meters, a boat cruise through the bay is breath-taking. There is some crazy legend about a dragon creating the islands with his tail as he escaped from some warrior or other...it doesn't really make much sense to me...but as you go deeper and deeper among these islands it is easy to believe that mystical creatures are still lurking around. Adding to the ambiance was the fact that the day we arrived was foggy and the islands seemed to appear out of the mist suddenly (and alarmingly close to the boat). I suggested to Holly, a British girl also on the tour, that it was like going into Jurassic Park but she rightly corrected me, saying it was more like Skull Island from King Kong. I told her that if a giant monkey grabbed her and her Kiwi boyfriend went chasing after it, I was staying on the boat.

The tour we were on was booked through the hostel that I had liked so much in Hanoi. It was not as cheap as some other options, but with tours you get what you pay for and cheaper is usually not better. It ended up being the right one to choose because the people on the tour were all the sort of people who stay at the hostel, and the people you're with makes a big difference on a three day tour.

The lunch, served on the boat, started out fairly dubiously with a whole fish and prawns, but course after course, mostly involving seafood, kept on coming and by the time it stopped we were quite full.

We stopped at a floating village where there were kayaks available and I paddled around for awhile exploring the caves. The boat also stopped at a grotto where we were able to explore a bit. Remembering my experience at the Marble Mountains, I followed my instincts and climbed through a similar looking hole in the back of the cave. There seemed to be a path, but I wasn't sure until I came around a bend and was confronted by a cliff and a big red sign that said "STOP." I laughed so loud that everyone else heard and followed. We were all rewarded with an aerial view of a totally enclosed island lagoon which looks like its never been touched by a human.

We were all tired from a long day of sightseeing and travel and were expecting to be taken to a dumpy guesthouse. The brochure for the tour said we were going to "Paradise Island" but I, for one, was skeptical of the name. The island and the resort we stayed at were much closer to Paradise than I expected. Our tour guide claimed that during high season a room there goes for $80 a night. It was the only thing on the island and the only sign of any other people was the faint glow of lights from Cat Ba city several miles across the water. The bungalows themselves were extremely posh with verandas practically hanging over the sea and big beanbag chairs to sit in. The electricity came from a generator and flickered regularly, but there was hot water and cold beer, so we were happy.

I had dinner with Holly and her boyfriend Dylan, an Aussie I had met at the hostel also named Greg, and two blond girls from Cambridge (England, not Massachusetts) named Emma and Kirstie. The meal was fine but the company was even better. I especially got on with Kirstie, who DJs at home and she and Emma have been traveling for six months. I don't know if it's just the ones I've been meeting or what, but it seems like British girls are just about perfect...they like beer and sports, have terrific senses of humor, and even have good taste in music. In any event, they were only on the two day package and I was on the three, then they were heading south whilst I am heading to Laos, so it was not to be, but we had a great night anyway. The island was silent except for the lapping of waves just outside the window.

The next morning I got up early to eat breakfast and say goodbye to those returning to Hanoi, which was most of the group. It was very strange standing on the beach, waving goodbye to these people I had met only the day before, but feeling like I was losing my best friends in the world. I think I've mentioned it before, but it bears repeating that when you travel you form such close relationships so quickly and then just as quickly those people are gone. Usually you are both moving on, but standing there on the deserted beach, watching the boat sail off, it felt like I was being left behind.

But as soon as it was out of sight I realised that I was on a gorgeous jungle island and the five other people on which were asleep and far down the beach. That was great! I could do what ever I wanted! I set off climbing rocks and looking at tide pools and exploring the jungle, though I didn't get very far without a machete.

Remembering that I was missing a televised Yankees game (there was a t.v., but the generators were turned off until night), I recreated a full half-inning, complete with color-commentary and real line-ups. Acting as Andy Pettite, I got into a bit of jam giving up back to back singles by Joe Mauer and Tori Hunter. I dug in and gave Posada (who was standing in the middle of the ocean) that famous Pettite-stare from under my cap that I remember so well. The first pitch to Justin Morneau was high and tight, a little payback for the undeserved MVP award he stole from Derek Jeter last year. But after a warning from the umpire, the next pitch was a cutter. It was a rocket down the left field line, but A-Rod made a spectacular stab at it! He throws to Cano for one, to Giambi for two, 5-4-3 double play, out of the inning! I felt just like a little kid, throwing rocks and running around, but there was absolutely no one to see or hear how stupid I was being. It was great. The only bad thing was that I was really throwing rocks as pitches and I hadn't warmed up yet, so my arm's a little sore.

Anyway, the rest of the day was very restful. I relaxed and read, played a little on the guitar that was there, and played cards with the three Aussies who had stayed. The only other two there, a German couple, were really friendly and great company. The guy, who was originally from Turkey, had a laugh you could hear from miles away and I'm pretty certain that he was out of his mind, but we got along great.

Our peace was interrupted in the afternoon when a two families of fat Aussies arrived. There were four unpleasant parents and four even less pleasant children, but we did our best to drink and smoke and curse loudly so the parents and the kids kept away.

We returned to Hanoi the following day and I was lucky enough to get a bed at the same hostel even though it was late in the day. Several of the people I had met before I left were still around, and I even bumped into Kirstie and Emma on their way out. It felt like returning home even though I'd only been there two nights. Aussie Greg and I met up with Gavin and Cardie, a fantastic couple from Birmingham, and we all went out to a pub. After they were heading to a nightclub. I was exhausted from the traveling all day, but they made me come and I'm really glad they did.

I don't usually go to big dance clubs, but this one was impressive. It was enormous, insanely smokey, and packed with Hanoi's young, beautiful and elite. Since we were Westerners (which means we had money) and coincidentally all wearing the nicest clothes we have with us, we were waved past the line and right in the doors. The music was pounding and it was this terrible trancey techno. I hate that kind of music, but even Cardie and Gav, who like House, said it was horrendous. Hennessey seemed to be the drink of choice and just about every table had a bottle on. This is surprising as the Vietnamese seem to have a bit of a problem holding their liquor. I would have thought they would stick to something lighter, but I guess sipping on beer or a watered down G & T isn't as glamorous as a magnum of Henney. We stuck to beers, however, as we were all pretty pissed and it was already late when we got there. Things shut down pretty early in this country. The fun police usually show up around 12:30 or one, but they didn't come to the club 'till 2.

You may have noticed that I wrote "pissed" instead of "drunk." I did it on purpose, because I have a bit of a problem. You know that internal voice you have in your head? Well mine has developed a serious British accent. It's not surprising--nearly everyone I've spoken English to has been British or Kiwi or Aussie, and even the Germans and Scandinavians and Vietnamese who speak English have a British accent. Add to that the fact that I have listened to about 10 hours of the Rickie Gervais Show and I'm reading a book by Micheal Palin from Monty Python, and it's not surprising I'm thinking like a Brit. Even as I write this it sounds in my head like it's being read by Steve Merchant. I make a point of it not coming out in my speech, because I know how ridiculous it sounds when Americans feign British accents (see: Madonna or Gwyneth Paltrow). But there are several phrases that are just too good not to use and I am officially adding to my vocabulary. Girls in general are birds. A good looking girl is fit, and if she's really good looking she's well fit. An ugly girl is a minger. If you're upset about something you're gutted and if you're tired, you're knackered. I even got permission from several Brits to use their words, so if you don't like it, then piss off, mate. Cheers!