Slacky Slackerson

My father has nothing to do ever, as everyday for him is now vacation. Yet he still manages to take days or weeks to respond to inquiries sent from his son on the other side of the Pacific.

I like to think I'm a little better than that. You see, I've delayed a few good days in writing on this here blog site, but at least I'm busy. Sort of. In the interim, there has been an incredible bus journey, a few good acquaintances made, some frustrating experiences back in the supernatural chaos that is Khao San Road in Bangkok, and now some rock climbing and just hanging out not getting any kind of cultural experience whatsoever in Railay (though I did manage to almost kill myself today. And scared the holy bejesus out of the britons with whom I was climbing. I think they were more shaken than I.) - outside of Krabi on the west coast of Thailand.

However, I still will not expand on the aforementioned activities, as this internet station is amazingly pricey and I haven't any money. So, I'll try to get some details out your way soon. Keep posted.

Ok, so maybe they have a point

The Gods live at Angkor.

The tuk tuk will pick you up at your hotel at 5:00 am, rush you over just in time to see the fireworks. The three spires of Angkor emerge as black pinacles against the fleeting masterpiece of color behind; and you feel like you may actually be standing with one foot on Vishnu's palm and the other on Buddha's. Like they're holding you up, peeling their fingers forth to lead you into their shared dwelling the new day reveals. You stumble forward, temporarily unable to walk, away from the crowds of humanity and toward the supernatural. You shrink more and more the closer you come, until finally you're there, up the three flights of stairs (cliffs?), standing beneath the furthest spire watching the burning ball rise up above the horizon and feeling like a speck of dust atop a mountain. This is what God's house is like.

Finally airborne, the sun has shed its light on the largest religious structure in the world. But you'll be back for that later; you run off to begin the marathon viewing of divine history at another temple nearby. The carvings. The massive stonework. The remains of crumbled walls covered with sporadic instances of artistic genius. The dancing Buddhas. Hindi Gods. Warriors. Apsaras. Elephants. Lions. Singhas. They're all here to inspire. The first stone was placed in Angkor 1200 years ago. Today, smells of incense still warm your soul and believers still come to pray. The city is only half ruins, the other is very much alive.

Stunned by my own appreciation for this ancient kingdom (Typically, I do not enjoy ruins. See "Hung" - August 12, 2005), I manage to spend 18 hours in 2 days exploring. This is enough to force even the most devout soul to recognize he will never see it all, and to do so would be ludicrous, so he should take what Angkor has given him and move on. I ended my tour with a trip to a temple left to the jungle - with trees that put jack's beanstalk to shame claiming rooftops as their soil. The phenomenon simply cannot be of this world - which is fitting.

Content to never try to build a giant stone temple in any insane attempt to outdo Angkor, I instead bought a bus ticket for tomorrow that will carry me over the supposedly heinous road to Bangkok, where this whole thing began. From there, I will keep moving...

Mmmm RiceCorn...

Traveling in Cambodia can be related to flying across the world to walk around in Nebraska. Except there's rice instead of Corn, there's a heinous recent history, and an all-too-frequently glorified ancient history. In fact, it's so glorified that in this land of $3 hotel rooms, 50 cent meals, and $3 bus journeys across the country, admission to the ruins at Angkor is $20 per day. The average salary here is $20 per month. Stunning.

So after leaving Phnom Penh (where, if you're interested, the intersection of Charles De Gaulle St. and Mao Tse Tung Boulevard does, indeed, exist) we head south to break away from the backpacker circuit for a bit at the beach in the oddly named town Sihanoukville. Sounds like something from the hallmark hall of fame.

Sihanoukvill has absolutely nothing going for it, except for the ocean and a million kids selling crappy colorful shrimp doohickeys. That and a national park that boasts "Meditation Mountain." No one told us the true elevation of said mountain, but after hiking to it in the rain, I'd say it's about 40 feet high and takes maybe 15 minutes to get to. It's also the residence of a bunch of monks.

From the summit, you hike on a huge road, through several villages complete with livestock grazing, a school, and a soccer field. Someone obviously just drew a line around some random corner of Cambodia and called it a National Park. Note: if ever you find yourself in Cambodia, do not go to Ream National Park.

Now we (and by "we" I mean a British girl who I met on the bus from Saigon to Phnom Penh. Thus far, I have thoroughly enjoyed making fun of her Britishness.) sit in Siem Reap, where the glorified past is embedded not only in the temples of Angkor, but in the name. Siem Reap = Siamese Defeated.

Tomorrow I'm gonna go look at some big temples. I'll let you know how that goes.

The 48 Laws Unite

The My Lai massacre - 504 killed. Men, women, children - civilians. The people I meet traveling. The woman and children in the photograph just before the cameraman turns his back to hear the sounds of their demise. Agent Orange and the deformed fetuses at home in the bottles of fermeldahyde. Soldiers with the heads of the decapitated. Wounded. Dying. death.

This is what the war had to offer. This is what the War Remnants Museum, formerly the Museum of American War Crimes, in Saigon has to offer. This is how the winner has written its history.

I walk out, thoroughly disturbed to meet a moto driver with a photo from his war days. "You go to war museum?""Ït very bullshit.""You only see Vietnam people die. Many American die too."

He's right, of course. We weren't fighting nothing. The Viet Cong. The North. And the South Vietnamese, too. They performed the same atrocities - you'd like to say they were worse, but once you cross a certain line it all comes from the fires of hell.

Yet reading the guestbook and talking to former visitors, the prison has its desired effect. "The U.S. will never learn?""Why did the US do this?""Why do we do this in Iraq now?" No mention of the VC's actions. No "Thank God WAR stopped Hitler, though." No "Saddam did it too." "The Angkarians.." just sympathy for the victims of the US opposition to power.

I think a better lesson, though, is the perilous nature of the human condition. We strive to live together. Peacefully. But conflict will always exist. So how do we walk the line between working to stop it, and learning to accept it. The museum on everyone who visits has the same effect as the media in the United States on everyone who tunes in, but reversed. The imaginary people of far away lands are now the Americans, and the real boys with values are Vietnamese.

Power.

The US government tells its citizens Asia is full of rectangular spotted tiles that need propping up. Who better to do it than YOU. Fear. You won't be patriotic if you don't. You're a coward. Why won't you stand up for what's right? Just? You don't buy it? well....McCarthy's coming for you. We'll throw you in prison. Your existence will be meaningless. FIGHT!

Power.

You need independence. Stand up for your country. Are YOU wealthy? Why do you oppose our struggle for equality? We offer justice, happiness, a land of plenty. We MUST unite under one [false] identity, oppose the imperialists, oppose greed," become one in our own right. you will be on the wrong side if you don't. You'll die.

Power.

"He was the man behid the strategy, willing, wisely, to sacrifice thousands of troops for strategic moves."

POWER

So millions died. The USA mourns 58,000 of them. Vietnam mourns many more. And the world goes back to spinning endlessly without them all. Nothing truly changed.

But we were using power to fight something. To fight power.

Mao: The cultural revolution.
Stalin and Lenin's gulags.
Oppression: a condition unique to power.

When they overshadowed us, though, it was not Vietnam that worst tortured, maimed, manipulated its enemies and drove its population into the abyss. The Elephant in the room was Cambodia.

Phnom Penh purged back to year zero. The war against education, knowledge, thoughts, imaginations. Against eyeglasses. Against time. Against LOVE.

The faces peer out from the walls with stoic eyes of normalcy. In the next room, their bodies twisted, flooding the bed with the fluids of life. the silent structure in the courtyard tells nothing of the kids who climbed it for gym class, nor of the humanity hung and tortured from its hooks.

The confessions stacked as though Orwell used them to found the Ministry of Love. At S-21 you stand in the reality of 1984.

Yet its all so imperfect. So sloppy. So human. So avoidable. But in trying to avoid it, we created Vietnam, and then we created Angkar. In letting it be, we created Mao, Stalin, Mugabe. We created Rwanda, Congo, Bosnia, Darfour. All it takes for good to flourish is for good men to do nothing....or something.

POWER.

The brothers convinced people that those as educated as they were the enemy. They inspired so much fear among the ranks by imprisoning, threatening, torturing their own that the cycle turned for 4 long years. They implemented terror with subjects who disagreed with the premise as their tools.

Until Vietnam shut it down.

Power will forever exist. people will fall in line behind their leader and enforce his actions. They will not second guess or, if they do, question only in a whisper. They will do so AFTER flying 200 bombing missions for the cause. AFTER killing hundreds and thousands at Choeng Ek. After the torture is over. After they no longer feel at risk.

After their leaders stop making them fear.
After their leaders lose power.

Where shall the individual grant power over himself, then? Government? teachers? Friends? Lovers? Self? To God? To Nature? To Rationality? To emotion? To Conscience? To nothing? To no one?

Only I can answer....

For Brock, wherever I may find him

I jump onto my motorcycle this morning and throw him into second gear as first has stopped working and instead only makes a grinding noise. Then I hammer on the crank starter and actually work up a sweat before the thing fires up.

Now I head out of town, raincoat on as light rain ensues. Not to mention cold. Make excellent time.

At some point, look down to see key gone from ignition.

Weather turns hot and I stop to remove layers. start up again and hopes that first gear has fixed itself are dashed.

Stop for food. Downshift. Something's different. Look down. Shifter knob thing has fallen off. However, it's balanced on the footrest.

Somehow get to Rua Xe to put it back on. Guy asks me first off if I want to wash my moto. Bad sign. Then grabs wrench to fix problem.

Immediately cleans shifter thing, then removes a washer and spring and hands them to me in a cigarrett box. "don't you need those?" "No no no." Hammers shifter way too far onto shaft, ut luckily casing over engine is broken and still allows movement.

Show him problem with first gear. Says no, then yes, the sits down to smoke cigarrette. Good indication that Rua Xe doesn't really mean "mechanic" I leave.

Go to check gear at other place.

Guy props up bike, removes casing to reveal crankshaft and chain. Pokes at them.

Starts engine. Reveals nothing as he hasn't done anything.

Pokes more.

Takes off crankshaft thing.

Cotinues looking at it as Zoolander and his computer.

I zone out completely, taking the time to :
1) Give in to the fact that my small investment is wholly lost at the mental image of me tryig to walk into a shop and, in vietnamese, explain that I want to sell a bike with no key, no first gear, and no registration that uses too much gas for the locals to afford.
2) Pick the heinous reflective decals from my pants.

Zone back in to find nothing accomplished, but work now being done on the inside of the crankshaft thing as they think it's teeth are not grabbing. Obvious to anyone with eyes, this is not the problem. He goes so far as to cut notches out of a washer to place said washer over front of other piece and screw it in place.

Gets on bike and looks at me with satisfaction at having fixed the problem. I get up and show him he's not in first, at which point he puts it in first and the grinding resumes.

Pokes some more and says "First doesn't work. Use 2-4."

Thanks.


Head toward Saigon, and am inundated by cars and trucks. Signs indicate two lanes for these vehicles, and the SHOULDER for motos.

Very slow going, thank god, because otherwise I would die.

Dodge chaotic highway to reach the more absurd chaos of Saigon, where it's perfectly ok to drive the wrong way amidst thousands of motos so long as you honk first.

Fearing for life and limb, but mostly just going at it like I own the place (in second gear), I dodge cars and trucks to hit the sidewalk every once in a while and see that I still don't know where I am.

SOmehow I manage to stumble upon Pham Ngu Lao - complete luck.

Park bike in front of hotel and try to explain that I don't care if they bring it inside, as I'd rather it get stolen. Fail at this explanation.

Move bike to remote place nearby with no hotels on street.

Meet guy at Bia Hoi corner who fought in Vietnam with the Ozzies.

Walk back by bike just out of curiosity to see if it's still there. Nearest hotel has MOVED it to in front of it and the owner somehow recognizes me from a long way coming. Yells at me. Stunned, I yell "No no no. Khong knong khong." And run the other direction scared that he'll follow me.

Next day, woman at my hotel finally figures out what's going on, and inquires as to the price. I tell her just to take the damn thing, but that's no good for her. So, next morning we sneak over to the hotel, where the guys are pissed at me for leaving the thing, so she gives them $3 for the trouble, and gives me my last night in the hotel free - a $3 value.

This is how my short time on a motorcylce in Vietnam came to a close.

9 Mahayanas and a White Boy

I decide to spend some time in Dalat, as it is definitely not the tourist haven (at least not foreign tourists) I thought it would be, and is actually a town with a little character.

I walk around, dodging stupid "easy-riders" offering to drive me on their motorbikes all morning, and instead head off on foot toward Dalat University. This place is an interesting example of how the Vietnamese government works - originally a catholic institution, the government shut it down after 1975, then slapped a big Vietnamese star over the cross above the school and reopened it. Don't tell them that in their quest to erase God, they left a ton of crosses in the design just below the big one.

From here I spot the 24 meter high Buddha across the way, and utter out load to myself "holy crap what the hell is that." So naturally, I head across by the most direct route possible. Down a hill, through a fence, up a hill, down into farmland, through the mud, through some backyards, and up to the temple. I could have just taken the road, I found out later.

Here, I ask a monk if he can show me something about meditation. He says he doesn't know enough, and instead gives me a feast for lunch. Just me. He just sits and watches while drinking tea.

I spend the afternoon here, discussing the different traditions of Buddhism (he wants to follow the Tibetan Tradition, but can't here in Vietnam. Moreover, in order to find empowerment he says he wants to go to Nepal, Tibet, or the United States of America. I fly around the world to see what the East is all about, and he tells me to go back home and find out. THIS is the part of America everyone loves.)

Then I have a conversation with another monk about the non-substantiality of reality and meditation as a means to realize that truth and the Buddha live only within yourself. This is the difference that I'd been looking for to differentiate it from Christianity. Til now, I'd only seen similarities.

Somehow, I've now passed 3 hours here, and join 9 monks at a table for an incredible dinner - apparently monks here don't fast after 12 noon as in Laos.

Then today I drove around a bit on Billy boy, and luckily first gear stopped working, so that should make it really easy to sell in Ho Chi Minh City tomorrow, provided I make it that far.

More Squid Jerky

After riding through the rain, I get to Buon Ma Thuot just before dark, and am completely, wholeheartedly disappointed with the central highlands at this point. They're really, really lame. No mountains at all, and not much to do. Somehow I got it into my head that Buon Ma Thuot would be cool.

The only thing it has going for it is its history - when it fell to the North Vietnamese, it supposedly triggered the collapse of the rest of South Vietnam.

So I walk down the street and as occasionally happens a guy sitting at a food stand gets my attention and invites me over, immediately pouring me a shot of rice wine. Not really wine. Closer to whisky in potency, I think. So I end up sitting here for probably over an hour, and for the second night in a row eat dried squid jerky with a complete stranger who talked to me because I was a foreigner. The important part: all told I drank probably a liter of the booze on my own.

I get up this morining just in time to still see the morning, and decide to head out on the moto ride to the next town, because this one's bunk, and in my hangover I'm not going to get anything accomplished anyway - especially being that I almost got hit by about every single moving thing around on my way to the market to buy pants on account of I was still sort of drunk.

I head out around 1:00 on a trip that's said (by the hotel guy) to take 4 hours. I decide to do this trip so late because though overcast, the weather is slightly better than in previous days, when I'd been riding in rain for at least some of the ride. About an hour into it, DOWNPOUR. On the bike it feels like bullets hitting me. At least I have my sierra designs raincoat - except that my sierra designs raincoat hasn't kept water out since the day I bought it, 5 years ago, and for some reason I have still carried it around all these years. The other day I actually passed up the opportunity to buy coat and pants that work for $10 for some reason.

So I'm absolutely soaked, FREEZING, riding in the goddamn rain about 150 kilometers from where I'm trying to go. So I decide to stop at the next hotel I see. The next hotel I see is 150 km down the road.

By the time I get to Dalat, it's dark and I'm frigid, but I still have to run around to find a cheap hotel, which takes forever, and then I immediately strip down for my much anticipated shower only to jump in and find that it's cold. I had to wait for the heater thingy to heat up, so I assumed the fetal position under the down comforter in my cheap ass room while listening to the outright screaming of every single member of the zillion person family staying two floors down. Incredible.

Then I went to dinner and choked on a pepper and suffered and coughed while it burned my throat.

Hung

The Scene:

Mike in a bar with two complete strangers repeating the same sentences over and over again as slowly as possible without a hint of understanding in Mike's eyes while they all drink beer and eat dried squid jerky.

The leadup:

Day one of motorcycle ownership I did indeed head to the My Son ruins, which reminded me that I was pretty utterly bored when dragged to ruins in the Yucatan when I was younger. They're just really old buildings, after all. In their defense, they are somewhat more interesting now that I've "matured" a bit, but not much.

Hung out some more in Hoi An, and decided I really do like the city, despite it's obsession with shopping, tailors, and the overwhelming abundance of foreigners.

Next day, decided to head out on Leg 1 of the trip to Saigon. Therein, I decide to head off of the tourist path and into the central highlands. After all, this is why I bought the bike. The drive is fantastic, but when I arrive at the town of Kon Tum, the most interesting thing around are the Rung houses, which are really just straw houses with tall roofs. So that gets old after about four seconds.

Moreover, the "sleepy mountain town" that the book describes is nowhere to be found. This town is neither sleepy nor mountainous. It's a mountain town only inasmuch as Denver is a mountain town.

Fairly disappointed with my locale, I head to the bland market area that looks like every other market area in the third world and grap some grub (which is fantastic). Man sits down, talks a bit. Completely fascinated with me and what the hell I'm doing in his town. Without much conversation, he gives me a shot of rice booze (which I found out is xeo, with the x pronounced as a mix between r and z here in the south) and invites me back to his house. So I go there - clear across town - on the back of his bicycle. There, I meet his family - wife and three kids.

He (Hung) immediately changes into nice clothes, no doubt on my account. And proceeds to talk to me in very slow sentences. If I were an exchange student, this man would be my ideal host father, I'm telling you.

Then Hung insists that I sleep at his house, and shows me the bed that I can share with his son, while he'll share the other bed with wife and other two children. I consider how absolutely sketchy this whole deal is, but decide that maybe it's a good idea to stay anyway. Except that I need to tell the hotel people that I'm not coming back - otherwise they'll probably freak out that I'm dead while they stay up all night to keep the front door open for me.

Don't have the phone number, so we grab the neighbor, who apparently has two motorbikes (and a much more furnished, nicer house) and head out to the hotel. When the guys won't come to the front with me, but rather sit a few meters to the side out of view of the clerk, I do decide this is too sketchy and tell them maybe I'd ought to stay at the hotel after all.

Okay, they say. Fine. But let's go get a drink first. Somehow this proposition seems less risky to me, which it obviously is not, so I hop on the back of the motorbike again, and we go to the bar.

See above scene. The second guy even bought the beer and jerky. (and while we're on the subject, squid jerky is actually much, much better than you'd think).

So next day I wander Kon Tum in the morning and see all it has to offer in about an hour. Now it's time to go find Hung's house, because he said he'd bring my raincoat back to the hotel at 7:30, and I didn't see him there nor did the hotel have it. I plan on finding his house, running in and leaving town as quickly as possible. Somehow I manage to get back to the house after randomly running into his wife in the street.

He's not there, but sure enough shows up in 5 minutes with my jacket on his bike. Again we sit and talk - slowly.

Then he shows me pictures of his wedding, and all of the 13 kids in the room look over my shoulder as I flip through them. I give him a picture of me, and he gives me one of him - at which point my suspicions are confirmed that he can't read or write as he has one of the kids write his name on the back.

On to the neighbor's house, where a third guy enters. This is the only guy who brings up money the whole time - an issue I was very afraid would come up. But even now, he says I should help Hung, because Hung doesn't have any money - he doesn't ask for it himself. And I say I don't have any either and we laugh and it's overwith.

Then back to Hung's house, where we have rice and dried fish stuff for lunch, and where Hung tells me the other guys have a lot more money than him.

And I'm off - to Buon Ma Thuot on Bill, as I've named the bike. (I tried to give it an Asian name, or something with some significance, but Bill just wouldn't leave. So Bill it is.)

Dead Guy and a Sketchy Deal

Bus to night train to Hanoi to tour office. Ben tries to buy plane ticket. The day is booked, so he buys one for the next day (August 8) and then we head off to see how we can spend his unexpected bonus day in the North Vietnamese Capital. Off to see Ho Chi Minh's body, of course.

As we pulled up on the motorcycle (three of us including a driver), we see the line from blocks away. There's literally no end in sight in either direction. This thing wraps around city blocks for hundreds of yards. I won't tell you my guess on just how long it actually was, because I have no idea. I never saw the end of it.

So as we marvel at the spectacle, a suspicious looking tout (they're all suspicious looking) rolls on up and offers us "the short line" - okay, we think, do we really want to bribe the police/security to allow us, two know-nothing travelers, to jump to the front of the line, and to thus take precedence over the thousands of people waiting here full of hope and faith? Apparently, we do. So we shovel out three dollars and are pawned off to another "guide" who walks us several hundred yards forward along the line, around a few corners, then winks at a guard and lets us through the back gate where there is indeed a "short line." Full of tourists in tour vans.

We take our place in the line with all the other lemmings, and still manage to wait for maybe 45 minutes to get into the masoleum. Before we got within 100 yards of it, we passed our bags through x-ray machines, ben had to get rid of his water bottle, we went through metal detectors, and we checked our cameras. As we arrive at the entrance, two armed guards stand gazing at us, and more stroll around looking for suspicious people. Apparently, we're suspicious people, as between the entrance and the body I'm searched twice, Ben once. Which is better than the guy in front of us who went through the "open your bag" fiasco three times.

Finally, you arrive at the room. THE room, that is. The one where Uncle Ho himself lays perfectly preserved in a cool environment. Lights shine only on his hands and head as he lay in the glass enclosure, with a guard at each corner in the moat-like pit around him. Behind him, on the wall, are two huge red stripes - one with the hammer and cicle, and one with the vietnamese star. The walkway makes a horseshoe around this spectacle.

As you are forcefully pushed through by the several guards lining the path, your jaw is on the floor as you taste the grime left there by the shoes before yours. Everyone has this experience, apparently, as the scene is overcome by a silence that would leave a deaf man in awe. Of course, you're not fully aware of just how quiet it all suddenly became until you are thrust back out into the hot, humid, bustling air that envelops Hanoi.

The whole viewing takes maybe a minute. I can't imagine how long the last person in that line waited to see him. Just to remind those of you who slept through history class (or the 1960's), this is all for the communist revolutionary who told the French to keep their hairy armpits to themselves, and the Americans to go eat Big Macs and leave Indochina alone. This is the man who is on every single Dong bill here. On billboards throughout the country. In the form of statues across the nation. I can't even tell you what the current president's name is, but by now I could probably draw a portrait of Ho "The Enlightened One" from scratch.

This is the cult of personality all those crazy professors were blabbing about. This is a man who convinced a nation that he, and he alone, knew the enlightened secular path toward liberation. And they still believe it.




After the spectacle, we headed to Unkie Ho's house on stilts and took in all the other propaganda we could in the Museum of his name. Then headed to town to get some errands done solo. We met back up (Ben and I) to have some Bia Hoi in the street in the evening, and met a few ex-pats who had very interesting things to say about their time here. It served as a great reminder that not all travelers are to be avoided - and instead that speaking to them can incorporate their experiences into yours. Have I spent a year here? Did I witness the US elections on the very same Bia Hoi corner, where women were crying and people were drinking their sorrows away at the condemnation to 4 more years of the millionaire oil man? No. But they did. And I had the chance to see a little bit of the scene through their eyes.

Had a fantastic eel dinner on the street with Ben. Then, after recovering Ben's camera and passport from where he left them, mindlessly, on the street, had another beer and headed to sleep.

I awoke at 5:30 to go to the bus station, and left Ben with a simple "It's been amazing." "Yup. Maybe I'll see you in Africa." And so the next phase of my trip began. The solo phase.

And it did get off to an amazing start. At the bus station, I was immediately, as expected, surrounded by 9 or so people trying to sell me a bus ticket. --- Just one ticket, that is. For the same bus. Apparently it takes 9 of them. So after getting them to shove their 350,000 Dong price where they knew it belonged, we settled on 100,000 Dong, which I think is much closer to accurate.

I had an hour or so to kill now, so I had some bad soup and coffee, and played the spectacle a bit. Having all the conversations that people gravitate toward me to have - just because I'm white and novel.

Sat next to a very nice guy on the bus, and we talked a lot about whatever we could (not much). I was the only white kid on the bus (and actually the only tourist I saw the entire day other than Ben.) and everyone took an interest in me at some level - whether by staring, yelling from several seats away, grabbing my arms to feel me (it's very odd here - men will even feel your chest and rub your leg hair, just to see what the deal is. In the US you'd get smacked to oblivion for such acts), or starting up a conversation. At lunch, I had a good time. On the bus, I had a good time. At dinner, I had a good time (apparently Pho is only a breakfast food - so when I had it for dinner I got some very strange looks).

Then the crap came flying through the oscillator. Despite the fact that the driver, both of his assistants, the guy sitting next to me, the guys behind me, and a few guys up toward the front all knew that I was to disembark at Hue, none of them seemed to either 1) See fit to tell me we were passing Hue or 2) know where Hue was. The guy next to me, who even had a countdown going to when Hue would arrive, kept saying "no no no. Not yet."

Okay, there's a sign. Clearly says "Hue 10 Km" but it seems to be pointing left. Should I get off. No no no, not yet.

We're in Quay something-or-other, isn't that past Hue? No no no, not yet.....oh, wait. yeah. You missed it.

Well shit.

So I try to get the driver to let me off in some podunk town just because I saw a guest house sign, but he refuses and instead pulls through the toll booth up ahead, and into the longest tunnel in the history of all tunnels ever constructed in the Milky Way Galaxy. Maybe the entire universe, but I haven't seen it all, so I don't know. I mean, this thing is MILES long. If the eisenhower was a fallic symbol, then whoever built this thing must have been castigated.

Finally we get to Danang, maybe an hour or so, maybe a little less, after my request for the guest house. And the place is simply huge. I remember now, Danang is the 4th largest city in Vietnam.

So the motorbike driver says "hotel okay 4 dollars" and I say "4 dollars for Bed, not for bike, right" and he says "yes." I even go through the motions for him. Hands to the cheek, sleep 4$ khong hands to the motor bike handles. Right? Right. Wrong.

So I get ripped off on the motorbike, which takes me to the room which is 8 dollars, then to the next room which is 6 dollars after a hassle - at 2 in the morning. And this place is a gem - cockroaches, a bloodstain on one of the bed sheets, a creaky fan, a rusty pipe to serve as a shower head. A gem...

So I sleep, then decide my plan to go back to Hue is too much to handle today, so I head to the first motorbike driver before even eating, and head to Hoi An 30 km away, where I end up paying the same price anyway, and proceed to be pissed off because everyone in the street is bugging me to buy their stupid book or their stupid postcards or water or a coke or ice cream or what the crap ever I don't want it. Shut up shut up shut up.

But it's amazing what a little kindness from a stranger can do. I walked into the bookshop, and found a woman who genuinely wanted to talk to me, and my thrusters fired up a bit.

Then down the street where I was invited into a home and had a photo album taken from a child and thrust in my hands - "my father died two months ago" she says, with only genuine generosity in her voice. And I look at the pictures of the funeral, while she tries to answer any questions as much as she can. We have a great time, talk for a while, and then I bid my adeu. Not before she invites me to come by her store tonight to talk for a bit. So I'll head there after this (I'm already late). So now I'm set for liftoff.

And then a street vendor who, for a change, isn't really intersted in selling me anything, somehow gets my attention and I sit next to him. He has a genuine peg leg as he lost the real one in the war. I think he fought for the south, but he also said he likes the government here, and all my questions of "For south?" "With Saigon?" "For North?" "Against Saigon?" Were answered with "Yes." But I think he fought for the south.

Now, after this conversation, I'm airborne again.

It is at this point that another guy sits down next to me just to practice his English, then gets up and leaves. Then another guy. To this guy, I mention a purchase that I may be interested in making and ask if he knows anywhere to go. He says he has one sitting not 30 feet away. We go look at it. Good enough for me.

So off to the bank, then to get a beer (on him) with both him and the first guy who sat down as they happen to be friends, and talk of how the first guy can get an American girlfriend. I just told him no one can understand women anywhere on the planet and I have no idea. So after a while I decide these guys are either really genuinely good guys, or they are really good con artists. I'm willing to take the gamble.

So that, my friends, is how I became the owner of a motorcycle. Seems to run fine to me, but who knows what will happen down the road? At least for the time being, it seems I bought my freedom from the slow, crappy busses that don't stop in Hue or anywhere else that catches my eye on the way from the main highway. Tomorrow I begin my journey with a solo trip to My San - ancient ruins nearby. No friggin' guide or rental motorbike necessary...

And don't worry, Mom, I'm buying a helmet tomorrow.

[PS For all you readers who thought what I know you thought when you began to read about the above purchase, I think maybe it's YOU who are on crack, weed, or whatever else. But that does bring me to one final interesting point with which I will leave you. I was flipping through my phrase book earlier and noticed that there is a section on "drugs" The phrases include

-I'm stoned.
-I'm out of it
-This is for personal use.
-I take cocaine occasionally.
-I'm a heroin addict.
-Where can I find clean syringes?
-Do you sell syringes?

So despite the fact that it doesn't have the word "for", at least I can avoid getting aids while I overdose on Heroin.

My in Sa Pa

Two quick additions to the motocycle diary:

1) H'mong culture: Ben and I both managed to pick up H'mong people and drive them around on our motorcycles. Very cool. Also Ben got a flat tire and spent his time waiting for me in a H'mong household with tons of people, letting them play with his walkman, etc. Then he went on my bike to town, while I stayed with the two guys that didn't go back to work immediately, and they smoked the bamboo tobacco bong, we drank a bit of rice booze (gio, maybe?), and played the flutes one of them had just made.

2) I think the word "Infection" stems from a greek mythological figure. Poseidon. Infection. It just fits. This particular God has taken quite an affinity to me (or maybe he's pissed at me. Maybe it's Zeus utilizing his right hand man, Infection, to strike me down for some unintentional way in which I've really peeved the whole of Olympus.) Last month, infection struck in Jackson sans injury. Very odd. The irony, of course, is that had I not gotten that infection, I would not have visited the doc, and thus would not have gotten the extra prescription of antibiotics that my father advised me to carry. Thus, had I not gotten the first infection, I would now be stuck watching red lines sneak up my leg AND arm (yes, my nemesis threw them both at me this time) as I injested, probably futilly, the penicilin and the other mystery drug the phramacy gave me here. As is, however, I've learned two lessons. First, I always get infections. It's obviously my calling in life - I am a host. Second, listen to your father. He knows best.

So we did meet at the arranged location at 8:00 with the mystery man (actually a hotel employee down the street) to make the swap - One travelers check for much less than its true value in Dong. But we got it done, paid our moto providers (who were just two guys who happened to own motos), and they immediately laughed at us again and one of their wives handed me her baby. Yup, their reaction to crazy people from My (The word for america here is My, pronounced Me-e depending on who you talk to. Also, written with a squiggley thing over the y.) who had just crashed their motorcycles, come back a day after they said they would, and then didn't have any money was to hand them their child and say "Vietnam number one." Very cool. (I also managed to tell them that we wanted to be friends, which I think helped.)

Then we headed out to Sa Pa, and had an absolutely fantastic time on the bus speaking with the bus guy in Vietnamese and actually managing to converse. We laughed a lot, and the woman next to me who was getting carsick even slept on my shoulder. This is all due to the language skills we've acquired - I swear, people who don't even try to learn it just shouldn't be traveling. It's not that hard, really, to learn enough to 1) get by 2) get respect and 3) be able to more fully interact. --- not to toot my own horn (obviously a lie, get ready for blatant self-praise/narcissism) I was called both "brilliant" and "intelligent" yesterday due to my language skills. Makes you feel all warm inside.

We found that Sa Pa is indeed flooded with many more white people, and otherwise very similar to the places we have already been. We made a good choice in heading East instead.

W hiked a bit in the afternoon through the highway of whities, dodging cries to buy everything in sight [today two Dao girls (pronounced Zao) were trying to sell us these thumb instrument things for probably 5 minutes in the rain, so I tried to sell them my piece of paper - read: trash - everyone involved had a great time with it], and broke away into a jungle trail. Then back to the hotel, had some dinner at the market - delicious - met an israeli girl and a german girl, both traveling alone, and then on to the hotel for tea (they drink tea at every turn here - and it's sort of served up mate style, for you Argentinians out there, except poured out of the pot to a little cup, rather than drunk through a straw). Here we met a girl, Hanh (with a dot under the a. Pronounced Hai) who spoke perfect english and is studying to be a Korean Interpreter. Very interesting conversation - the first, really, about the war, politics, etc. albeit brief on each subject.

Then next door, where I met Huong (all sorts of crazy squigglies in that one) who spoke just enough english that combined with my Vietnamese we hung out for probably two hours talking and laughing. Smoked a little Tobacco Bong with her brother (?) and just felt really welcome overall, as though we'd actually made genuine Vietnamese friends, finally.

An absolutely fantastic day due solely to the people we met. Such is life, no?

Today the plans for trekking were foiled by the downpour (and the lack of sleep last night due to the screaming pig outside), so we've now had two breakfasts, a couple coffees, and a few hours of internet. Only 5 more hours to kill before the bus....

Summer Camp/History Class: Revised

If the moon had plants on it, the very north of Vietnam is what it would look like. A view of mountainous hills covered in black rock that looks as though volcanoes just bubbled them up, and they've been there since the beginning of time. Mix in a few limestone cliffs, some of the steepest mountains I've ever driven on (the switchbacks hit 12% grade - the slope itself was obviously much, much more than that), sporadic hmong villages completely (almost) isolated from the rest of the world, and BLAM, you've got yourself a road trip that makes route 66 cower.

About those Hmong villages living their traditional lifestyles: First, remember camp as a kid, when the counselors always made you saw a log with that stupid two-man saw from the pioneer days. Yeah? Well, the Hmong still do it that way, apparently, as I saw some on the side of the road today with the full on setup - kettle of tea nearby and all. So next time you run into one, and someone tells you its a relic, tell them no, it's Asian.

Also, they have mini "subsistence" quarries in additon to their farms, where they dig up rocks and build absolutely stunning walls to fence their houses, to hold up trails on the mountainsides, to provide support for their paddies.... The sheer amount of labor that goes into putting all those things up would blow even the brightest mind. And they're not cemented together - just stacked - and yet somehow hold up trails that atlas himself would shrug off and walk away from. (It should be noted, of course, that they do make concrete on their own in the quarries as well, but it's not widely used.) So while you're down here showing the saw guy how the world really is, bring along your ancient civilizations teacher who's absolutely dumbfounded at how the pyramids were constructed and how the maya possibly had the know-how to make perfectly fitting joints for their structures, and fly him down here to show him just how much use one can get from rocks given the time.

Also on this trip we finally got a glipse of what this communism thing is all about. Loudspeakers in town blasting "radio vietnam," vietnamese flags carpeting the sky in every village - you'd think Ho Chi Minh had come back from the dead and the people were ready for him to visit every village in the country - propaganda on big red signs on light posts, and a conversation with two americans working for the english newspaper who described the censorship - they would even get newspapers from China, through the Vietnamese government, with passages blacked out in marker.

Also, we experienced bureaucracy at its best - though Ben and I disagree on just how communist this particular point is, as I think in the good ol' US of A there can be just as much "bureaucratic bullshit." (Seriously, the guidebook plainly states that "bureaucratic bullshit" keeps most people away from the north.) When we awoke in Ha Gieng all set for the journey north at 6 am sharp, we quickly were shunned at the police station, then run around by various parties until about 10 am when we finally got the privilege of paying for a guide and more for a travel permit that we were told it would be. And, we got to deal with having a guide the whole time - which wasn't terrible, but wholly unnecessary. It was like burning money and robbing him of two days of his life all at once. Sometimes you just want to hit the one bird with the stone.

Let me here reiterate - despite the crap, this road trip was cooler than Miles Davis on ice. (you dig it. Admit it, you dig it.) Among the greatest things anyone on this planet has ever done. Period. Climb Everest Blind, you say? Pbbbbtttt.....

Back to Ba Ca today, and we don't have enough money to pay for the bikes because we're idiots. Plus we have to pay more because we both crashed them (the owners just laughed at us for this, as well as the fact that we were supposed to be back yesterday, and shrugged it off after charging us a total of $12 for the damages they have no intention of fixing - they're all cosmetic.) And there is not an ATM within 2 hours of here. And no one takes travelers checks, as everyone seems skeptical that they're worth anything. Being that there's no bank in town, I'm not surprised.

So I wandered the town looking for travelers willing to loan out some funds, but found none. That is, I didn't find any travelers. Not one. The restaurant where they always hang out looks like the Sahara.

So we've got one more option tomorrow to meet a guy at 8:00 - sounds like a drug deal - and the bus leaves at 8:30.

The adventure continues.

Witte would be proud....

All the tourists go to Sapa, so we went to Ba Ca. Ben's train arrived 3 hours before mine, which I thought was hysterical and he thought was annoying. He almost left, apparently, because he had no idea what was going on (they were supposed to be 30 minutes apart. And they're trains, for chirst's sake, it's not like they can run into traffic. AND they were on the SAME tracks.)

On the first day in Ba Ca we counted 7 other whities in town, and I reveled in the opportunity to walk around solo, talking with those who would deal with my 2 year old language skills. So I passed the phrase book back and forth with a few random people, learning their names, ages, and all the other crap you don't really care about, but which is really a pain in the ass to get out of people with the barrier anyway, and just took in what the quiet town had to offer.

The next day we woke up and it was friday. Except that the dutch couple at breakfast informed us that it was not friday, it was saturday and we should go to the market nearby. So we rented a motorbike for $7 and probably did 5 times that much in damage to it between not knowing how to shift properly and just overall sucking at riding a motorcycle on muddy, rocky roads.

Nevertheless, we did get to see the market, and had the opportunity to buy a cow, a dog, or a horse from the flower Hmong therein.

Then yesterday was the market in Ba Ca and the whole western world showed up to take pictures of the spectacle. So while not dodging pleas to buy chunks of raw meat, chicken heads, as well as the standard textiles, we spent our time, well, napping mostly due to the massive quantity of local booze (33 cents for 1/2 liter, so you KNOW it's good) consumed the night before whilst trying to figure out the rules to a local card game. (As evidenced last night, we did not learn all them properly.)

Maybe because of the hangover, we thought it a good idea to rent motorbikes for three days and head out on a massive road trip north near the border with China today.
Just to make sure that the whole world knew that we had done as well with learning how to ride motorcycles as we had with the cards, I decided to crash my bike about 3 minutes into the ride - right where the pavement turned to dirt, thank god. The bad news is that I bent the footrest and got some minor abrasions. The good news is that in each of the abrasions there are long gouges, though not very deep, that look like some sort of animal attacked me. So at least I look cool.

Plus, it has given every single person we've talked to since something to point and laugh at.

The rest of the ride went flawlessly, and we saw some absolutely spectacular mountains with waterfalls tumbling over every rock available. In many spots, portions of the road had followed suit, falling down over the terraced rice paddies into the abyss below, and providing nice obstacles to avoid. Also, the further away from tourist land, the more interesting the local tribes become. Shame we can't speak with them.

Finally, when we arrived in Ha Gieng we stopped at the first hotel in sight. Here, the receptionist proceeded to barter with himself over the price while we stood silent, and then washed our bikes for us and immediately turned the hose on us to rinse us down. While picturing the scene, you should also include that he was laughing hysterically most of the time, while rambling off dozens of sentences that we clearly didn't understand, but which contained the name "Vietnam" about seven million times. These sentences were also muttered as he ran around hysterically carrying a televison and slippers to our room. I think he has been very, very bored lately as we may be the only travelers in town.

Then we walked to find dinner, and as always wondered if the stares we got walking in were in disgust, contempt, joy, or interest; but encouraged as last night we stopped in Ba Ca for a cup of coffee, and were invited to dinner with the family. Tonight it was again joy and interest, as the first thing that happened was that a local tobacco pipe was shoved in my face, and I was taught how to smoke it. Again, much more amusing when you include that the local tobacco pipe is a big bamboo bong, with tobacco instead of hippie leaves.

Now maybe back to the room to check if the cartoon we were watching is still on. When we left the scenes were alternating between a basketball game of some sort, and genies in their underground lair. If anyone can make a connection, hit us with it, as we are fresh out of ideas.