When you set out on your journey to Ithaca,
pray that the road is long,
full of adventure, full of knowledge.
The Lestrygonians and the Cyclops,
the angry Poseidon—do not fear them:
You will never find such as these on your path
if your thoughts remain lofty, if a fine
emotion touches your spirit and your body.
The Lestrygonians and the Cyclops,
the fierce Poseidon you will never encounter,
if you do not carry them within your soul,
if your heart does not set them up before you.

Pray that the road is long.
That the summer mornings are many, when,
with such pleasure, with such joy
you will enter ports seen for the first time;
stop at Phoenician markets,
and purchase fine merchandise,
mother-of-pearl and coral, amber and ebony,
and sensual perfumes of all kinds,
as many sensual perfumes as you can;
visit many Egyptian cities,
to learn and learn from scholars.

Always keep Ithaca in your mind.
To arrive here is your ultimate goal.
But do not hurry the voyage at all.
It is better to let if last for many years;
and to anchor at the island when you are old,
rich with all you have gained on the way,
not expecting that Ithaca will offer you riches.
Ithaca has given you the beautiful voyage.
Without her you would never have set out on the road.
She has nothing more to give you.

And if you find her poor, Ithaca has not deceived you.
Wise as you have become, with so much experience,
you must already have understood what Ithacas mean.

—Constantine Cavafy (1863-1933)

When Doctor Sanjay Gupta (not that Sanjay Gupta, but apparently a distant relative) paid us a house call in the morning, he suggested we immediately check into the hospital. Which is how I found myself in the intensive care unit, hooked up to an IV drip (for severe dehydration), all sorts of wires and machines (x-rays, EKG, etc.) and surrounded by about twenty nurses who gawked at this crazy foreigner who couldn’t handle India.

The night-shift nurse, in particular, took quite a liking to me and I felt like I was getting a bit more attention than everyone else in the ward. He literally spent the entire night next to my bed, shaking me every once in awhile to ask in broken English if I was sleeping and if I needed anything. For the record, yes, I was sleeping; and no, I’m fine. Just as fine as I was when you checked twenty minutes ago. When Greg came to visit in the morning, this nurse mysteriously disappeared, but promptly returned after visiting hours were over to ask if he could take my picture (hospital gown and all) and to give me his phone number, telling me to contact him if I was ever in Delhi. Despite centuries of colonial rule and contact with the West, foreigners are still a bit of a novelty in some places.

After one day in the ICU, I was feeling much stronger so they moved me to a regular private room where, thankfully, Greg could stay too. But it would be two more days of bad hospital food, comical miscommunication, and a futile search for soap before we could leave. Three days in an Indian hospital.

Ajmer

When we finally broke out of there we had an auto-rickshaw drop us off in the center of Ajmer and then commenced the long and arduous search for a place to sleep. There weren’t many options available, so we finally settled on a cheapie called Hotel Lovely—which was decidedly not. And while we were in no mood to be picky, we were a bit concerned about the basic cleanliness of the place, especially after the following exchange:

Us

“We’ll take the room, but we’d like the sheets changed please.”

Manager

“What’s wrong with the sheets?”

Us

“Oh….well…They’re dirty and have a few holes in them; we’d just feel better with a fresh set if that’s okay.”

Manager

“Fine, but we’ve had the same sheets on the bed for two weeks now and nobody else has complained!”

Ahhhh, India. Okay, so maybe things didn’t happen exactly like this, but it’s a pretty good approximation of our experience with Indian hotels. Our standards have fallen drastically in the fifteen months we’ve spent in Asia.

Not keen on spending a lot of time in the hotel room and badly in need of some decent food, we walked to the bus stand to catch a ride back to Pushkar for dinner. The thirty-minute ride took us back over the glowing hills and into the colorful town, while on the way there we met a family and played games with their two little girls, who had us in stitches with their giggles and toothless grins.

We would meet the family on the ride back when, by coincidence, we ended up on the same bus again. This time the little one had a newly shaved head (a religious practice for Hindus) and the older one was making light work of an ice cream cone. We chatted to the parents in English about our travels until the older girl—about six years old—popped up from her seat, pointed to my forehead where there should have been a bindi and exclaimed in sparkling English “You are not Hindi?!!”

I was so surprised to hear this clever little girl speaking in another language that I nearly fell out of my seat, but I didn’t have time before she jumped down and shimmied her way into the empty spot beside Greg. For the rest of the way, she and Greg chatted happily in English, discussing important topics like cartoons and ice cream flavors and generally ignoring me. This girl was obviously a bit smitten with my husband as she batted her eyelashes and flashed her toothless smile as if to say “That girl you’re with; you don’t need her. Look how cute I am.” But I’m used to this by now; Greg has already charmed the Mickey-Mouse-socks off of kids on two continents.

The next day was no different, either. At one point as we wandered the town of Ajmer, I left Greg with our backpacks for about twenty minutes to visit the local Sufi shrine. When I returned, I found him surrounded by a gaggle of boys, laughing and joking about boy things like cricket and Spiderman. While Greg went to explore the shrine for himself, I made friends with these kids and a few other curious, young onlookers who listened to everything I had to say and then tried to teach me some Hindi words, laughing at my clumsy tongue.

After the weekend we had in the hospital—and the disappointment we felt about not seeing more of Rajasthan—it was so nice to spend time with these kids. Ajmer didn’t have the spectacular sites of Jodhpur or Jaisalmer, but the people we met there were so kind and helpful that we were feeling much better about the world. The kids in particular were bright and inquisitive, and in the end just like kids anywhere else in the world: they don’t see difference as a bad thing, but merely an opportunity to learn, to ask questions, to explore, without letting a little thing like lacking a common language get in the way.

Agra

After two days in Ajmer, we resumed our travels by catching an early train to Agra, home to a big old white building that some guy built for this girl a while ago. I don’t remember what it’s name was, but we heard it might be worth checking out.

Actually, there’s not much one can explain about the Taj Mahal and it doesn’t need much explanation. It is simply magnificent. The world’s greatest building.

Delhi

And then finally, finally, finally we were in Delhi. The last stop—it’s almost unbelievable—on this adventure (and sometimes misadventure) that we’ve been on for fifteen months. Finally. All that was left now was to spend our last days exploring Delhi’s sprawling districts.

We wandered the tree-lined streets of GK-II, ate in an Italian restaurant, and then retreated into the relative quiet of our clean and comfortable guesthouse. Then the next day we lazed around Lodi Gardens, which is a little like Central Park, if Central Park had 15th-century Afghan tombs and bright green parrots everywhere. We grabbed an auto-rickshaw bound for teeming Old Delhi to catch sunset at India’s largest mosque and then ate some of the best chicken we’ve ever had in one of Chadni Chowk’s back-alley restaurants. Then it was time to head back. It took several hours, three different drivers, and a couple of threats (for good measure) to get us all the way from Old Delhi to GK-II.

It was a long journey, but not as long as the next one will be. We are going home.

Just when we thought we’ve seen it all in the airport department, we’re hit with two of the world’s worst on the same flight. Leaving Kathmandu, we passed the ordinary X-ray security procedure—separated by gender of course; “his and hers” metal detectors, if you will—only to find they were manually screening every pocket of every bag for every passenger. Needless to say, this took a long time, but was no biggie for us since our flight was almost two hours delayed anyway. The worst, though, was lining up on the tarmac when our bags were thoroughly checked again before boarding. All this for a measly 30-minute flight.

Varanasi Airport turned out to be even worse. As the passengers from our large A320 jet lined up with their standard H1N1 forms, we were met with the full brunt of the Indian bureaucracy. Too cramped to properly queue, we had no less than five checkpoints to clear (along for a weak excuse for a baggage conveyor and customs inspection) in a space not much larger than my parents’ living room. The new terminal under construction next door is sorely needed, but it looks like they’re using red tape instead of concrete.

Varanasi बनारस

Once we did finally get to Varanasi, there was no denying we had arrived in India. With bicycles cruising all around, cows roaming the streets, and the alternating smells of curry and sewage in the air, we had made it to the country where two ancient religions were born and to the city where its people come to die. Early the next morning, as we were paddled down the holy Ganges river, we saw hundred crowd its banks to pray, bathe, dump garbage, do laundry, and cremate their relatives. If this water was indeed purifying, it could only be in the spiritual sense—your couldn’t pay me to swim there, let alone drink a glass of the stuff.

It was particularly chilling to see bones and larger bits of human remains bobbing in our wake, silhouetted against the sunrise. Before coming here, I imagined something more akin to scattering ashes at sea than the waterlogged human barbecue that left us feeling a little sick. Thank Brahma for that sunrise, then, because only something that beautiful could keep our minds and stomachs at ease. The warm glow slowly bathed the long line of ghats as people crowded their massive front steps for a dip and boatloads of spectators floated by under power of men whose size clearly belies their strength. Drifting along, we found each ghat clearly distinct in its color and style, but all had people who impressed us with the intensity of their devotion. From skinny young children to skinny old men, everyone prayed and bathed with a deep spiritual intensity that made you both remember and forget what lied beneath the surface.

Khajuraho खजुराहो

Escaping the crowds, touts, and chaos of Varanasi was a welcome change in Khajuraho. It’s a small village in population and in size, which allowed us to wander freely amidst its eleventh-century Hindu temples. Here, it’s clear where the Khmers got their inspiration for Angkor. But while they went all out in terms of size, the Indians put into their carved decorations a level of detail that goes way beyond anything else we’ve seen. Although it was a bit odd to see the kamasutra laid out in such explicit relief all over these holy buildings. Somehow, we couldn’t picture the same on a Catholic church.

After an excellent all-you-can-eat thali—Indian cuisine is giving Chinese a run for its money—we befriended a couple schoolboys who showed us around town for a bit in exchange for a little language practice. As far as we’ve traveled, we’re still surprised at the level of English people can pick up just by chit-chatting with tourists, so we were glad to hold up our end of the deal.

Orchha ओरछा

We didn’t want to pony up for a taxi, so we took a public bus North to Orchha and almost missed our stop trying to get our bags out and off, the thing was so crowded with passengers and cargo. We had enough time to take in a couple Mahals and get a bird’s-eye view of a huge temple with a serious avian infestation. It had your standard pigeons, of course, plus an owl of two, but also dozens of bright green parrots and a handful of real, live vultures. The key-keeper was happy to show us around for a few rupees, and to throw rocks to get those big birds to fly. Though he had good posture, he kind of reminded me of the Hunchback of Notre Dame, opening locks and beckoning us ever higher (“C’mon! This way!”) in his own little cathedral.

Jaipur जयपुर and Pushkar पुष्कर

Jaipur may be known as the pink city, but to us it seemed a little more like burnt sienna. Getting there gave us our first glimpse of India’s rail network, and we found it pretty nice in our cushy 3-tier air-conditioned carriage. But given the speed of these trains—more tortoise than hare—and the distance they cover, we couldn’t imagine spending twenty hours or more back on the second-class hard seats. Gratefully, we arrived less than two hours behind schedule, which is pretty good from what we’ve heard.

Unfortunately, our arrival coincided with a minor weather system to our South, which dampened our visit for a couple days, but not before we were about to get out and see a couple palaces, at least. Katie also came to the marvelous realization that anise seeds, coupled with rock sugar, have a taste exactly like her favorite Good ‘N Plenty. And ever since, she’s been unusually excited after meals when they bring out trays of the green stuff and a small spoon which may or may not have ever been washed.

Further into Rajasthan, we paid visit to Pushkar, home to a beautiful and formerly wet lake. Recent years of drought have left the lakebed completely dry, save for the ghats’ holy (hose-fed) ponds. That hasn’t deterred visitors, though, who come to Pushkar seeking a little enlightenment in its temples and lax marijuana laws. For a nominal fee, a brahmin was happy to lead us through the ritual prayers that were supped to give us good luck and fortune in the future.

Given what happened in the next few hours, we want our money back.

Down from the border

But lets go back to the beginning; how did we get here? Our last night in Tibet was spent in Zhangmu, a small border town clinging to the side of a hill (a mountain really, but in comparison…). The town is not so much at the border, as on top of it, looking out over a vast gorge, Tibet on the left and Nepal on the right. For us, it was reminiscent of Sapa and its easy to imagine how the H’mong people we met in Vietnam and Northern Thailand originally called this place home.

In the morning we hopped into our Land Cruiser and descended the final few hundred meters to the Friendship bridge-the official border crossing between China and Nepal. While we handed over the last of our US dollars in cash for our last Visa ( we already had one for India) we said goodbye to Tashi and hello to Raj, who was going to take us to Kathmandu.

From Kodari (in Nepal) it was another four hour drive into the Kathmandu valley. I found myself plastered to the window while we drove up and down green hills with the ghostly white peaks of the HImalayas floating in the distance. In Tibet, it was difficult to comprehend just how big these mountains are; as humbling as it was staring Everest in the face, when you are already 5,000m high an 8,000m mountain hardly looks like a record-breaker. But down here these peaks reveal their true selves: epic, colossal,monstrous, magnificent.

Kathmandu

Upon arriving in Kathmandu, we checked into a lovely hotel in the busy Thamel district and then we were out for the night. This has become a routine for us on the last leg of the trip: check-in and crash. The next morning, perhaps because we slept so much the day before—or maybe because of the 2 hour and 15 minute (?!) time difference with Tibet—we were up bright and early. We ate our breakfast in the hotel’s garden which provided a quiet respite from the chaos already swirling around us. While clogged alleyways, swerving motorcycles, and traffic pollution were largely absent from our lives in Tibet, down in Kathmandu the kamikaze motorists were back with a vengeance. All we could do was hug the closest wall and try to stay out of the way.

Despite the traffic, Kathmandu is a remarkable city. Whatever you might think it is or expect it to be, it’s not that. Instead it reveals itself as a nonsensical potpourri of disparate geographies and time periods: sometimes we imagined it like 1930s New York, and sometimes like Elizabethan England with the brick townhouses and wooden beams. At other times it felt purely Indian: all rose petals and marigold garlands, saffron and turmeric, ritual and chaos. There is a shrine, stupa, or statue to Buddha, Ganesh or Vishnu in every courtyard. Cows wander everywhere like they know they’re holy. Orange clad sadhus—devotees of Shiva—squat in narrow doorways, from which the throbbing rhythms of tabla drift and reverberate someplace between your gut and your heart.

But then there is the cool Himalayan wind that scatters the prayers of Buddhist flags in every direction. And those looming mountains again. And you remember that this is Nepal—like no place else on earth. We may have arrived with no idea what to expect, but when we left Nepal after only a few days it certainly left us with a strong impression.

Chengdu

14237But before arriving in Tibet, we had to stop in Chengdu to pick up the necessary paperwork for our flight. Our day spent there can be pretty much summed up as follows: pandas, pandas, Sofitel, pandas.

Lhasa region

13629The Chinese government requires all foreign travelers in Tibet to be part of a tour group, even if that group has only one member. Ours had three and came with a driver and guide to show us the way (and handle the endless paperwork, required for every place we visited).

Our first several days in Tibet can be best described as a monastery-a-thon that got us up to speed on Tibetan buddhism. The temples here could not be more different from those we saw in Southeast Asia; the only thing they have in common is a reverence for Buddha himself. The Tibetans have taken that concept and applied it to the hundreds of lamas, kings, protector demons, and “other” buddhas to make their chapels incomparable with those elsewhere. Marco Polo—in his 13th-century wisdom—called these people “idolators”, and we can almost see why. Each monastery is adorned with thousands of statues, murals, and paintings to which pilgrims offer alms of money, grain, and especially yak butter in hopes of good fortune. The yak butter candles, mixed with incense, create a unique smell we won’t soon forget.

In many ways, yak butter is is the Tibetan’s all-purpose duct tape; It can be purchased anywhere (and in bulk) at all hours of the day, serving as a source of food, fuel, and spiritual devotion, as well as an industrial building material. Okay, so maybe nobody eats or worships with duct tape, which just means yak butter is even more versatile. Before concrete, the traditional way of leveling and sealing Tibetan floors was (and in some places, still is) a rhythmic dance of pounding sand and gravel flat while singing together with a dozen others. Yak butter is the secret ingredient: they pile on 6 inches of the stuff and let it soak in for the final seal. To this day, rookie monks are hard at work maintaining theses floors, which ironically involves scraping off drips of yak butter left behind by pilgrims, who move quickly from one image to the next with their thermoses of the melted good stuff.

In the chapels, one image notably absent is any of the current, 14th Dalai Lama. In His Holiness’ place on thrones and in shrines is a painting of Compassion Buddha, of whom the Tibetans believe he is a manifestation. We frequently felt grateful and guilty to have seen him speak in person on campus a couple years ago, while these devout people have been waiting 40 years to hear what he has to say. With this prohibition, countless security cameras, and—reportedly—spies dressed as pilgrims, it’s clear the government is still keeping a close watch on the Tibetans. Our guide, though, was willing to discuss politics with us in the safety of our Land Cruiser and shared how several of his friends have been imprisoned for even the appearance of protest.

The Friendship Highway

13857As we broke out of the Lhasa region and into the Himalayas, we had a lot of time on the open road, and were often thankful to be equipped with such a large SUV given the condition of some mountain passes. If there’s one place in the world where such a vehicle is appropriate it is here, and almost every truck we saw was the same make and model. I would wager that Toyota sells more Land Cruisers here than even in America. In Tibet, it seems, you have two choices: Land Cruiser or pony-cart.

Given the altitude, we were expecting a few more snow-capped peaks, but unlike on the Karakoram Highway, here you really do drive over the mountains. At first, altitude sickness was less of a problem than the surprising difficulty of even the simplest physical feats like walking up half a flight of stairs. Climbing onto the roofs of monasteries and up hills on the high mountain passes left us breathless in more ways than one.

Until day 8, when we broke 5000 m (about 16,400 ft), and Sandra—the Swedish third member of our group—succumbed to a nasty bout of altitude sickness. Dizzy, vomiting, and miserable, she had to be taken down to the Nepali border in the dead of night. That morning, she was completely fine and we were all convinced that Acute Mountain Sickness was a psychological problem, but by that afternoon we were pulling over frequently and it was clear Sandra wasn’t going to make it any higher. Our guide and driver rushed her to the nearest hospital (which wasn’t exactly around the corner), and after consulting with doctors and her family in Sweden, they decided to put her on oxygen and get her down as quickly as possible. We waited the next day for news of her condition, agonizing over every stomach grumble or twinge of headache and worrying if we ourselves would be able to continue on to Everest Base Camp the following day.

Everest

14127Any nerves we had about climbing higher were immediately erase when we caught our first glimpse of Qomolangma—the highest point on Earth—early the next morning. Swerving up and over one more mountain pass, suddenly we had five of the world’s tallest peaks staring us in the face, all over 8000 m in height, covered in ice, and glistening in the morning sun. It’s a good thing we had a fresh memory card, because our camera’s shutter button was down almost continuously over the next several hours. At 5200 m, we didn’t think our lungs had any more air to give, but that view honestly took our breath away.

Our driver earned his dues on the “road” leading to the foot of Everest, but we decided to hike the last several kilometers from Rongbuk Monastery up to Base Camp. We didn’t know what to expect when we got there; part of me envisioned it like a ski lodge with hot chocolate and marshmallows, and part of me thought it would be a tourist trap with tons of postcard vendors and souvenir stalls. Both parts were dead wrong. Gasping for air—this high, the air pressure is barely half that of sea level— we discovered that Base Camp wasn’t much of a camp at all; the place was completely deserted, in fact, and dead silent save for the flapping of prayer flags in the wind. In late spring, the area is packed with tents as climbers—and their guides and cooks and doctors and Sherpas and yaks and yak tenders—make ready to mount an expedition. By Halloween, no one was around to appreciate the landscape except the government officers ensuring our papers were in order and checking our sleeves for Tibetan flags. If not for the wind and the cold, we could have stood there all day, gazing in awe of the most fierce place on Earth.

In many ways, everything was downhill from there. As we eased down the Himalayan valleys towards the Nepali border, the ice melted and tress sprung up again. The air got thicker and, reinvigorated, we felt maybe strong enough to run a marathon and definitely ready for our home stretch on the Indian subcontinent.

Yangshuo 阳朔县

12985Having already seen Shanghai and Beijing, this time around we started in the more rural Yangshuo are, which is famous for its natural beauty. The innumerable limestone karsts here have featured prominently in Chinese art for millennia, and we found the foggy landscape along the Li river breathtaking at every turn. Before starting our lazy river cruise we did have one more bus-related incident, although this one was more about saving face than saving skin. Road workers—seeing perfectly well that our bus was passing—decided to dump a huge pile of boulders directly in our path, which led to about 45 minutes of angry Mandarin yelling and most of the passengers choosing to walk the last several kilometers. Finally, reason prevailed and they allowed the bus and lots of backed-up traffic to pass.

Most of our travels find us climbing something, and Yangshuo was no exception. Near our hotel, on of the karsts had formed a natural arch the locals call Yuèliàng Shān (月亮山) or Moon Hill. What’s another 1300 steps between friends? We hadn’t had our fill of cycling yet, either, so the following day we embarked on what would become our second, even more epic inadvertent ride of this trip. Our goal was to head downriver to the small town of Fuli, where Chinese fans are hand-painted the old fashioned way and exported to the world. We did finally make it there, but only after uncountably many wrong turns and bad directions along the way. What’s more, we only had about an hour of daylight left for the ride back (it had taken us nearly seven to get there). With renewed resolve and endurance we didn’t know we had, we made good time over the last 25 kilometers despite only the occasional headlight to guide us towards the end. Once again, the sights en route were worth the pain, as we got a real glimpse into rural Chinese life—a view of this country invisible from Beijing and Shanghai.

Xian 西安

13123Our next stop was the central-Chinese city of Xian, which was once the imperial capital, but is today the thoroughly modern, third-largest metropolis in China. But what brought us here (and thousands more) was the famous army of terracotta warriors, dating back to the third century B.C. and one eternally paranoid First Emperor. The Discovery Channel had taught us that each soldier was unique—down to the tread of their shoes—and on site we learned that the army provides a study of ancient military tactics. This crazy Qin Shi Huang even had terracotta reserve forces on hand for when the front lines went down in the ethereal fracas. Historians were not kind to this guy, so the most grandiose tomb outside Giza went completely unknown until some peasants decided to dig a well in 1974. I’m not sure where archaeology fit in with Mao’s Great Leap Forward…

The city of Xian itself provided a few interesting experiences, including a chance bus ride with a very eager Chinese man who filled us in on his life story and career plans in America. We weren’t sure of his motives at first—traveling has made us cynical—but it was interesting listening to how he chose a second child over his government job and had taken a young American under his wing in exchange for help learning English. Th the last stop, we finally got a word in to say goodbye and wish him luck on his five-point plan for making it in America.

Xian also boasts a vibrant community of muslim Chinese (the Hui), including on of the biggest mosques in China. We had a great time eating our way through the city’s muslim quarter, gorging on all sorts of breads, soups, noodles, pastries, and candies. We had to roll ourselves out of there, but it was cool to see a totally different side of Han China.

Luang Prabang

12333We know we are not the first people to say it, but Laos makes Cambodia look like a fully industrialized nation. While both countries are classified by the UN Development Index as “least developed nations,” Laos is clearly lagging behind with barely a handful of ATMs and not a single fast-food restaurant (as if the number of KFCs is an important indicator of economic progress). We found a more potent example of growth and development in the houses across Southeast Asia. The homes in Cambodia were ramshackle affairs, but most had metal roofs and televisions (powered by car battery), but in Laos we saw very little evidence of the slow rise of modernity outside the cities. Instead we found stilt houses with thatched roofs and not a hint of indoor plumbing or satellite dish.

Even the steady and inevitable encroachment of tourism is happening at a slower pace in Laos (their ancient capital doesn’t yet draw the same crowds as Siem Reap or Phnom Penh), although you wouldn’t know it walking the streets of Luang Prabang. It is a beautiful little town, but we kind of felt like it has turned into a UNESCO Disney version of what it probably once was. Perhaps it was how every house had a fresh coat of paint or how the streets were so clean and the gardens so well tended, we just felt altogether too comfortable there, like we had stepped onto the set of a French Colonial period film. Even the monks’ saffron robes seemed excessively bright and well laundered as they walked barefoot through the town collecting their morning alms.

That isn’t to say we didn’t enjoy Luang Prabang. It really does have some of the most beautiful and interesting architecture we’ve seen: vibrant tile mosaics, brightly painted elephants, golden nagas, and swooping eaves. The town also has one of the highest concentrations of working Wats anywhere in Southeast Asia and the number of monks wandering the streets nearly outnumber the number of tourists and locals.

We only had a few days in Northern Laos—not nearly enough—but we tried to make the best of it and soak in this country that often seems forgotten by the rest of the world. We wandered through Wats and floated down the Mekong. We watched the monks from our hotel balcony as they collected clumps of rice for their only meal early every morning. We pondered the legacy of the French as we ate baguettes and chocolate crepes at sidewalk stalls, and we watched the world drift by as we drank a toast to better luck in Laos. Beer Lao, of course.

Vientiane

12533A few days after our arrival in Laos, a tiny prop plane brought us down to Vientiane, the modern capital, for a quick stopover on our way down South. Vientiane, in contrast to everything else we’ve seen in this country, was a strong testament to the fact that, however slow change comes, no sleepy backwater, no quiet corner of the earth can resist it, not even in Laos. The oldest temple in town, Wat Si Saket, is less than 200 years old, a flash in the pan for a region that embraces the world’s oldest religions.

One side note: until now, we’d never met a city willing to disparage its own [not-quite-historical] landmarks so strongly; but a sign at the Victory Gate (Laos’ Arc de Triomphe) reads “From a closer distance, it appears even less impressive, like a monster of concrete.” Well, fair enough. Everyone’s entitled to their opinion, but we enjoyed the view of the city, and especially liked watching the young monks climb over each other to get a better look. It was a good day.

By nightfall however, we were on a sleeper bus headed for the southern province of Champasak. And when I say, “sleeper bus” I don’t just mean it runs at night. In place of seats, this bus was filled with about 12 sets of bunk beds. Think the night bus in Harry Potter, and the driver kind of drove like Stan Shunpike, too. This trip was to be a test of our nerve after our recent bad luck with buses and lets just say we failed miserably. Sharing a top bunk we could feel every small twist, turn and tiny bump in the road. Tears were shed, prayers were said and after many sleepless hours we finally arrived in Pakse.

Pakse and Champasak

12621We stumbled off the bus, groggy but relieved, and were met with the usual crowd of touts and scammers as well as gray skies and a light drizzle. Our plan had us continuing on to the tiny town of Champasak, even further down the Mekong, and so we began the long and arduous process of haggling for information. The thing with these communist-cum-capitalist countries is that sometimes it is difficult to get directions without the person expecting something in return. Generally, nobody knows which way is north or whether you should turn right or left to get where you are going, but they are always willing to take you there for ten times the fair price. In Asia, there is no such thing as free information. Finally after spending about three hours standing in the rain trying to figure out where we were, where we were going, what time we would get there, and how much it would cost, we gave up.

And its a good thing we did because about 12 hours later, the weakened-but-not-beaten remnants of Typhoon Ketsana made landfall in Da Nang almost directly to our east. A few hours after that it was in southern Laos. We spent the next 36 hours holed up in our hotel room, eating junk food and watching old episodes of The West Wing. Kind of like a vacation from our vacation. I guess we could have done the same thing in Champasak, but at least in Pakse we had air conditioning and CNN.

When there was finally a break in the rain, we were able to do a little sightseeing, taking a songthaew out to see a local tea plantation and walking perilously close to the edge of Tad Yeung waterfall. We did eventually make to Champasak, but we’re glad we only stayed one night at the $3 hotel we found. It was fun, though, to get back on a motorcycle for a ride out to see the pre-Angkor ruins at Wat Phu, although my feet and some giant red spider-ants would have been happier if we’d stuck around town. Ah, the curse of the Khmers strikes again.

For his birthday, Greg decided that all he wanted was a return to semi-civilization so we took off early for Thailand. The border city of UBON Ratchatani greeted us with a warm bed and plenty of 7-11 franchises before our flight into Bangkok.

Bangkok

Back at Christmas, we spent a wonderful week with my family on the beaches of Southern Thailand. This time our itinerary had us visiting two cities in the north: Bangkok and Chiang Mai.

Somehow, we managed to miss Bangkok entirely on our first foray into Siam, but now we were ready to tackle it’s noisy, smoggy, crowded modern streets and maybe see a few palaces and wats for good measure.

12791On our first night there, we decided to take advantage of the mostly-developed world and took a taxi out to Siam Square to catch a movie. Siam Plaza felt much less like being back home than being back in Korea, with it’s multileveled movie theatres, expensive designer stores, and vast gourmet food court in the basement, but we had a good night sitting in a dark theater, watching the latest from Hollywood and sipping on a jumbo-sized diet coke.

And just in case you don’t believe catching a flick in a shopping mall is a cultural experience, consider this: in place of the usual “no cell phones, no talking” PSA before every movie, theaters in Thailand play the King’s anthem while everyone stands in tribute. This of course comes after all the previews for Thai horror movies and gory action flicks, and while our initial impulse was to scoff, it was actually a very moving piece. Images of smiling Thais harvesting rice, teaching children, tending to the sick, or carrying sandbags to the beaches of the Andaman flashed across the screen while a children’s choir sang the official hymn “We Love the King”. Propaganda perhaps, but beautifully executed, terribly effective propaganda.

The next day we did the grand tour of Bangkok’s major sites. First up was the impressive Wat Phraew Kaew with its emerald Buddha (stolen from the eponymous temple in Vientiane), and miniature scale Angkor Wat. Looking like someone dumped a gargantuan bag of sequins all over its walls, it was definitely one of the most colorful temples we’ve seen and while it shares similarities with other temples in Laos and Cambodia we appreciate the subtle stylistic differences between Wats across southeast Asia.

Next, we made our way through the Royal Palace, humming songs from “The King and I” and then ran down the road to Wat Pho to see the giant reclining Buddha. We’ve seen some big Buddhas before, but this one beats them all.

Heading for the water, we decided to take one of the river taxis to our next destination. We ended up getting off at the wrong stop, but everything turned out alright. We wandered through an amulet market where local taxi drivers buy good-luck charms to display in their windows and picked out one for ourselves (we need all the help we can get). Then we grabbed some food from a local stall (noodles with pork and a waffle sandwich) before making a beeline for the hotel pool.

Having had our fill of Wats and palaces, our second day in Bangkok was all about the modern city. Our first visit was to Jim Thompson’s house. To be honest, neither of us had any idea who Jim Thompson was before coming to Bangkok, but after learning of his interesting and tragic life, we were intrigued. Also, his traditional Thai house has one of the best collections of Thai art in the city.

After taking the official tour, we walked around the peaceful gardens for a bit, pondering what this place must have been like in the 1960s. Today, the urban jungle engulfs the little house in noise and smog, but forty years ago there was only forest and slow moving canals. It must have been a wonderful place.

The rest of our day was spent wandering rather aimlessly around the city. We visited a college campus and watched the uniformed students go to and from class. We rode the skytrain for an hour without any destination in mind. We ate ice cream and kebabs from whatever food stall we found along the way. We kept our eyes down and our pace brisk through the night market in the red light district and then walked down the famous (or infamous) Khao San Road on our way home. In the morning we had a plane to catch.

Chiang Mai

12897Almost unbelievable, we had made it to our last destination in Southeast Asia: Chiang Mai. After this there would be no more lazy river boat trips, no more colorful wats, no more nagas, no more coconut curries, fresh squeezed lemon juice, banana pancakes, juicy mangoes, tuk-tuks or motorbikes. We were particularly sad about this last fact, as the motorbike had become our preferred mode of transportation in Southeast Asia (it just felt safer than a bus). So after taking yet another day off to nurse a head cold, we jumped back on the bike and headed for the hills.

Of of the things left on our Southeast Asia to-do list was to swim beneath a waterfall; check. After that, we headed deeper into the jungle where the road quickly became narrow, uneven and unpaved. It was quite a test for Greg’s new motorcycle skills, but he did wonderfully until it started raining and the drive suddenly became a slow and messy mud fight. To get out of the rain, we stopped at a local coffee plantation for a quick pick me up and an even better view. It was absolutely stunning, perched on the hill side overlooking swaths of green jungle and rows of coffee plants.

The drive was worth it, though, because when the rain let up and we finally made it to the out-of-the-way Hmong village at the end of the road, it seemed like we were the only foreign visitors they had seen in weeks.

And with that, our six weeks in Southeast Asia were over and we were on our way back to the Middle Kingdom. But we did have one last bit of bad kharma before taking off: we missed our flight! Au revoir, Indochine!

Hoi An

11185Stepping onto the tarmac in Da Nang, we we greeted by a light drizzle and the smallest airport we have ever seen. Over time, the drops got bigger and heavier, turning from benign mist into torrential downpour by the afternoon. So with no faith in the weather, we sought out indoor activities by signing up for a cooking class and spending some time hunkered down in our creaky, leaky attic room in a traditional Chinese guesthouse.

To our surprise, we awoke the next morning to bright sunshine and blue skies. Walking down to the river, we were shocked to see just how much it had rained the day before. The river was overflowing onto the streets as shopkeepers and restaurant owners frantically bailed the water out of their businesses. We’ve never seen anything quite like it, but it is the rainy season after all.

Vietnamese cooking class was fun. Since we were the only two people who had signed up for the course that day, we got a lot of hands on help from the chefs—which was great because had no idea what we were doing. First, they took us on a tour of the local market to buy what we needed for our dishes and to learn a few things about fresh produce. We picked up a few good tips on what to look for when picking lemongrass (slightly pink on bottom), avocados (listen for the pit), fish (check the eyes), and limes (lighter and harder beat greener and softer). Also, we discovered it’s best to pass on the saltwater lemonade.

After purchasing what we needed from the market we went back to the restaurant where they had everything laid out for us. From the menu, we had decided on four dishes:

• baked stuffed tomatoes, featuring a puree of pork, shrimp, mushrooms, Vietnamese herbs and spices
• grilled chicken with saffron and lemon leaf
• spicy grilled pork with lemongrass
• rice pasta rolls filled with crunchy fresh vegetables

By far my favorite dish was the rice pasta; it was delicious and the most fun to make. We barely made the cut when slicing the veggies, but did a little better making the rice pasta (which is like thin rice paper, but still moist). The idea is to ladle a dollop of milky rice flour mix onto a piece of fabric pulled taut over a steaming cauldron, cover for a few moments while it solidifies thinner than paper, then carefully peel it off and roll it up with veggies. It takes a lot of patience and a great deal of finesse to get just right—and experts we are not—but the results turned out pretty nice.

The last part of our cooking class involved sitting down to eat our hard work while everyone else cleaned up after us. But we didn’t just get a good meal and an education, they sent us home with a certificate and a goody bag full of spices and rice paper so that we can do it all again at home. Whether we will be able to replicate the results is another question.

With the sun still shining and the water back at a normal level, we decided to take advantage of the weather and hit the beach, where we spent a few hours with our toes in the white sand against a backdrop of swaying palm trees. It was beautiful, right up until the storm clouds rolled back in and we were left to scramble for cover—riding our motorbikes through the rain back into town hoping not to wipeout on the way.

The next morning we wandered around Hoi An before catching a taxi to the airport. It was a lovely city, but we were ready for drier climes.

Saigon

11085Ho Chi Minh City—née Saigon—is doomed to an eternity of comparisons with Hanoi. For us, Saigon was just as noisy, smelly, and chaotic as its counterpart in the North, but it lacked the particular old-world charms that made Hanoi worth all the trouble. There’s no doubt, though, the city is steeped in 20th century history.

We had caught glimpses and whispers of the war with America in Hanoi and Da Nang (where the first US invasions landed), but for the most part up North it felt almost as if the war had never happened. Indeed, the entire justification for fighting is all but a distant memory with Vietnam seeming to embrace capitalism even more wholeheartedly than China or even Korea. Walking around, we saw a lot of hammer-and-sicle flags along with propaganda posters galore, but those remain just about the only signs of this country’s communist past.

Saigon finally brought us face-to-face with our countries’ problematic history. We visited the “Reunification Palace” where the South put up its last stand, and eventually made our way to the enlightening, infuriating, and heartbreaking War Remnants Museum. Aside from its myriad collection of captured American military equipment, the museum houses several exhibits on the atrocities committed during battle and the aftermath of war. The United States used a number of regrettable tactics in Southeast Asia, including Agent Orange, Napalm, and carpet bombings and seeing the consequences of these both in Vietnam and at home was gut wrenching. But what was equally disturbing for us was the irony inherent in the exhibits about American protests. Here is the Vietnamese government lavishing high praise on American citizens for something it would never let its own people do: stand up to the government in protest.

Chau Doc

10997To begin the final leg of our two-week trek through Vietnam, we found ourselves on a hot, crowded six hour bus ride to the upper delta region of Chau Doc. We had a full day before catching our boat to Phnom Penh and while there isn’t much to see in town, we wanted a chance to observe life on the river so we rented a pair of bikes and rode nearly 50 km around Sam mountain and the fields outside the city. Besides unintentionally completing Stage 12 of the Tour de France, we got a real glimpse into the lives of the rural Vietnamese as we passed by.

We were particularly amazed by the houses people had built for themselves along the river and in the rice paddies. They seemed to be held up by little more than hope and hard work. Even more amazing was how friendly everybody was. It wasn’t that people in Northern Vietnam were unwelcoming or abrasive, it’s just that their greetings were generally followed by a sales pitch. The people in Chau Doc, however, seemed genuinely warm with no other agenda—which could be because these people have nothing much to sell us anyway and so they offer the only thing they can: a smile and a robust “hello”. Although an elderly woman held up her infant grandchild and I am pretty sure she was offering him to us as a gift. The kids were especially excited and friendly. They would run after us with huge grins, jumping up and down and seemingly putting every muscle into their “hellos!!!” and “whatsyournames?”. At one point, we were nearly abducted by a gang of sassy five-year-olds laughing and pulling at our arms. Which wouldn’t have been so bad, really. It is just so rare to feel welcome in a place because you are a stranger.

Chau Doc was an unexpected and pleasant surprise for us and it was a nice ending to our time in Vietnam. But after two weeks in the country we were ready for a change and so we packed our malaria pills and boarded a boat headed up the Tonle Bassac to our next destination: Cambodia.

Hanoi

10268Working our way North to South, we hit Hanoi first and were immediately struck by the busyness of the capital city. The profusion of motorbikes and dearth of traffic control mechanisms left us feeling stuck in a real-world game of Frogger. By now, we barely hear the constant roar of car horns, but it was deafening at first. At times there are so many “moto-bikes” flowing through the streets that they look more like schools of fish than anything else. Even still, there were hundreds more parked on the sidewalk. It’s as if each resident owns two bikes: one to drive, and one to park right in our way.

We quickly learned that the sidewalks here don’t really live up to their name because they are, under no circumstances, used for walking. They are for sitting, selling, talking, eating, parking, sleeping, peeing, welding, dancing, driving, dumping, playing, working, lounging, living. They are not for walking. Despite that, we spent three days wandering around the busy streets enjoying the architecture, food, and atmosphere. Hanoi—and Vietnam in general—are full of charming and quirky shops and cafes with plenty of cheap and delicious food. We know we’re spoiled when we balk at the thought of spending $5 on a nice dinner.

Halong Bay

10495From Hanoi, we went spent last weekend in Halong Bay on a big junk sailboat that was only a sailboat in the academic sense. It had tall wood poles and large pieces of cloth that may have once pulled it forward, but we didn’t get a chance to see them in use. We’re not sure the crew knew much more than how to refuel the diesel engine and kick the throttle into high gear, but Dad I’ve got an idea for when you retire.

It felt great to be near water again though and it was a stark contrast to the stress and hustle of the capital; we went kayaking through limestone cliffs, swam off the back of the ship, ate lots and lots of seafood, and spent the evening on deck watching the stars come out. Tourism is already going strong in Halong Bay, but for now it still feels like an escape. It was quiet and we rarely saw any other tourists apart from the 7 passengers on our big boat. We’re just glad we got there before these enterprising capitalists exploit vacationers’ nascent demand for jet ski rentals and banana tubes.

Sapa

10609In an attempt to avoid sleep at all costs on returning from Halong Bay, we immediately boarded an overnight train to Lao Cai in the North. The province borders China and the makeup of the people is very different from the people in Hanoi. In Lao Cai and Sapa—where we stayed—there is an interesting mixture of Vietnamese, Chinese, and local tribal minorities. Sapa is a hill station high up in the Eastern Himalayas that the French developed as a getaway from the heat and humidity of Indochina’s lowland cities. The town and its surrounding hills feel like another planet, as serene as any place in Vietnam. And the landscape is absolutely breathtaking with thousands of terraced rice paddies and mountain springs.

As you can imagine, such natural beauty brings a fair number of tourists to the area, and some of the locals have seen a market opportunity. Women walk around town and through the fields in colorful costumes selling handmade clothes and linens out of baskets on their backs. They are—in a word—persistent, but always friendly and we were able to learn a great deal about their lives from talking to them. It’s amazing how much English these women have picked up just from interacting with the tourists. The ladies we met were almost all trilingual, having spoken knowledge of Vietnamese, English, and their own tribal dialect. Yet, most of them never went to school and cannot read or write in any language.

Given the income disparity between ourselves and most of the local residents, we always have a little crisis of conscience when it comes to bargaining. It’s a way of life here in Asia, but we haven’t yet perfected our strategy; we’re always trying to strike a balance when it comes to getting a good price. On one hand, we don’t want to be taken advantage of just because we are foreigners (we’ve had enough of that already, thank you very much). But on the other, we have to remember that we’re haggling over such small amounts that really mean a lot more to the people here than to us. Holding out for 5,000 VND makes a difference of only about 30 cents, and that buy a lot more here than back home.

In town, we stayed at a little boutique hotel on the hill with smashing views of the mist-shrouded mountains. The place is run by an Australian expat named Pete who fell in love with the area and decided to spend his life running this non-profit hotel and doing what he can for the community. Everyone he hires—from the chefs and maids to trek guides and managers—are from the low income (very, very low income) minority groups that live in the area, and he also runs several charitable programs to help with schools, hygiene, and farming.

Have nots

After reading about Pete’s community efforts, we brought along some crayons, notebooks, and stickers from South Korea. The day we arrived at the hotel, Pete was heading to the school to conduct some interviews with the kids and talk to the teachers about what they need most (answer: supplies, boots, and clothing). He told us to jump on the back of a motorbike and come along so we could meet the students and teachers and give them our things personally. All the children seemed so happy and full of life, but many ran around without shoes or even pants, never mind proper schoolbooks. This place was a world away from our school in Korea, but if we’ve learned anything from teaching, it’s that children are the same everywhere. So despite the fact that these kids probably need shoes more than stickers, we hope the things we brought them will give them some small measure of joy. Visiting them was certainly a very moving experience for us.

From the school we were joined by a girl Pete had hired as a guide from one of the Black H’mong villages and she took us on a 5 hour trek through the hills. The area around Sapa is perhaps one of the most beautiful places on Earth (I think we’ve said that already). Huge mountains are covered with miles and miles of lime-green rice terraces. Kids ride around on water buffalo with piglets, puppies, and chickens at their feet. The people here eke out a living by subsistence farming and selling their crafts to tourists and their animals in local markets. The homes have dirt floors and no windows, but we did see the occasional satellite dish peeking over a rooftop pumpkin patch and heard a pop song or two blaring from a cellphone. Considering their state of living in this modern world, we don’t at all begrudge them these small conveniences.

Onward

After Sapa, it was time to get on a plane and leave Northern Vietnam for the rainy mid-section. Off we went to Hoi An.

Vietnam

August 26th-28th: Hanoi
August 29th: Halong Bay
August 30th: Hanoi
August 31st-September 2nd: Sapa
September 3rd- 4th: Hoi An
September 5th-7th: Saigon
September 8th- 9th: Chau Doc

Cambodia

September 10th- 12th: Phnom Penh
September 13th-15th: Kep
September 16th: Phnom Penh
September 17th-19th: Battambang
September 20th-22nd: Siem Reap

Laos

September 23rd-25th: Luang Prabang
September 26th-27th: Vientiane
September 28th-October 2nd: Pakse and Champasak

Thailand

October 3rd- 5th: Bangkok
October 6th-8th: Chaing Mai

China

October 9th: Guilin
October 10th-12th: Yangshuo
October 13th-14th: Xian
October 15th-19th: Kashgar
October 20th: Urumqi
October 21st: Chendu
October 22nd-November 1st: Tibet ( Lhasa, Everest Base Camp)

Nepal

November 2nd- November 4th: Kathmandu

India

November 5th-6th: Varanasi
November 7th-8th: Khajuraho
November 9th: Orchha (TBD)
November 10th-12th: Jaipur
November 13th-14th: Pushkar
November 15th-16th: Jodhpur
November 17th-21st: Jaipur
November 22nd: Delhi
November 23rd: Agra
November 24th: Delhi

United States of America

November 25th: Newark, New Jersey then Walled Lake, Michigan!!!!

We are going to seven countries in 3 months . We will see some of the world’s mightiest rivers (Mekong, Ganges) and its mightiest mountains (Karakoram, Himalayas). The highest, the oldest, the longest, the holiest. We want to see and do as much as we can, while we can. We are ready.