Two more days until the end of the term. One more day of finals, and all the reading of essays, marking, recording scores, and handing in paperwork. Then one day of teaching, although I doubt more than a few will turn up, if that. And on Sunday I leave for my trip up north.
After I finished marking about as many exams as I could for the day, and knowing I had to be home before 5 for my acupuncture doctor, I grabbed a taxi for the Sinh Café tourist office to purchase my train ticket/tour. I had only ever been to their office in the backpacker’s section of HCMC, but saw that there was a second one not far away.
I pretty much detest the backpacker area. It is jammed with cheap guesthouses, travel agents, low-priced cafes, somewhat costly boutiques, drinking establishments, and hookers. Quite a lot of people from work live in, and/or hang out there. I have no idea why. It’s quite the seedy locale. The Sinh office, right in the middle of it all, is a ghastly, hole-in-the-wall, with over-worked, under-paid, rather unpleasant staff. I was hoping that their sister office was better, and I was not disappointed.
Although it is walking distance from the nasty branch, it is a different world. I only saw a couple of foreigners on the street. The office actually looked like a tour office, and the ladies there were helpful and pleasant. Well, as helpful as they could be with limited English and my zero Vietnamese. (my language classes have again been put on hold because the teacher is out of town, but that is a whole, other, boring story.)
I pulled out the information I had picked up over the weekend and asked about other Sapa tours they might have. It all got very confusing. Mostly because a 4-day, 3-night trip, includes 2 nights on the train, and only one night in Sapa. I just can’t seem to get my head around flying up to Hanoi, a 2 hour flight, on Sunday, then boarding the train at 9:30pm, and arriving in Sapa at 7am. I think I am then taken to a hotel and either go village trekking right then, or after lunch. I finally decided to just pay for it and if I want to stay a day or two more, I’ll deal with it when I am there.
The whole idea of a 12-hour, overnight train ride, in a “soft-sleeper”, (which is a cabin with two bunk-beds), with three people I have never met in my life, sort of makes me itch. My worst case scenario is being stuck with a bunch of drinking, smoking, 20-somethings, or a local family who have brought on pots of fish and rice and screaming kids. I know I will never be able to sleep, and what do I do when I have to walk to the end of the car to pee? Will my clothing be safe? I can’t very well take a travel bag into the loo. I tried to see if I could pay extra for my own “room”, but was told I couldn’t. I felt totally trashed when I left the ticket office, but told myself this is how it always feels, and once I am on my way it will work out.
I really should stay either a few more days in Sapa, or take a few days in Hanoi. It’s just that I don’t like to do more than one thing a trip. And then there is the problem of taking cold weather, trekking clothes to Sapa, which will not be appropriate for Hanoi. Once again, the whole by-yourself-luggage hassle. Not to mention the freeze factor.
Lately, in HCMC, it has been 100ºF, (37ºC), and it stays toasty all night. Sapa might get up to 60ºF, (16ºC), during the day, and around 53ºF, (12ºC), or lower at night. That is a drastic climate change. And I do believe that it is 6000 ft elevation, so not only will I be experiencing hypothermia, but I will get altitude sickness. And no, I do not have the right clothing, but will make due. One friend told me not to worry, that they had the fireplaces roaring in the hotel. I simply can not, as I sit here drenched in sweat at 10pm, even imagine being cold, let alone cold enough for a fireplace.
But look on the bright side, I say to myself. I think there is still a bit left of that solar eclipse going on, somewhere in the world. Mercury is out of retrograde. I will pull out my tarot cards to make sure all the forces are in alignment, and if I had any incense, I’d burn it.
Best reason of all that I have to go is that I need new photographs. I have been reduced to this latest, which is another neighborhood shot. I refer to it as the Wisteria Lane/Stepford/Hollywood- back-lot, section of the burb.
If I don’t find anything to write about before I take off, you’ll hear from me in about a week.
Kate
I have one more week of work, then a week off. I have been planning on going to the north of the country for some time, but am just now looking into how to do it.
You can put me on a plane with a suitcase and $100, fly me to any far-off corner in the world where I don’t know a soul and don’t speak the language, dump me on the tarmac, and I will be happy. And not just happy; thrilled. Within a week I will have a place to live and a job. But once I am there, I never seem to travel much.
All of a sudden, getting on a bus alone and going out on tour just seems too problematic. It has nothing to do with being alone, but everything to do with practicality. I mean, who watches your bag when you need to use the bus station bathroom, or when you dive into the surf at that beautiful beach? That being my general mindset, along with preferring to stay home and do all the things I never seem to get done when I am working, I don’t ever take full advantage of the places I have lived. Or haven’t until I came here.
Now, every break I’ve had, I’ve gone somewhere. Once I am on the road I love it and wonder why I’d spent time debating whether or not to travel. In the past week I have, once again, been thinking about not traveling during my break. Should I go, should I stay, should I get a tour, should I go it alone, should I book with this travel company or that? It seems so overwhelming that giving up on the idea presents a fairly nice alternative. Making all those choices and decisions alone, when one has limited information, sucks.
One of the reasons I like to live around the world is so that I can experience the local culture, especially that of indigenous peoples. I am entranced by their lives and clothing and artwork. In Vietnam, the remaining ethnic minority groups, as they are referred to here, live in and around the city of Sapa, way up north. I knew I wanted to go there, but didn’t, and don’t, know very much about them and the area in which they live. This last week of trip planning has proved educational.
First of all, I found out that I can fly to Hanoi, but then must take a 12 hour train ride up to Sapa. (again, who watches your bags on a 12 hour trip when you go to the head?) Staritng to think twice about it all, friends reassured me that the train ride is at night, in a sleeper car, and is very comfortable. Ok, so I guess I can manage that, but then I had to get some sort of tour because you just can’t hike around the hills looking for villages.
Following the suggestions of various colleagues, I went online and checked out what was available. Unfortunately, it seemed all the trips were designed for people coming from outside of the country. I was looking for a 3 or 4 day thing, and the ones listed were a minimum of ten days. The prices were ok, but not cheap, especially considering I would have to pay for the airfare and train trip.
I then remembered Sinh Café Tours. They run those $8 day trips to the Mekong Delta and other places. I hadn’t used them before, but remember running into an older couple who swore by them and who had had a fantastic time in Sapa with one of Sinh’s tours.
I got to their web site and was very happy to see that they had three day trips, starting from Hanoi where you get the night train, and the price was at least two-thirds less than the other companies. However, I then went on to read the details of the trip which included the word trekking. Right. I should have done better research, because I was sort of surprised to find out that one had to walk lots of kilometers to actually get into the village areas.
Once again I thought of not going. I am a walker and can walk and walk for hours. But trekking sounded scary. I walk on my own time at my own pace and a forced march is not my idea of a vacation. Did that also mean I had to be a backpacker? What was I to do but to put it off until a later date and maybe find someone who knew more about traveling in the north and might even go with me? I thought about it. If I don’t go in April, I won’t have a chance until the fall, and by then it would be the rainy season. Trekking down mountain slopes in the cold and rain is simply not an option for me. Besides, I reasoned, I was being very silly to not go to the one area I most wanted to see simply because of the word trekking.
That settled, I went into town to do some power shopping before hitting Sinh Café’s office. And since it was 200 degrees at 2pm, I stopped off for a cold drink where I ran into two friends. Both of the guys had been to Sapa, so I pumped them for info. Tell me about this trekking, I asked. My friend laughed. It’s an easy walk. The jeep drops you off at the top of a mountain; you leave your bags with the driver, who later hooks up with you at the bottom. The other friend went on to tell me that it was lucky there was only on Sinh Café in HCMC. In the land of no copyright laws it seems that numerous industrious individuals in Hanoi have ripped off their good name and ideas to get a piece of the action.
Once at the Sinh office, I requested information about the three day trip. The man at the counter got out a travel itinerary brochure and pointed it out. But this is different form the on listed online, I said. He just looked at me. I tried thumbing through the pamphlet, but couldn’t find what I had seen. I told him I would print out the online one and be back.
At home, I got on the computer and found the trip, then matched it word for word with the brochure I had been given. Well, it was almost the same. I looked at the logo. It was the same. Then I looked at the website listed on the brochure and it was not the same. Similar, but slightly altered. I remembered what my friend had said about the copycats. When I finally got the real Sinh Café online I saw hat they had included a notice about other companies that had stolen their name, logo, and trip description. And people wonder why I opt to vegetate at home.
I really think I might now have the right information. I will check with a few other people on Monday to make sure the local Sinh Café is the outfit to go with. I then have to get a plane ticket, then go book the tour. Which brings up another problem. I either take a morning flight and hang out in Hanoi all day, (who watches my bag?), or take the night flight which doesn’t give you enough time to make it to the train station so you have to stay in a hotel, and then you still have to do Hanoi all day. So why don’t I just stay a day or two and check out Hanoi? Because I choose to do one thing at a time and this time it is Sapa.
I need to buy some warm clothes.
Kate
Today is the vernal equinox. I believe one is supposed to dance naked in the moonlight. Or possibly that is for the summer solstice. I may try it anyway and see if it leads to enlightenment. I might just be happy with not being a day behind, as I have for the past week or so.
I never forget St. Patrick’s Day, but did so last week for the first time in my life. It wasn’t until a colleague wished me shamrock greetings that I realized it was the 17th of March. In previous years, I have always brought in Irish music to class and done a mini, St. Patrick’s Day lesson. And since it fell on a Friday, by Monday it was just too far past the date to bother.
Not to worry, I had my Vernal Equinox lesson all set up. I decided not to print it out on Sunday night since I didn’t need it until Tuesday, the 20th of March. In class this morning, I casually asked what the date was. The 20th. This was getting too weird. Why was I a day off on everything? I decided to check with the astrology sages.
Just as I’d thought: not only is Mercury in retrograde from 2 – 25 March, it is doing so in my astrological house. Major bummer. Fortunately, we all have the total solar eclipse on 29 March to look forward to, with the promise of an exciting end-of-month for me. Let’s hope so.
Off to howl at the moon.
Kate
Several months back, I came upon a praying mantis taking a nap on a fence at work. I tired, not to successfully, to get pictures of him. (see blog: 8 Nov). Since that time, I have been on the look-out for another. Then, on Friday, I saw one, on the same fencing material, but across the way from my first sighting.
I had no camera with me this time, but went over and talked to him. He totally ignored me and continued to rest. I was very pleased.
That next day at home, as I was opening curtains, I was surprised to see yet another praying mantis right on the bedroom window screen. When I leaned over to say hello, I realized that he was in fact on the inside of the screen, trapped in my apartment. I quickly opened the screen and tapped it hoping he would fly away. He didn’t. I tired a few other tactics, but he remained glued in place. I then went and got a plastic container and tried to coax him in. He still wouldn’t move. Carefully, I laid my hand next to him until he had no choice but to hop on board.
I was surprised at how sticky his little mantis feet felt as I slowly got him off my hand and into the container. Next, I gently deposited him on the windowsill and closed the screen. I had assumed that he would immediately fly away. But he just sat there and I started to get worried. I asked him if he was all right, but he didn’t answer.
I left him there for a few minutes and when I went back to check, he hadn’t moved. Had I inadvertently brought him home from work and trapped him in my house and now he was dying? Or had he flown in the night before and now was weak from lack of food? I went to the refrigerator and got some green leafy vegetables for nourishment although, I thought, maybe he eats little insects. Again, I left him hoping he would eat and fly away. He didn’t.
The next time I looked, he was on his side, roasting in the heat. Quickly, I picked him up, brought him inside, and placed him on the cool tiles by the balcony door. He was alive, but weak and I hoped it was just shock. Then I got a little plastic lid and put water in it. Do these creatures drink water from troughs? I bent down to talk to him and pet him. I told him to relax on the tiles, and that I would leave the door open so that he could fly away when he was ready. I also closed the curtains part way to keep it cooler.
An hour later, I needed to leave. My praying mantis was now on his side again. I moved him against the wall and propped him up. I thought about leaving him on the balcony just incase he did revive and could fly off while I was away. But I decided he wasn’t long for the world and he would feel safer inside. I entertained the thought of putting him out of his misery, but simply couldn’t do it. I really hoped that insects didn’t have a complex neural system and that he wasn’t in pain. I explained to him that I was going out and that he should rest.
When I got back home several hours later, he was again on his side, and I assumed he was dead. I carefully picked him up so that I could look closely at his amazing structure. He was so beautiful. And then a front leg slightly moved. My poor little mantis was still struggling, and I was still unable to end it all for him under the weight of a shoe. I remembered hearing about the painless, freezer technique for euthanizing goldfish. I put him in a tiny Tupperware, gave him a last pet, and into the freezer he went.
He is still there. I am not sure what to do with him. I suppose I should hone up on insect rescue techniques incase it ever happens again.Kate
My dining room table, like all dining room tables in every place I have ever lived, has never once been used for a meal. I usually eat sitting in a chair, towel on my lap, bowl in my hand. The theory behind this is; why mess up a good work space with plates and utensils, when it can be better used as an ironing board, desk, bookshelf, sewing center, and crafts table? Anyway, I would feel totally ridiculous sitting down by myself in front of a placemat, water glass, and cutlery.
Writing is one of my most favorite activities. In fact if I could do nothing else all day, I would be very happy. Since I still have to work for a living, my hours spent at the lap-top on the dining room table are less than I would like, but still add up. And this has created a bit of a problem. It is a lovely table, but because of the design, I can’t scoot the chair in. Or rather I can’t do that and still be able to cross my legs, (a totally necessary action if I am to be comfortable). I have been meaning to get some sort of small desk for several months now, but things just take longer in foreign countries. However, today I persevered and will have my new writing station in two days.
Last week I talked to the guy in charge of facilities at work and asked where I could get a desk. He drew a map and wrote down the names of the streets. At noon today, when it was around 300 degrees, I just about blew it off. But then I sat down to write emails and immediately remembered why I desperately needed a proper place to write, not to mention work on art projects. (My current crafts table is the ironing board.)
The taxi dropped me at the corner of the furniture street and I went in to the first, small shop. I was in a part of town where I assumed no one would speak English, and I was right. I was able to point to a normal sized desk and explain I wanted the same thing but smaller, which they didn’t have. I then went into a tiny place that had tiny kid’s furniture. I looked at a school desk and thought it might work. But the shop owner was a taste surly, so I continued on down the road.
Two more stores and I found my place. It was larger than the others and a lovely, middle-aged woman came out to help me. She did speak a little English, which proved quite helpful. I found something close to what I wanted, but asked if they could make it without the drawers. This, I had to mime, but was understood. We finally got the right size and color, and instructions to assemble it without the foot rest and drawers. It will be delivered on Monday, at a very reasonable price.
That finished, I pulled out the other scrap of paper that had the street-of-cheap- shoes. This had been supplied by some of my students. Earlier I had checked the map and seen that it was only a few blocks from where I was. I think I have written about the impossibility of shoes here in sizes larger than teeny, and styles other than hooker. Hence, I was overjoyed to walk into the first store and see all sorts of doable footwear in larger sizes. I had been looking for sport shoes that could pass for work shoes, but ended up with funk-o-la Birkenstock style sandals, made of a pearlized blue.
Further down the street I walked into a fair sized shoe store with rack upon rack of all sorts of shoes. I was immediately drawn to the row of Doc Martins. Oohhhh, more totally un-university-instructor, happening shoes! At first I had assumed they were copies, but once again I was proven wrong. Guess Doc M also manufactures in Vietnam. And boy, have the styles changed since I had last tried on a pair. More importantly, those thick soles on some of the styles are now made with light-weight material, making them comfy and easy to walk in. I got two pair, at a total cost of about $17. I started to look at the sneaks, but I had already spent enough money and time shopping for one day.
I will now have feet and a back that won’t hurt. I am only worried about getting frostbite at work while wearing sandals.
Kate
Find the Frog
I live on the 7th floor, with four other apartments opening off a small, rectangular area. Garbage pick-up here is done by throwing your trash out into the stairwell and waiting for the cleaners to pick it up, twice a day. Most of the people in my building, on all floors, don’t bother to double bag, tie the top closed, or even use a trash bag. It is nasty, especially when fish innards are involved. A while back, the management put up a notice asking people to take more care with their refuse and to possibly purchase a trash can.
Two or three weeks ago, I bought a lovely red, plastic bin with a top. I was very proud of my neatness and hoped the neighbors would follow suit. Instead, they started dumping things in my bin, like orange peels and cigarette butts, and open bags of trash. I would remove them on a daily basis. I thought maybe they didn’t realize it was my personal can, so wrote my apartment number on the lid.
Things were fine for awhile, until one morning I woke up to find my trash can had been stolen! It happened between 11PM and 6AM, so had to be a neighbor. The next Saturday, I bought another red bin for my apartment, and a large blue one for the neighbors. I wrote my apartment number all over mine, and the floor number all over the other. I thought the neighbors would be pleased. All that day, I peered through the peephole every time I heard someone coming or going. The trash bins were still there. Or at least until the 9:30PM check. Both had been taken!
After the first theft, I debated about how I would notify management or ask the cleaning staff if they had seen it. On my way out to work, I drew a quick sketch of the item in question, and wrote my apartment number below it. Upon meeting the ladies downstairs, I did a mime/drawing re-enactment of the crime. I think they understood. One of them mimed back how she removed my garbage every day and then replaced the lid. We looked at each other, shrugged our collective shoulders, and went off to our daily jobs.
I also tried calling the management office, which sent over a representative who spoke no English. Again, I drew a picture and did an impressive imitation of someone stealing my garbage cans. I think the guy nodded his head in agreement just so that he could get away.
My next step was to make a trip down the road to the management office. I finally found someone who spoke English well enough to understand the problem. She said to go back to my place and the building manager would come by. He did, and had been briefed on the situation, but had a very limited English vocabulary. I thought he said he would call the owners of the other apartments on my floor.
I have since called him, and I think he said he talked to the owners but that no one has seen my trash bins. I figure it has to be a neighbor because at 9 or 10pm, they, or their friends are the only ones on this floor. I walk down the stairs, but everyone else takes the elevator, so it couldn’t have been someone from another floor. Anyway, it is maddening, and worse, the trash situation is back to what it was, piles of rotting garbage in the hall.
I am starting Vietnamese classes next week.
Kate
International Women’s Day, 8 March. I should have joined in some sort of antiwar protest, or women’s rights march, but there aren’t any that I know of here. CODEPINK - Women Say No To War, had events all around the world, except here. I was ready and willing to march on down to the US Consulate and turn in a petition protesting the war. But I would have been alone. Maybe I should have done it anyway. I guess I will just have to send another email to the Whitehouse voicing my thoughts.
There didn’t seem to be any organized programs of a political bent here in HCMC. There was, however, lots of cards and flowers to be bought. I first noticed this over the weekend when I found a coupon in my mailbox offering a free treatment at a new hair salon in the neighborhood. The accompanying card said Congratulations on Women’s Day!
Yesterday at work, two of my students gave me a beautiful Happy Women’s Day card. One of the guards asked what I was going to do for Women’s Day. It seemed that it was to be celebrated like Mother’s Day or Valentines Day, which upset me. Last night I got on the internet and searched around for some pertinent reading material. I found it on the UNESCO student activities site. I dutifully printed it out, and used it for my morning class.
I was very pleased to find out that at least half of my class did know about the history of Women’s Day and what it represented. Those that didn’t, learned. After that, I didn’t mind the bouquets of flowers in staff offices, or the roses that were passed out. It was all a bit hokey, but as long as the real message was somewhere among all the gifts and orchids, I could live with it.
I’m off to write that email to Mr. Bush. Join me, won’t you? Kate
[
I went back to the river by my house and got better shots]
On the bus back from town today, a man sat behind me. Voice and physical appearance revealed that he was in his late 50’s, from Scotland, and fat. During the short, 20 minute ride, this is what I learned about him, mostly from his cell phone conversations. He had had breakfast in town, and was now returning to relax for the afternoon at the pub with a bottle of wine, followed by lunch. He has a friend and colleague named Chris who went to a big party on Saturday afternoon and got very drunk. He’ll see him at the office tomorrow morning at 8:00. They are to finalize the plans for the project and make sure the others have work to do for the entire week because, after all, they are paying the lads and they want to get their money’s worth. Mike will be at a different meeting tomorrow morning and will cover for this guy who doesn’t want to be there.
His loud voice was still ringing in my ears after he had exited the bus. Lucky for me, I was able to finally return my thoughts to the bag full of special items purchased at a store called Veggies.
I had heard of the place, but had thought it was an over-priced, small produce market that sold to the rich ex-pats; which it is. I had also heard it had imported processed overpriced garbage food; which it does. And these are the reasons that I had never shopped there. But after searching for popping corn for weeks, and asking everyone I ran across if they knew where I could get it, a friend said that Veggies was the place.
As I walked in, the first thing I noticed was the bulk bins of beans and grains. I found the pop corn right away. They had all sorts of beans and rice that you can buy anywhere, so I almost walked past the garbanzo beans. I had never seen them here. My next product search was for oregano and any other spices that I might be needing and had yet to find in HCMC.
I seem to be only foreigner in Vietnam who does not eat out. No inexpensive restaurants in my neighborhood and I don’t like the large amounts one gets in a restaurant are two of the reasons. But even if I wanted to not cook for a day, I can’t because of all the MSG that goes into every dish in any restaurant.
At first I was just cooking bland beans and rich and vegetables. Then I got into experimenting with coconut milk and invented some really tasty meals. But then I started to think about Italian food but I just couldn’t find the herbs and spices. In fact all that I had been using for flavor was garlic, onions, chili sauce, salt and pepper. I did find powered curry, but it has an odd taste. The supermarkets have lots of pre-mixed packages of spices. I have no idea what is in them other than MSG. People kept telling me that spices were available here, but I could never find them.
Veggies had a few shelves of imported, very costly herbs and spices. I would have been willing to pay top dollar for oregano, but just couldn’t seem to find it on the shelf. I was about to give up when I decided to ask one of the sales ladies.
“It’s in the cooler room”, she said. You mean it’s fresh? I asked? I followed her into the walk-in and almost fainted when I saw bags of fresh herbs. I got oregano, sage, rosemary, and thyme. (but no parsley). Some of it is grown here, and some imported. I bought a handful of each, so the cost was very reasonable.
Up at the cashiers, I looked at my items trying to think if I had forgotten anything.
Then I remembered that I was buying garbanzos to make humus, and therefore would need Tahina. I just knew they wouldn’t have it, but asked anyway. And they did! I even had a choice of two different types. The price was more than the total of all the other items and I almost put it back. Fortunately, I came to my senses and bought it. For someone who doesn’t really get excited about food, I was on a buzzing with cooking anticipation when I left the shop.
Once home, I put a small amount of each herb in the refrigerator, and laid the rest out on the counter to dry. Tonight I cooked up my first pot of pasta sauce. Mexican food is next on the agenda.
There is pop corn to popKate
(the river pictured runs just to the right of the manicured garden walk, and this shot does not do it justice.))
The Torino Olympics have come and gone and although I didn’t see oodles of events, I was able to get my fill of skating. I had assumed, correctly, that the winter Olympics would not be broadcast on any Vietnamese channel or on ESPN, but continued to channel surf until I hit upon Orbita, the Russian satellite channel. It took me a few days, but I was finally able to pretty much figure out the broadcast times. (I did try to get the TV schedule on the internet, but unless you can Google in Ruskie, it is not to be found.)
I found myself glued to the commentary team, a man and a women in horribly tacky, red warm-up jackets, who showed excerpts from all the events and didn’t spoil it with too much talk.
Their coverage of the ice skating was far superior to any American broadcast, not that that is hard to do. I was able to watch skaters other than the top three, and enjoy their performances without all that babbling, interrupting the performances. When they did speak, they lacked the judgmental commentary that rules all US coverage. Or so it seemed to me.
I got to see the Russian athletes in their home towns and training venues. It is always enlightening to see what fantastic athletes have been produced from bare bones training facilities. The highlight, however, was the in-depth, hour-long story about Irina Slutskya, one of the world’s top women’s skaters.
First let me point out that we have all been mispronouncing her name all these years. The accent is on the first syllable, SLUTS-kee-a, not, sluts-SKY-ya. I have been watching her since she was about 15 so am well acquainted with her life story. I sat mesmerized as they interviewed her at home, interspersed with footage and re-enactments of her skating career. At times I actually thought I understood Russian, but it was really only that I knew what they were referring to. The re-enactment of the hospital scene needed no translation. Similarly for The World Championships and Olympics. But I did finally get to see her mom and husband, although I must say I really wanted to know what was said about him since I knew/know nothing. Irina has always come across as a lovely thing, and even more so in the interview. Why is it they don’t subtitle these sorts of programs and broadcast them around the world? I am sure many of us would love to get an insight into elite athletes from other countries.
I was sort of rooting for her in the finals even though I knew she was really too old to be in the Olympics. I checked all the internet sources I could, figured that Orbita would be broadcasting live, converted to Vietnam time, then set the clock for 5AM. I turned on the TV just in time to catch the awards ceremony and get the best news of the day that the Japanese woman had won. I always like it when a person that no one expects to take gold, wins.
The other big thrill was seeing the Israeli ice dancing team of Sergai and Galit. It is the opinion of those in the know, and not just mine, that Sergai is the best male ice dancer ever to have graced the rink. Usually, ones eyes focus on the gals, but not when he is performing. He is an utterly beautiful, dead-sexy skater, who I would pay big bucks to skate in my living room. Even more fortunate, I got to see a second, rebroadcast of one of their routines.
So, it wasn’t the entire Olympics, but I am fairly sure the coverage I saw was better than anything people saw in the US.
Off to dream about ice dancers.
Kate
Walking in my neighborhood is generally a quiet experience, if not spectacularly beautiful. After 5PM, the workers stop the drilling and tile cutting and all the other bothersome noises. I used to walk out of my building and head off down the street, walking about three blocks before it dead ends.
It is a gravel street and there are streetlamps, but the completed houses are very sparsely placed. One is going up directly across the street from me, and about six others within sight of my apartment. But mostly, it is deserted streets and frogs and crickets make the only real noise.
When I get to the dead end, I turn left and can walk another five blocks. If I turn right at the third block, I enter what can only be described as a Hollywood set, or maybe Disneyland, or possibly the Stepford neighborhood. It is a gated community of attached, row houses, running along narrow streets. By the extent of the growth of the gardens, I am assuming it was completed at least five years ago. The houses are three levels, half of the top floor taken up by a spacious balcony. The entrances of many of the homes are a veritable jungle of flowering vines and well-groomed gardens. It is all very pretty and very safe feeling, yet quite odd. The first time I walked through I got the chills. It was just to ‘perfect’. But by the second or third trip I was hooked. I could picture living there. Maybe.
The only problem with that walk is that it wasn’t long enough so I would head out onto the main street where it gets very noisy and rather ugly. I live on the left side of the giant street/freeway that barrels through town. The other side of the road has many more completed houses and they are of a different nature. After the few, 15 story, dog-ugly apartment blocks, there are mostly gargantuan houses, or very large, side-by-side duplexes. I had thought I had explored it all but the other day I found out that I hadn’t. I came upon the most incredible man-made stream.
It is a kilometer long stream built down the middle of a road. It must be about five meters wide, (but never trust my area calculations). Suffice to say that it is wide enough to have a curving stream run down the middle, flanked by incredible landscaping. The banks of the stream are built with round stones. A path winds up one side, then crosses over to the other, then farther up it returns to the other side, and continues this weaving back and forth the entire way. Sometimes a wooden bridge takes you across; sometimes it is giant stepping stones. Along the way you pass trees and flowers all meticulously and aesthetically arranged. Lilly pads and lotus flowers float on the water. There is even a mini waterfall where the stream crashes over a stone ledge.
You can walk along it at night because there are lights. You can take a rest on one of the benches. And even though there is street on either side, there is very little traffic, although this will probably change as the area is built up. For now, one side is all open land, lying along the banks of a river tributary.
In the evenings, you can see families with kids seated on a bench, munching on snacks. There are also a lot of young couples who park their motorbikes on the side, then side on a bridge or a bench or on the grass. It is a most pleasant place to wander.
Regrettably, I can’t simply walk away from the stream and into my house. There is the short walk back to the main road, past massive construction sites engaged in erecting a block long structure. And then I have to risk life and limb getting across the street/freeway. There is a stoplight, but it doesn’t mean much, especially to the semi drivers who race through red lights while blowing their horns. In fact, the thought of that part of the walk has kept me in at times.
Time for my walk.
Kate
The rainy season, I was told, would end in November and then there would not be a drop for six months. It rained right up until New Years Eve. Then yesterday, there were some sprinkles. And this afternoon, there was a veritable downpour for over an hour! I had to ford the rapidly filling balcony, to take out the drain filter before I got internal flooding. We even had lightening. It does clean the air, but if it isn’t supposed to happen, it is a little worrisome.
This first week back, after the two week break, felt like three weeks. Aside from the work schedule, I was supposed to deal with bank, work permit stuff, as well as international post issues. Of the three items on my list, none has been resolved.
Way back in July, about two weeks before I left for Vietnam, I was informed by my first employer that I would need notarized copies of all my teaching credentials and diplomas, and a letter stating I was not a criminal. I then had to send said documents to the employer’s office in Los Angeles, and he contacted the Vietnamese consulate in San Francisco. Or something like that. I then had to go to the consulate and get my visa. I assumed that since I was given the visa, all was in order.
When I arrived, there was other paperwork to be done, like registering my residence with the police and getting the health check. All that paperwork was done by others, so I assumed I was in the clear.
Back in October, before I even started working at the new job, I went to HR to ask what I needed to do about working papers. “You don’t need to do anything for a year,” I was explicitly told. That sounded odd, but easy.
Then, right before the Tet break, I received an urgent email from HR telling me I needed to get my work permit papers in NOW. I went to talk to the women in charge and asked why, if she hadn’t wanted any documents in October, that it was now urgent. I didn’t get an answer. So, I brought in all of my paperwork that had been sufficient for the first job. She went through them and asked for my passport. I couldn’t give it to her because I needed to go to the bank, then go to Cambodia. I was about to leave when she asked for my “blue book”. Huh? Turned out to be a little blue notebook that is supposed to be in my possession at all times, documenting that I am registered with the police. My realtor was supposed to have given it to me within a week of moving in. The HR lady was quite alarmed that I didn’t have it.
After work, I went by the realtors and asked about the blue book. Apparently, a gal they had working there when I moved in had neglected to get it done and they weren’t even aware of it. However, within two days I got the book.
This Monday, armed with my blue book and passport, I went back to HR. When the woman checked my blue book, she saw that the date listed for my move to my apartment was Oct 2006, not 2005. I suggested she take white-out, and fix the date. No go. Before I could leave to take my book back to the realtors to have them take it back to the police, she said I was missing a document. Huh? Yes, I needed a document from the State of California stating that the notary, who notarized my documents, is registered with the State. I really tried not to scream. I think she mentioned something about a letter from Washington DC stating I was not a criminal, but I pretended not to hear. How could I need more documentation than what I had already given to the first job?
She did say that it all would have to be sent to the US to be translated and verified. I said that this had already happened, and couldn’t she just email the consulate in SF? No.
The situation to date: I still don’t have the blue book because the police are on vacation this week. When I went into HR yesterday, nothing was mentioned about the Notarization of the Notary, so I didn’t ask. Push comes to shove, I can renew my visa on my own in March, but would really like to avoid any government offices. The post office is already more than I can handle.
Every single item sent from outside the country, other than a letter, is opened and thoroughly searched. My bag of candy corn took three months to arrive, and then I got a notice to go to the PO to pick it up. Since the address was in the same district that I live in, I figured it would be a short taxi ride away. 30 minutes later, taxi meter running, I was at the PO, where I had to present my passport and pay a dollar in customs to get my melted candy corn. At least they hadn’t opened the bag of candy. Once I got home and dug in to my treats, I realized it had all been worth it, but was worried about the other three packages containing books that were due to arrive shortly.
At work the next day, I asked around for any post office tips. I turns out that most people get things sent to a Vietnamese friend, and they pay no customs. Or if it gets sent to the main PO, there is no problem. But if you live where I do, it goes to the PO in the South Forty and you get charged as high as they can get away with. This was becoming a nightmare.
But when I got home that day, I found two mailer-bags with my books form the US, waiting at my door! They were worth more than the candy corn, but I guess the post office didn’t see it hat way.
I probably shouldn’t even mention the nasty work schedule that I was given, (like it was a reward, or something), because I was one of the few teachers qualified to take that particular class. The hours are foul, the workload way more than any other class. But it I was assured that when it was over, in just 4 weeks, I would be back to a normal schedule. I am now not so sure of that. The icky class finishes next Friday, yet the boss lady tells me she will “try” to get me a class, but won’t know until next week. I have had one long headache all week.
But, hey, it’s Friday and I am hoping against hope that I will be able to get some Olympic coverage here. I am doubtful. Winter sports are not high on the agenda of tropical nations. Thank god for American Idol!
Kate
There was one truly upsetting sight in the temples; that of the decapitated statues. One after one, outside and inside the temples, nearly all their heads had been sheared off and taken as booty. It was most unsettling. I tried to imagine how the looters could have defiled the figures in such a way, and not felt like they had just maimed someone.
I then started to notice the replicated Buddha heads used as decoration or sold as souvenirs and felt ill. These are the same heads we have all seen printed on t-shirts or sitting in restaurants, but never before had I realized that they were representations of temple robbers.
Back in Vietnam, 28 January was the first day of Tet/Chinese New Year/Lunar New Year. I was able to see the midnight fireworks from my apartment. In fact I could see three different displays. I liked the fact that I was very far away. (fireworks scare me).
That morning, I’d run to the supermarket to stock up, knowing that stores and businesses would be closed for the three days of Tet. Having forgotten juice, I managed to make it to my local corner shop just as they were rolling down the metal gate at noon. It wasn’t until later that evening that I realized I had forgotten to ask them to deliver my 20 liter bottle of water. I had visions of boiling gallons of water for the next few days.
It turned out that there were a few of the Korean owned, mini-marts open, so I was able to purchase as many 2 liter bottles of water as I wanted, and paid three times the price of my big bottle.
I had missed a lot of the festivities leading up to Tet, but thought I could get into town on the second or third day to see things. It was not to be. The shuttle bus I take was off for the holidays, and I didn’t feel like forking out all that money for a taxi in two directions. However, I must say that life at the homestead has been very nice indeed.
My whole neighborhood has turned into a ghost town, the best part being that there is no construction going on. So far, it has been five days of silence. I had thought everything would be closed for three days, but now I’m not so sure. The post office was open today, but the bank was not. The supermarket opened for half a day, but had no produce. I still have an apple left, but have had no veggies since returning from Cambodia. So it’s tofu and rice for another day.
Hundreds of potted plants and trees adorn all the entrances to the apartment complexes here, as well as in front of all businesses. Lots of flowering yellow trees and chrysanthemums, and other plants I recognize but don’t know their names. Some trees have red money envelopes attached to their branches, and lots of houses have hung red lanterns out front. It would have been nice to go to the Chinese areas in town to see the lion and dragon dancers and all the decorations, but I just wasn’t able to do it.
The house across the street was finished in time for Tet and the family, with the minimal of household effects, moved in Saturday morning. The main workers had finished a few weeks ago. I have been following their progress since I moved here, and was dismayed to see that not only had they moved on, but their entire, makeshift housing complex had been completely dismantled and removed in a matter of hours. I didn’t even see them do it which, for some reason, bothered me. I had been following their lives from afar for over three months. Then, for a period of about three hours I didn’t look out the window, and when I did, there was no trace that they had ever even been there. It was a very strange feeling.
All and all, it seems that the Year of the Dog is getting off to an auspicious start.
Prosperity and health for all.
Kate
There’s this theory that the Pyramids in Egypt, the Mayan Temples in Mexico, and the Temples of Angkor are all offshoots of Atlantis. I am beginning to give some credence to this hypothesis. I’ve been to them all and the similarities are stronger than the differences.
All are built in alignment to various phases of the sun, the moon, and the cosmos in general. They are all massive structures, precisely and intricately constructed. Some question how the contractors of a few thousand years ago had the knowledge to erect such edifices. If one culture alone had achieved such mastery, maybe there would be no other-worldly theories. But three such peoples, in such far flung locations, gives rise to the thought that there is a connection.
What really struck me at Angkor, was the similarity between the bas-reliefs in the temples and those in the Egyptian tombs. Both are divided into layers; the underworld or ocean, earth, and heaven. In both, a story is laid out along a long wall. The scenes depicted are intensely dense with figures of people, or plants, or animals. I especially noted the bottom layer of crocodiles and fish and other sea creatures, and how it looked so much like the Egyptian walls I’d seen.
But back to day tree of the Temple Tour, which I decided, due to my less than stellar health situation, would just be to Angkor Wat. I knew I had been there, but for the life of me, couldn’t remember what I had seen. I decided to go at noon.
When I got there it was fairly deserted and very quiet. As I walked down the causeway, it all started to come back to me. Once inside, I did remember my first time through, and recalled what my guide had told me. This visit, I really took my time. I walked around the temple, first through the corridors, then through the inner areas, and finally out onto the grounds, where I sat in a far corner under some trees. From my vantage point, I had a wonderful view of the nearly empty temple with no people or voices to intrude upon my solitude.
Walking back, this time on the grounds as far as I could get from the causeway, I got a much better sense of just how large Angkor Wat is, and how far it is from the front gate to the middle of the temple. It would really be a pain to run errands in and out of there all day. I wondered if that is what some people did back in the day.
I thought about going to a few other places I had not yet seen, but just wasn’t up to it. I had enjoyed every minute of every site I had been to, and trudging on to another temple when I felt like crap, didn’t seem to make any sense. I in no way felt cheated out of Seeing It All. As it was, my brain could barely sort out the previous few days.
The next day, my final in Siem Reap, I had the morning for last minute shopping. Much as I didn’t want to wade through the sewer-streets, I did want to get a few scarves. By noon I was packed and checked out, then took a rest in the upstairs terrace room at the Banana. It is a beautiful, tiled, rectangular area, with a roof and giant fans. I lay down on cushions and let my mind drift.
My tuk-tuk driver took me to the airport at 3:30, for my 5:20 flight. I was back in my apartment by 7pm, which was the strangest feeling. I had gone from an exotic, foreign country, to my house in a 40 minute flight. Usually, one needs to fly for twenty hours to do that. Then I remembered that I still live in an exotic, foreign country.
Sometime after returning, I realized that I had not thought of work for even one minute the entire time in Siem Reap. In fact, I really hadn’t thought about anything but the here and now. I have never been able to do that before and certainly wasn’t even aware that I had shut off the rest of my life for an entire five days. And yes, I took the wrong clothes; I didn’t need the extra sheet; I had a miserable cold; but none of that mattered. It had to be one of the best vacations of my life!
Think about that Atlantis thing.
Kate
The main language spoken in Cambodia is Khmer, not ‘Cambodian”, as I have miscalled it. I have seen the written form for years and have always been fascinated by its beautiful, dancing letters. The same is true for Indian script. You would have thought that I would have realized there was a connection between the two, but I didn’t until I was in Cambodia. Written Khmer has a Sanskrit origin, and that is all the presumed linguistic knowledge I will attempt for today.
Possibly, had I paid more attention to the fact that the Angkor temples were originally Hindu, I might have picked up on the language connection. It would appear that I have a lot of reading to do. But as I said before, I have to be in a place before I can internalize the basics like what language was spoken and what religion was practiced.
However, none of my cultural stupidity interfered with enjoying Day 2 of Temple Touring. Not even the sore throat that had turned into a nasty cold overnight could hinder the pleasure of being in Cambodia, although it did knock the exploring down a notch or two.
My tuk-tuk driver was waiting for me at 7am. I hadn’t spoken to him much the day before, but had correctly assumed that he knew where to go and at what time. I pulled out my Temple map and we plotted the first part of the day. I knew I wanted to go back to Bayon in the early morning hours when I hoped there would be very few others around, and I was right.
I walked into the temple grounds all alone, with just the sounds of the birds and a few, far-off voices. I was in heaven as I meandered through the walkways and corridors, often with no one insight and no voices to be heard. Now this was the type of ruins exploring I loved. It didn’t matter that I didn’t know what every carving symbolized, or that the temple was laid out in a very specific form. I didn’t need to know the details of what year this section was built and under what king changes had occurred. You see, you can just feel all of that. And if I were to stop and read something in a guide book, I would loose the connection. It was why I had only hired a guide for one day. In the isolation of ancient places, one needs only to rely on the voices and energies of the surroundings, which will speak to you if you listen carefully.
Eventually, I did move on to the next temple, one I had not visited the day before. It seemed that with most of the places I visited, you needed to first walk up a narrow, tree lined trail, before reaching the temple. On these trails I would often encounter small groups playing traditional music. Beautiful melodies drifted down the trail, accompanying your step as you approached the entrance. When you finally reach them, you find out that they are made up of landmine victims.
The first two groups I had heard at two other temples, were made up of all men, aged early 20’s to mid 30’s. I would stop and listen for a few minutes, then make a donation and thank the musicians. The third group I could only hear as I roamed around the temple. Their sweet sounds flowing through the columns and vaults. It wasn’t until I exited through the back entrance that I saw them.
This group was made up of boys and girls, men and women. When they finished one of their songs, I went up to put money in the donation box and ended up sitting down to talk to the director, himself a landmine victim. He founded the Angkor Association for the Disabled, which trains musicians and also has many projects going on in Siem Reap. Bookseller carts, in the center of town, are one the ways he has helped to enable people who, in the past, would not have been employable. The youngest of this musical group was a beautiful girl, maybe twelve years old. She played a stringed instrument that sits on the ground or on a table. I was taken by her musical ability. The director told me that she had only been playing for 15 days!
Their music carried me back through the temple and back on to the path out. Just as I stepped onto the trail, I stopped to look at the carved art work of an older gentleman. He sat carving while a young girl, possibly his granddaughter, stood next to a small table with items for sale. I was immediately drawn to the elegantly carved wooden egrets; three of them standing together on a piece of wood. They had articulated necks with their heads attached to strings which, in turn connected, puppet-style, to a wooden bar. The whole apparatus hung from a hook, and the egrets’ heads bobbed up and down. I had to have this. The artist told me it had taken him two days to make.
Back at the tuk-tuk, I showed my birds to the driver and then suggested we walk across the street and get something to drink. We sat at a table set up under an awning. My driver knew all of the people and helped translate when I bought a few t-shirts. The one I really wanted was only in a size L. And in Asia, I am a size XXXL. The women wouldn’t believe me and said I was very small for a foreigner. She told me to try it on, and even though I knew it wouldn’t fit, I really wanted it, so agreed. Where does one try on a shirt in a side-of-the-road shop? No problem; she held up a length of material while I tried to squeeze myself into the top. She assured me that if I washed it and stretched it, it would fit. I bought a couple of XXL men’s t-shirts instead.
While resting, I told my driver that I was really interested in other local crafts, such as my egrets, and asked if he knew where to find such items. He said that there was a basket making store close to the Banana, and would take me there when we got back. I think I did one more site before I called it a day.
We drove by the Banana, down a dirt ally, then onto to a slightly larger dirt street and stopped in front of a house that had two large baskets out front. My driver pointed to the house across the street and said it was his mother’s house that he had lived in until two years ago when he had married and gone to live with his wife’s family.
I should point out that all the houses I had passed were small places, built on stilts. The basket workshop was much larger, and the area under the stilts had been turned into a production studio. Women sat on the floor weaving large, laundry style baskets. It was great to see, but I was looking for the finer woven, small baskets. I was then directed to go inside and into another room. There, displayed on shelves, was an array intricately woven baskets in all sorts of interesting shapes and sizes. I also noticed a sign saying it was a Fair trade organization. I started asking prices. They started at $3, and I started picking ones to buy. Then I noticed these purses that were made from some sort of dried, dyed, Delta grass. As with the baskets, their shapes were amazingly unique, and the quality superior. I would have bought more but I started to worry about getting them on the plane. I stopped myself from purchasing a large, laundry basket, and filling it to the brim. One has only so much room in which to display artwork.
It had been another great day, which was not yet over. I had dinner plans with a few of my new found friends. I spent my one night on the town, first eating at a place that looked like someone’s idea of what a funky, Ft Lauderdale seafood restaurant would look like. Probably styled after something they’d seen in a movie or on MTV. The restaurant was a series of levels and platforms with low tables on each one where you sat on cushions. Lighting was sort of bluish and dim. In the middle, on a raised stage, they had a live, Philippino band. The gals could sing any song you requested, all the while dancing around in gigantic platform shoes. The wait staff wore t-shirts and jeans and had gangster-tied bandanas on their heads.
I sat next to my friends and we were joined by four of their friends from Siem Reap. It was really fun, the food was good, but I had to keep moving around to get comfortable. Fortunately, I could actually lie down if the back or knees got too stressed from sitting in a not-normal-for-me position. After dinner, we walked around the corner to a cozy little, quiet pub. At 11:00, I wussed out and went back to the Banana. Tomorrow would be the last day my temple pass was valid and I wanted to be ready for it.
I’m not sure if there is anything more to tell, but you will soon know.
Kate
Before doing a bit of research on the temples of Angkor, I had thought that all I would need to do is get out there and wander around. Not so. The Angkor Archeological Park is 400 square kilometers, and there are at least forty different temples listed on my tour map. You have a few choices: Hire a car and driver, go on the back of a motorbike, rent a bicycle, or hire a tuk-tuk. I chose the last option.
A tuk-tuk is a covered cart/carriage, attached by a trailer hitch to a motorcycle. The bench seat accommodates two and a half people comfortably, and there is a place to sit directly opposite the bench, with your back to the driver. I would say three people should be the maximum, but I did see a tuk-tuk with at least five, saffron-robed monks, cruising along the road. On my first day out I also decided to get a guide. Generally, I like to explore on my own, but I simply didn’t know enough and Angkor is too big to just ramble through with no real idea of where you are headed.
Another reason for having a guide is to know when to go to which temple to avoid the onslaught of tour buses. Even though I was there at the height of tourist season, I was able to visit most of the sites when there were very few other tourists.
Not having a clue as to where to go/what to see, I left it up to the pros. At 7:15, we jumped in the tuk-tuk, and took off on a rather bumpity, cold, fifteen minute jaunt through the streets of Siem Reap and out to the park. Stopping at the massive entrance facility, I handed over my cash and a photo to my guide who took care of purchasing my three day pass. (One side note about the cost: A one day pass is $20, a three day, $40. That is not cheap, but it supports the preservation of the park. Or so I thought. It turns out that almost all the money goes to a private company that “administers” the site.) My guide returned in a few minutes with a laminated, photo ID, pass.
Our first stop was to be Angkor Thom, a walled, moated city with lots of temples inside. My guide said that it would be better to drive past Angkor Wat, and go straight to Angkor Thom, so as to avoid the morning crowds at the former. As I think I have already said, I had only known the very basics about Angkor before going there. (and that still is fairly true). I am just not good at reading about a place and retaining any of the information prior to actually seeing it. The fact that I did know that Angkor Wat was surrounded by a moat did not prepare me for the majestic sight of it in the early morning, sitting smack dab in the middle of a lake.
You can call it a moat, but at 570 feet wide, and four miles long, I’m calling it a lake.
But back to Angkor Thom. Five causeways lead into the city that is laid out in a square, each side being about three kilometers long. I think we entered by the south gate, and went straight to Bayon, which turned out to be my favorite of all the temples I was to explore. It is the one with 216 faces carved into 54 towers.
As I walked up onto the various levels, I got closer and closer to the faces, until some of them were right in front of me. Each giant face was much taller then me, maybe around eight feet high. Every which way I turned, there was another smiling face. Totally mesmerizing.
From there, we went to several other temples within Angkor Thom. My guide was very knowledgeable and helpful, but if you asked which sites we visited, and in which order, I couldn’t tell you with certainty. Day one was fantastic, but it did become a blur in my mind. Not only was it sensory overload, but a real physical workout, that one doesn’t notice until the early afternoon.
Inside, the temples are constructed with long corridors that are broken about every two or three meters, by a foot high ledge, breaking the halls into separate, yet connected, vaults. They are too high and too wide to step over. So as you walk along it is a repetitious up, down, step, step, step, up, down, and so forth in a seemingly never ending trek around the temple.
As far as going up the 85 degree angle of five inch wide steps to reach some of the top towers, I opted out. And it has nothing to do with the physicality of the task. I simply do not like heights, and once up there would never again make it back down.
Finishing the rounds of Angkor Thom, we jumped in the tuk-tuk and headed back to Angkor Wat. It was a good time to visit, being around noon and all the tour buses had taken their flocks back to the hotels for lunch. By then, the chill had been replaced by hot sun, for which I was grateful. It was kind of tough walking through areas without any cover from the sun, but once inside a temple, it was pleasantly cool.
We did a quick tour of Angkor Wat, then decided to break for lunch. Next to, or across from all of the sites, there are dozens of souvenir shops and food stalls and open-air restaurants. There are also hundreds of kids hawking their wares. They have learned all the usual English sentences: “Are you thirsty, do you want water?” Or, in the morning when it is chilly: “It’s cold today. Do you want coffee?” “Buy some postcards; buy some bracelets; how about a t-shirt?” And if you engage them with anything more than a pleasant “No, thank you”, you will be immediately swamped by ten other kids with items for sale. My favorite was “Where are you from?” to which I answered, California, to which the little girl said, “I’m from Sacramento.” Talking to the folks back at the Banana, it turns out that most of them have memorized the capitals of all the fifty states and all major countries. Jeeze, I don’t even know all the capitols!
My driver and guide took me to one of the very large restaurants. It stood under a grove of trees and was built of a concrete floor with a thatched roof and a bamboo wall on one side, the other wall was open, making it cool and breezy. There must have been a hundred tables in neat rows, but only a few patrons, being past the lunch hour. Even though I told the guys that I would buy their lunch, they chose to eat with some of the other drivers at the back of the restaurant. I got a sort of curried vegetable dish that was quite good.
After we ate, we drove out to Ta Prohm, the temple I have always envisioned when Angkor is mentioned. It’s the one that the jungle got to. The trees are on a quest to take back their territory, and grow in and out, over and around, the stone walls and rooms and everything in its way. I was surprised at the size. It was smaller than I had thought but nonetheless fascinating and beautiful.
There were still more hours of daylight, but my brain was on temple overload and just wouldn’t take in any more, so we headed home in our lovely tuk-tuk, the warm air blowing over me, the dust blowing up my nose and into my mouth. As we drove on the small road past fields and trees and open spaces, I tired to recall the day’s events, but everything was jumbled up in my head. I knew I hadn’t spent enough time at Angkor Wat. I decided that I would go out the next day with just my driver. I was really glad for the guide, but also knew I preferred to walk alone amongst the ancient spirits.
Back at the Banana, I showered off the sweat and dust, then went out to the courtyard. I sat at a table, ordered a drink, and talked to some of the staff about my day. Soon other explorers returned, or new guests arrived. We exchanged stories, I asked for more Temple Touring Tips, as well as info on where to shop. We talked about where we were from, what we did, where we’d traveled. One conversation with one person would end when they left for the shower or a rest, and another would begin. I couldn’t believe it was already after 7pm, and people were making plans to go into town for dinner. Not being a big dinner person, and being tired, and noticing that my throat was starting to hurt, I declined their offers. This really was the best place I had ever stayed. The temples were spectacular, but to come home to the camaraderie of fun, interesting people, made it so much more worth while.
When I had first looked up the Banana on the web, I knew immediately that I wanted to stay there just because it was so cute. (also right price, right location). I am used to reading websites produced in countries where English is not their first language, and always get a giggle out of the cute mistakes. When describing the hotel, I had thought they had meant to say “A happy and friendly place”, but because of that language thing, had inadvertently written, “A gay friendly place”. I laughed and wondered if anyone had pointed out their error in language usage. But then I kept reading and noticed that there were absolutely no errors in the rest of the text. (hey, don’t blame me, I do this for a living) I looked again at the first line, and then down to the “Guest Comments” and, whoops, I was the one who had made the language error.
Having stayed there, I can attest to the fact that it is a happy and friendly place that also happens to be gay friendly. And if this is the norm for such travelers, in my future journeys I will definitely be logging onto gay travel sites to search for accommodation.
More to follow,
Kate
I’m screwed!, I said to myself as I stepped off the plane in Siem Reap, Cambodia. It was overcast and cold, at least compared to the 98 degrees it was the day before in Ho Chi Minh City. And it was certainly not the 88 degrees CNN weather had predicted. It was in the low-seventy’s, which was not hot enough for the dresses I had planned to wear.
I cruised swiftly through customs, walked out of the tiny airport, which was about the size and noise level of a rural bus stop, and started to search for my ride among the six people holding up signs. I didn’t see either my name or my hotel, The Golden Banana. I talked to a few of the taxi drivers and after twenty minutes, hired one of them to take me into town.
Driving along the road, I started to notice rain drops appearing on the windshield. I tried not to freak and asked the driver, is it raining? “No,” he said, “this isn’t rain.” OK, so it really was just a few sprinkles that soon stopped.
We continued along a two-lane road, past pretty, rural landscapes with oxen and chickens and small houses. A few minutes after that we began to pass enormous, five-star resort hotels that seemed very out of place in this bucolic setting. Along the river we rode, crossing over a bridge, then onto an unpaved road, and left into a narrow, dirt alley.
The B&B was even cuter than the pictures on their website. One enters into a nice sized, tiled patio with a few round, wooden tables and chairs, all engulfed in tropical foliage; bougainvillea, banana tress, orchids, and more. Individual bungalows branch off to the right and towards the back. The reception desk/food order station sits at the far end of the courtyard. I walked over, introduced myself to the young men standing there, told the tale of no airport pick-up, and assured them I did have a reservation.
Pulling out a large ledger, they checked my name and said that I wasn’t due until the next day. Before I had a chance to panic, (I had been told by email that I had booked the last room available), they said that room 14 just happened to also be available that day. They invited me to sit down while they got the paperwork together.
The guy who seemed to be in charge, sat down next to me with the registration forms. The other one brought me an iced tea. A few other young lads appeared. All wore traditional clothing of loose, brightly colored cotton pants and light blue cotton shirts. They were all very cute and very charming. I pulled out my passport and handed it over. “Is this you?” asked the young man. Yes, I said. “But you were so young and beautiful”, he continued, staring at the passport photo and then back to me. Well, that picture is nine years old, I replied. You don’t think it looks like me? He gave it one more look and said, “No.”
Number 14, which I had been forewarned by the owner as being the least desirable of his 17 rooms, wasn’t bad at all except for the thick layer of Raid fog that enveloped the place, and the circulating sub-zero air. I started to choke, located the A/C switch, turned it off, and cranked up the ceiling fan. I quickly noticed that the only windows were tiny slits at the top of the back wall, so thought I would just leave the door open to air it out until I noticed the swarm of skeeters pouring in, and a sign on the wall asking to keep everything shut because of the little varmints. (Malaria/dengue fever/sleepless nights, being three reasons to comply).
In the coming days, I would notice one of the guys entering all the rooms to give them a good dousing of Raid at least once a day. I was eventually able to get them to not spray in my room, or so I thought, even though the room stunk like insecticide the entire time I was there. Back in HCMC, I have had to throw every article of clothing that I took into the washing machine and dump my bag on the balcony as it still reeks of toxins!
I wasn’t planning on hitting Angkor until the next day, so after I left my room, (rather rapidly, I must say), I got a map and walked the short distance to the center of town. I savored walking down dirt roads and paved streets that were incredibly quiet and slow compared to what I had just left. One barely needs to stop before crossing the street. I looked forward to the “quaint French colonial architecture” noted in the guide books. Unfortunately, that entire, five-square block area is currently being refitted with new sewers.
Both sides of most of the central streets had gaping holes where backhoes had dug deep into the earth. The dirt that had been dumped onto the streets turned to mud as a result of the sewer water that now leaked out. I slogged through inches deep sewer mud trying to ignore it and get a sense of the town. I think it really must be cute in an un-dug-up state.
Restaurants, catering to tourists, line the streets, most with wide verandas filled with comfortable chairs and tables. I eventually stumbled on The Red Piano and decided I might as well get something to eat even though the sewer renovation project was in full swing less than half a block away.
Looking at the menu, which had almost every kind of food available save the local fare, I wondered if I had made a mistake. Then I spotted a Cambodian fish soup and ordered it. It arrived with a plate of dried cold rice. I dipped my spoon in, took a sip, and, damn, I had forgotten too ask for no MSG. I went about removing the chunks of fish and put them on the dried out rice. I took a bite. It tasted like soggy styrofoam. I managed to get down two pieces before I had to stop.
With a full bowl of soup sitting in front of me, I asked for the check. It was only $3, so no great loss, but I would never recommend that place, even if it is where Ms.Tomb Raider hung.
I never go to a place for food, but I do go to find local handicrafts, so I walked a block to the Old Market hoping to get a heads up on the arts and crafts available. There didn’t seem to be much. Most of it I had already seen in Vietnam and the prices were crazy-expensive. This was not proving to be a very interesting outing, so I trucked on back to the hotel.
I sat at a table and some of the staff joined me. I enquired about the best way to do the Temples and decided on hiring a tuk-tuk, (pronounced like ‘2’, with a ‘k’ at the end), and a guide for the next day. I had already decided on purchasing a three-day pass. That settled, I ordered a bottle of water and sat there enjoying the calming, peaceful surroundings.
Staff members came and went, joining me at the table to talk. I got a short Khmer lesson from one of them. It turns out the alphabet has something like 33 consonants and 22 vowels. There numbers go 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 5+1, 5+2, etc. Only later did another guest point out that it was exactly like roman numerals and that really helped to organize it in my brain, not that I really remember any of the numbers I had so diligently repeated and transliterated into my notebook.
After the language teacher left, I noticed another staff member transforming lotus flower buds into decorative objects. I beckoned him over. He showed me how you gently peel back a petal, fold it in half, then bend it at an angle to the right, repeat to the left, again to the right, then tuck it into the base of the bud. You continue doing that to all the petals until you end up with a rose-like creation. I worked on a few of them. Some of my petals kept unfurling, but with enough practice I think I could master it.
By early evening I had also talked to several of the other guests who came to relax in the courtyard, most ordering something to drink or eat. It is the friendliest place I have ever stayed. People who had been there a few days were happy to give recommendations about where to go and what to see; how to avoid the hoards of tour buses; the best times to see which temples; where to buy souvenirs. I felt as though I were among old friends.
I think I finally went to my room around 9pm. I would have to be ready and waiting for my guide and driver at 7am. The room still smelled pretty bad, but I wasn’t too concerned. It had been a good day.
Kate
I fly to Siem Reap, and the temples of Angkor, in about 15 hours. I have spent the day sorting out clothing for the week and packing. As long as I have been traveling around, I still cannot ever manage to take the right things, even though I spend hours planning and packing. Or rather, I take a bunch of stuff and then wear the same two items.
The morning was filled with trying on outfits, deciding which would be the most comfortable as well as fashionable. I ironed everything, then laid it out according to the day it would be worn. I was quite impressed with my systematic approach to travel preparedness, and even more thrilled that I had accomplished it all before noon.
I needed some last minute things from the supermarket, so wandered out at 1:00. It started to dawn on me, as I walked home in the 98 degree heat, that the pants and t-shirt items I had so carefully chosen would kill me if I hiked around jungle and ruins all day. Back in the house, I quickly went about replacing almost all the clothes I had previously decided upon with skirts and jungle dresses. (not to be confused with Saturday Night/Office dresses.)
Even though I had checked the weather in Siem Reap, I started to get worried that maybe I would end up freezing, as I had done in Bali a few years ago. So, back in went a few pairs of pants. I think I now have a proper assortment of garments to accommodate any possible climate.
I also have every possible personal care item that one may need for a five day trip. This time I am bringing my own pillow and sheet. The sheet is because it seems that people in every country outside of the US do not use top sheets. And the places I stay in do not wash the top sheet cum blanket between guests. Yuck! If that isn’t enough to stave off sleep, there is always the 15 year old, rock hard pillow.
Yesterday I ran into town to buy a small backpack, film, and a few other things. I got a pack that I had assumed was a North Face forgery because it only cost $10. But when I got it home I looked at it more carefully. I think it is the real deal. I am not quite sure how that is possible. It is an uninteresting grey, but that was my color choice and I was in a hurry to get out of the center of the city.
Tet is less than a week away and everything is pretty crazy. Lots of shopping going on and lots of people everywhere. One of the major streets is blocked off and they are turning it into some sort of pedestrian garden, complete with little ponds. I only saw the beginnings but hope to see it next weekend. There is also something going on just around the corner from my house. I am not sure what it is, but it looks like vender stands have been erected on both sides of a side street next to my building, extending at least a kilometer. I thought it wouldn’t be ready until next week, but I just looked out my window, and they have turned the street out back into a motorbike parking lot. I suppose I should go out and see what is going on. Guess not. I looked outside again, and now about 100 motorbikes are lined up and revving their engines, waiting to pay the parking fee and get back on the road.
Just think, this time tomorrow I will be communing with the spirits of Angkor!
Kate
I have another week to teach, and then I’ll get two weeks off for Tet. (Lunar New Year). The University takes such a long break because no one would come to class if they did anything less. Everyone travels to their town of origin, (or their parent’s, or grandparent’s hometown). It’s not a paid break, but that’s life in the world of teaching English.
Since I don’t intend to re-visit the land of any of my ancestors, I am going to Cambodia for about five days. Specifically, Siem Reap, gateway to Angkor. After beaches, old ruins are my favorite destination for travel. I’ve been busy reading up on the place, which one needs to do. I had no idea that the temples spread out over 40 miles. And I had thought the whole thing was called Angkor Wat, when, in reality, that is the name of just one temple.
I have also made reservations for a nice, budget hotel, on recommendation from some folks at work. I had been told to try and get something at the Red Piano Hotel and Restaurant. When I went on-line, I found that this popular abode has become even more so, ever since the cast and crew of Laura Croft, Tomb Raider, hung out at the restaurant between shots. (Although I have no doubt that they stayed at a 5 star hotel to sleep).
I was going to buy my ticket at Siem Reap Airlines. I walked the few blocks from the bus stop to their offices, to find an empty shop, the innards being torn out. Back across the street to a travel agent to ask where Siem had moved to. Address in hand, I set out.
A few blocks up the street I saw a man sitting on a small, plastic stool, with a makeshift table in front of him. I could see he was making something out of green bamboo leaves. I walked closer and saw the most incredible grasshoppers made entirely of cut and bent leaves that had been woven together. They were about eight inches long, and suspended from a long stick of cut bamboo leaf. Or maybe it was some other type of leaf.
I really wanted to talk to the man and find out where he learned how to make them. I think I remember hearing that grasshoppers brought good luck. But all I could do was ooh and aah, and buy two of them. He smiled at his grasshoppers and, before giving them to me, he kissed the tips of two fingers then waved them towards the critters. I was so excited about my purchases that I barely noticed the heat and noise of the city.
Arriving at the Siem Reap new offices, I found out that they no longer fly directly to Cambodia, and I had to return to the place where I had gotten the directions. Although in between I ran a couple of errands and almost got on the bus home before realizing I had yet to buy the plane ticket.
Back home, I got on the bike to ride to the supermarket. Once again, the tires were flat. This seems to happen every time I take it out for a spin. It’s not a problem, as I just pushed it a few blocks until I found a repairman. Usually you find them near a main intersection, sitting on a stool with a beat up bag of worn tools and findings.
This time, it was a pair of men, listening to a taped-together radio with really bad reception. They pumped up my tires, and the back one went flat immediately. Several other people, (they all appeared to know each other), came by and offered help and suggestions. When nothing worked, I understood that one would go and buy an inner tube. I sat on a stool, the younger guy took off on his motor bike, and more people joined our group.
Returning with the inner tube they, non-too-gently, threw my bike on the ground, then upside down to get the rear tire off. Then again, this a Vietnamese bike and built like a tank. It would take a lot more than that to damage it. By the time all was said and done, six people were observing and commenting on the progress of it all. I asked if they were there everyday, as I am sure the front tire also needs a new inner tube. I think they understood and I think that that is their corner. I’m sure I will find out soon enough.
The other exciting news is that I can finally see in my kitchen, which runs along a wall with no windows. When I moved in, this apartment was full of either florescent lights or 60 watt bulbs, and I have been slowly replacing them. The problem has been that it is very difficult to find 100 watt bulbs where I live and then once I do, I am not tall enough to change them.
Climbing on chairs and counters this afternoon, I managed to get the mini, 60 watt bulb out of the hanging light fixture. But when I tried to put in the new one, the whole socket came off and I could see it was corroded.
What was I going to do? It was Sunday. Then I remembered where I live and that anything can be done at any time. I sent a text message to my realtor friends and they had the electricians over in ten minutes. It did take another hour before they got back with supplies, but they fixed it in no time.
And I do believe that the dry season has finally arrived. The last rain was New Years Eve, and not a drop since then.
Kate
