Taking Orders from the Chief

My time in Laos was amazing. From Northern Thailand I crossed the bustling Mekong river in a rickety old boat into Laos. The locals were much poorer, but wonderfully warm and welcoming. I decided that this was the place to take a trek into the mountains and experience the natural environment of the Laos hill-tribe people. If I had been told I was going to be yanking leeches off of my legs as I hiked through the pouring rain, slipping in muddy jungle creeks and then later taking orders from the village chief, I might have opted out. I am so glad I didn’t know, because the rewards of this adventure far outweighed the nuisances. Our journey to the Akha forest camp of Nam Lai started from the town of Luang Namtha. We met our guide “Cy” and piled into a songthaew (an old truck with bench seating in back) and headed for the hills. We reached the trailhead, and began our hike through thick jungle plants, past water buffalo and up muddy trails. I learned quickly that leeches are like slinkys. They start on your shoes and then slinky front to end, then end to front all the way up your leg. When they find a nice spot, they latch on. Yes, they are disgusting critters, but as they don’t do much harm, I found it best to just laugh as I pried them off my thighs.
In the early evening, we finally arrived at the Akha village. The local women were just arriving home from working in the fields, the children were chasing chickens outside their thatch huts, and the men stood around chatting and smoking tobacco. We took off our wet clothes, hung them around the fire, inside our sleeping hut, and sat down Indian style on the floor for dinner. We were soon greeted by the village chief, who spooned food onto our plates and then passed around the traditional Laos-Laos whiskey. I tried to politely refuse the whiskey, but the look the chief gave me quickly convinced me to graciously receive what I was given. The night ended with traditional, and brutal, massages by thirteen-year-old Akha village girls. Exhausted, we crawled under our mosquito nets, into our lined up mattresses on the floor.
The next morning we woke early and made our way to the chief’s hut for breakfast, visiting with villagers along the way. It was 7am and I assumed coffee was on the menu. How wrong I was. The chief began passing around more Laos-Laos whisky. I cringed as I swallowed and felt the burn in my empty belly. I managed to fake drink a few more shots, and then pour them out when the chief wasn’t looking. We then learned that a wedding was planned for the day, and changed into our cleanest hiking pants for the occasion. The entire village was involved, and music streamed out over a loud speaker, as wood was carved and chopped to make tables and benches. Although none of us shared a common language, we were able to communicate for hours with smiles, laughs and gestures. After wishing the bride and groom good luck, we headed back out of the jungle, in awe from the glimpse of village life that we were able to witness.
From Luang Namtha, I journeyed eight hours southeast to Nong Khiaw, a picturesque town on the banks of the Nam Ou River, where I explored caves that the local people had used for hideouts during the war. From there I floated down the river, on a tiny slowboat from Nong Khiaw to Luang Prabang, watching villagers fishing and children playing by the riverbanks. Above all I appreciated my opportunity to explore a beautiful country that has yet to be totally exploited by tourism.
Laos marked the end of an amazing journey, but only one chapter in a lifetime of adventures. Thank you for your support and for tirelessly following Brig and I around the world through this blog.

Thailand: Same-Same but Different

The above phrase describes perfectly how I felt upon arriving in Bangkok. A huge western city with skyscrapers, 7-elevens and lots of traffic. Same as home, but different people, food and customs. This phrase is also commonly used by Thai people to describe how two things differ, or don't as the case may be. Maybe you are trying to decide between two rooms in a guest house, two different dishes, two modes of transportation. The Thai people will tell you "same-same, but different" which is true I guess, in the end.

In this entry, though, I think I will focus on the differences rather than the sames. The biggest difference is well, the food. All of the amazing, delicious, spicy, sour, sweet, cheap, ever-present, did I mention delicious, food. You can't move five feet down the street without bumping into a food stall. And behind every good food stall, small as it may be, there is an amazing cook ready to whip up any of about 200 dishes, all for under a dollar. Oh and the best phrase of all in Thailand "gin len" literally translates as "eat for fun". And gin len is what Thai people love to do! This makes me happy. I have always felt a close kinship to food which goes beyond just being hungry and filling the belly. Gin len describes one of my favorite hobbies, and refined talents. And what better way to hone this talent than to devote my time in Thailand to food? So this is what I have been doing.

Besides eating five meals a day in Bangkok, my time was spent running from super soakers (huge water guns). I arrived during Songkhran, the Thai New Year and water festival, where the city shuts down, and locals stand on the corner with huge buckets of water or spray guns, ready to soak unsuspecting walkers, like me, from head to toe. This was a surprise, but I adapted quickly by wearing my same sweaty running clothes for three days straight. And in fact, it was so hot that being drenched, and laughed at, every 10 minutes or so, wasn't so bad.

From Bangkok I headed north by train to see the sacred ruins of Sukhothai. From there I continued on to Chiang Mai. I quickly signed up for two days of cooking classes from a Thai TV chef, intent on bringing a taste of Thailand back home with me. The classes were great and involved a trip to the local market, making my own curry paste and 12 other classic Thai dishes and then eating every last one of them. Is this heaven? After that I headed up to the cute little mountain village of Pai, where I rode a scooter through the hills, past elephant camps and to a WWII Memorial Bridge. While in Pai I happened upon a flyer that was advertising a three day farm stay, with yoga classes and two full days of , you guessed it, cooking classes. By this time, my stomach had recovered from the last binge session, so I packed up my bag and headed for the farm.

It was a rustic, wet and buggy experience, but delightful all the same. The cooking classes were even better than before and the fresh farm air was invigorating. The termites on the other hand, were disgusting. Our accommodations were open mud huts with bucket showers and squat toilets, a small mattress and mosquito net. Unfortunately, termites of the flying variety, can shimmy through the holes of the nets. My nights were spent burning mosquito coils and brushing termite wings off my body. But hey, I got my fill of delicious food, yet again.

After leaving the farm, I headed six hours north to Chiang Khong and yet another border crossing, with plenty of food stops along the way. The border crossing over the Mekong river went smoothly and I found myself safely in Laos, with a new language to tackle and a new cuisine to explore.

All Aboard the Marrakesh Express

Touts, hustlers, scammers, wheelers, dealers or accomplished salesmen? You be the judge. In Morocco, a sales men's opening price for any service rendered or product sold is at least three times higher than the fair price. If you are good at bargaining, which I happen to be, you quarter the price, confidently state the new, much deflated number and smile sweetly while they glare at you as though you insulted their grandmother. "No, never in a million camel rides" they say dramatically, with their hand on their heart, a frown on their face, but a twinkle in their eye. "Now, my friend", they implore "give me your real price, a democratic offer." This can be tricky, because the truth is, you don't know if you really want the rug/lamp/eggplant/shawl/snake/spice. You were really just curious of the price, but now if he accepts your offer, you are stuck buying the item.

What makes browsing even more difficult is that 99 percent of these salesmen have graduated with honors from the Guilt Trip School of Sales. When you come in to the store and ask to look at one rug, they start to systematically wreck their showroom by climbing ladders, pulling out dozens of rugs, throwing them everywhere. This is when the guilt starts to set in. Then they offer you tea, and they won't let you refuse. You sit and chat and have your nice mint tea. They tell you that their favorite tourists are Americans. The guilt builds. An hour of rug explanation ensues. It's too late to say "I'm just browsing" and walk out. The guilt is insurmountable. If you have your wits about you, you don't start bargaining, you just say thank you and run. If you do bargain but the price is still too high and you tell them you may come back tomorrow, you are in for a nasty goodbye. They will eventually let you go, but not without some choice words and the final Moroccan sales attempt " One dirham today is worth 10 dirham tomorrow" .

If you can look beyond the somewhat exhausting daily harassment focused on tourists, you discover an enticing country filled with intriguing people. To stroll inside the maze-like medina walls of Marrakesh is a treat to the senses. Bright colors glitter from the shoe shops, lamp shops, and silver stores. Local women glide through the streets dressed in vibrant robes and head scarves, revealing only their sultry eyes. The smell of curry, spice and fresh baked bread floats from the many food stalls. Snake charmers, fortune tellers and witch doctors beckon you toward them. If your strapped on cash, you can entertain yourself day and night in Marrakesh without ever spending a dirham.

Legend of the stunning mountains of Morocco eventually loured us from the city and into the small villages of the High Atlas. We arrived in Imlil, a small Berber village at the base of the mountains and prepared to set out on a three day hiking trek.Unfortunately, there are dozens of local men claiming to be certified guides, insisting that its impossible to trek alone. Of course they levy a heavy charge to guide you through the mountains and refuse to give you even basic directions without payment. Shrugging off their offers, and our annoyance, we set off alone, confident that where there are villages, there are beds and food. Money talks, even in the High Atlas mountains. The scenery was beautiful and the villages perched on the hillsides blended perfectly into the slate surroundings. Although we didn't hire a "certified guide", we had dozens of child- guides along the way, who demanded much less for their services.

At the end of the trek we hopped into a grand taxi (an old, beat up Mercedes stuffed with seven passengers) and headed to the coast. After a few days of relaxing in the charming fishing village of Essaouira, we packed up our bags, strapped our new Berber rug to Brig's backpack, and left Morocco with the happy knowledge that we managed to escape without buyer's remorse.

Cape town

Travel weary, and well, weary, we tucked our tail between our legs and purchased a Malawi Air flight to Cape town. Never heard of Malawi Air? Neither had we. Our plane ticket cost 80,000 kwacha (about $280) payable in cash. Sound suspect? The next day we got a call: flight cancelled. Then I pick up a paper, Malawi Air files bankruptcy, planes grounded. At this point I’m certain of two things: I just lost 280 bucks and I need another way out of here. Just when things are looking pretty grim an email arrives from my favorite airline. Sticking with their country’s motto, the warm heart of Africa, Air Malawi will drive us 3 hours to another airport where we’ll board a South African Airlines flight..

In light of said travel weariness, we decided to stay in Cape town for a month. On the official worlds-most- radical-cities website, Cape town is deservedly awarded gold medal status; Amazing beaches, big mountains, wine, great food, and gorgeous drives all within stones throw of the city… luckily for us, our apartment came with a 2 person scooter to see them all. As if that wasn’t enough, we reunited with some long lost friends we met in Bolivia 5 months ago.

Our first field trip was to the top of Cape town’s Everest: Table Mountain. The cities natural growth boundary rises steeply 2000 meters above the Mother City below. A late morning start virtually guaranteed the summit would be covered by the “table cloth,” but fortunately the clouds cleared from time to time. Later that week, we met up with Nic and Caroline, our two friends from Bolivia and drove to Cape Point, meeting place of the Atlantic and Indian oceans. It is not only amazingly picturesque, as many car commercials can attest, but also home to the endangered Prada Baboon.

Baboons are mean critters. I double dog dare you to try to get that bag (the owner thought throwing rocks would scare off the baboon. It did, he ran into the shrubs with the purse).

After a few solid days of scooter driving on the left side of the road, I felt ready to drive a real car, which is much more difficult than English films let on. Steering wheel (right side), shifting (left hand), seat belt (right shoulder)… Damn Brits.

We managed to scurry west a few hours to Montagu, where everyone speaks Africaans and some people speak English. Perhaps if the hotel owner spoke English, he could have informed me of this snake

which I nearly stepped on. In fact, I would have had it not been standing up, tongue out, ready to strike. Later inquiries identified the dude as a Cape Cobra... Sixty percent of bites are lethal.

Our final little excursion was a full moon hike to the top of Lions Head, which is basically a lower summit of Table Mountain. The locals do this every full moon, and since Lion’s Head is at our doorstep it was a no brainer. We missed the sunset, but got up in time to snap a few pictures and enjoy dinner and wine. All told, Cape town is a fantastic city. Where else can you feast on Springbok steak or warthog ribs (hands down, the most delicious thing I have eaten), swim with great white sharks, and explore different cultures. Sure, it has some problems, most of which seem rooted in racism. But remember, Apartheid ended in 1994, only fourteen years ago. And while that seems crazy at first thought, recall that southern schools integrated only 35 years before that and look how much things have changed.

Final boarding for flight 8637 to Morocco, better run.... oops, don't forget to check out the new uploaded pictures!

The &%*#!@ Border Crossing

I can’t say that we are happy to leave Brig’s mother and our ever accommodating safari guide, but since technically they are leaving us, we don’t have much of a choice. We board a hot crowded bus, switch on the bladder control button, and head south through Tanzania. We share a couple of days in Dar Es Salaam with our president. Picture a city with four million people, and only the main roads are paved. We visit the U.S. embassy to add a few dozen more pages to our passports and then board a Chinese built train (a relic from the Communist era in Tanzania) bound for Mbeya. From Mbeya we plan to cross over into Malawi, one of the poorest countries in the world, but praised for their gorgeous and massive lake.
We wake up before dawn and board the only minibus headed for the border. After six hours and fifteen stops where the driver honks madly on his horn in attempt to refill the minibus, we complete the sixty (yes, sixty) mile journey to the border. Did the thought cross my mind that if I could only hijack that rusted bike from the kid carrying a stack of logs twice his size that we could be to the border in half the time? Or perhaps just pay off the driver not to stop anymore. Nope, this never crossed my mind. I love the journey, the experience of having my knees crammed against the seat in front of me, fighting for space with a giant barrel of rice, and the excitement of wagering how slowly something with a motor can get from point A to point B.

Upon finally arriving at the border, we take a deep breath, elbow our way off of the minibus, and prepare for what I like to refer to as “Border Madness” to begin. Brig and I are immediately surrounded by fifteen adolescent African locals, eager to scam our pants off. They are all bombarding us at once with offers to exchange our money, cycle us across the border, carry our backpacks, and on and on. It's just too much for me right now, I look at Brig and want to cry, scream, demand my personal space. But instead I just laugh. I know as well as they know that the only way to have any peace, is to select one of these guys to “help” us so that the rest will leave us alone. We select David, reluctantly hand him a few of our Tanzanian shillings and receive what are presumably counterfeit Malawian kwacha in return. Assuming that our money is now gone, the hawkers disperse, leaving us to cross without further harassment into Malawi.
One cab, two more buses and nine hours later, we arrive in the lakeside town of Nkata Bay. Our secluded lakefront cabana perched on the manicured hillside is in sharp contrast with the villagers thatched huts and polluted river. The local population is poor, and stricken by one of the largest percentages of HIV in all of Africa. The lake is beautiful and the snorkeling amazing, but this discrepancy of opportunity puts a damper on my enjoyment.

Another damper comes in the form of aching muscles, fever and a burning headache. Symptoms that would normally be the sign of an unfortunate flu in America, happen to be exactly the same as the first signs of malaria in Africa. On top of that, the malaria medicine that is supposed to prevent me from getting malaria is also giving me crazy nightmares. Usually some local thugs are trying to kill me, sometimes Brig saves me, sometimes he doesn’t. And occasionally, Brig is the one trying to kill me.

A trip to the local hospital in the back of a pick-up truck and I am pronounced clear of malaria. I switch malaria medicine, and things start looking up. We briefly consider heading to Cape Town, South Africa by bus, but the thought of any more tortuous bus rides overwhelms us with feelings of panic, abuse and cruelty. We splurge for a plane ticket and sigh with relief at the thought of staying put in one city for an entire month.