Escargot, Hột Vịt Lộn and Emasculation

People are staring.  So what.  I’m riding around Saigon with a beautiful girl and life is good.  That I happen to be sitting on the back of her scooter, am tall enough to see perfectly over her head and that this is totally emasculating are minor details.  At stop lights, young kids sandwiched between mom and dad on a scooter openly stare, as does the baby sister who stands in front of dad, gripping the rearview mirrors above the handle bars of the bike, protected on either side by his veined arms.  He doesn’t look over, the men here seldom do.

The streets of Saigon are an ant hive of motorbikes and a handful of cars.  The bikes swarm from one light to another, entering the rotating jumbles of round abouts and emerging on the other side having executed a hundred decisions both conscious and unconscious, following laws both written and unwritten at a moments notice.  I wouldn’t trust anyone from here to get two miles in the States without occurring a half dozen traffic violations and likewise I don’t quite trust myself to navigate this teeming mass of humanity and come out unscathed.  You can’t go a day in the travler's ghetto without seeing a pale skinned foreigner sporting fresh injuries, likely a knee and elbow on the same side, wrapped in white bandages.  Most try to make up a good story; none of them are any good.

So I let Rosy pick me up on the street outside the guesthouse.  She appears out of the traffic wearing a smart helmet and the facemask that is ever present among the women of Vietnam.  It’s equally important for protection from the sun as it is for the pollution.  I hop on the back of the bike, which gives a bit before rebounding and we head to dinner.  We are going to the other side of the city and it takes us over twenty minutes to negotiate the way.  We try to hold a conversation but it’s hard as she’s talking into a mask and facing away from me.  I sit back, enjoying the city passing around us and the night air rushing by.

My first time in Saigon had been a year earlier, when I had flown here from Myanmar.  Then the bright shop signs lining the streets had felt harsh and intrusive after the peacefully undeveloped Burmese towns.  But now the lights provided a comforting backdrop to scene of us humming down the streets.  Sometimes empty, sometimes packed, with the occasional roundabout to keep me from getting too comfortable.   Despite having an unimpressive skyline and not nearly the global pedigree of some, Saigon is alive in the way that all great cities are with the chaotic, yet controlled hustle and bustle of everyday life played out in public.  In Kuala Lumpur life is subdued inside sterile mega malls, lite rail systems and traffic jams full of lonely people in compact cars spending hours commuting a few miles.  Rush hour in Saigon is a hectic mess but you could never call it a traffic jam.  Things are always moving, life is always buzzing along.

We turn off a main street and into a brightly lit alley.  It is wider than most with lights and banners crisscrossing between the buildings overhead, giving it a festive feeling.  The pavement is so badly potholed and broken that I’m nearly dislodged from my perch but we make it the one block to where the main alley splits to the left and on the right is a narrow passage not more than a couple meters wide.  I hop off the bike and Rosy guides it down the passage while I checkout tonight’s offerings of snails, crab, oysters and other creatures.  A few gnarled chicken feet are the last thing I notice before heading off through the passage after her.

The passage way widens into a well-lit courtyard/three-way intersection between the back alleys.  Larger alleys come in from the sides and the building straight ahead has a couple dozen scooters lined up out front.  Rosy is setting her bike inside the narrow building’s fluorescently lit front room, which is being utilized for parking tonight.  As I walk towards her, on my left is a collection of tables and stools that to the unaccustomed eye would be mistaken to be for hobbits.  There is more staring from the occupants as I walk past, unaccompanied and then I join Rosy and we get a table.

A generous measurement would put the backless stools at a foot high.  I attempt to gracefully lower myself into one, which prompts a laugh from her.  A waitress arrives and briskly gives her a handwritten note, today’s menu. Rosy asks what I want to drink – green tea.  Probably not a good idea here – ok, Coke.  The waitress is off to get drinks and Rosy goes to see what is fresh today.  She returns, the drinks arrive and the order is made.  Then somehow we get on the subject of hột vịt lộn – the partially developed duck egg.  They have it, so we order it.  Later, I learn more about this egg from Mr. Kim, the mildly flamboyant manager of the guesthouse I use.  Like all strange foods (snails not being considered as such) it is suppose to make you strong.  Often it is given to new mothers to help their recovery and after the American War, it grew in popularity as a source of protein since meat was scarce.  Hột vịt lộn was a staple of Mr. Kim’s childhood diet.  To eat two of them is bad luck while eating either one or three is best as those are lucky numbers.  It’s also bad luck to eat your own dog but not one you didn’t raise, so take that as you will.

The snails come in three types.  There are the long, ridged ones in a garlic, coconut milk and butter sauce, which is phenomenal.  I believe these are called ‘sweater snails’ after the ridges.  The pointy end has been cut off and you suck the snails out - an act, which in the right hands gives rise to an untold number of sexual innuendos.  Next there is a plate of periwinkle type snails in sort of syrupy sweet/sour sauce for lack of a better term.   These are smooth and round with a plasticy layer at their opening about the texture and width of your phone’s screen protector.  Using a small two-pronged fork you peel this off, stab the meat and then with a delicate twisting motion remove the edible part trying not to break the tail end.  This is almost impossible and all of mine come out with a broken tail.  Rosy delights in playfully irking me by showing off her perfectly removed snails.  She quickly catches on to the concentration I’m putting into getting this right. 

‘You’re very competitive aren’t you?’

‘Only with things that don’t matter.’

‘I see.’

‘It makes stuff more fun sometimes.’

‘I bet you can’t get one out perfectly.’

And she was right.  A few minutes later I am still unsuccessful and she hands me one of her intact snails.  Whether it was as consolation or to rub it in my face I am not sure.  Unfortunately, this particular snail turned out to be the only one of the night that had decided to swallow half the beach and my mouth was coated in musty sand.

After washing that down with some good ol’ glass bottle coke we started on the third offering.  Two mammoth snails the size of tennis balls cooked with butter and green onion and topped with crushed peanuts.  Using the same forks we pulled out big succulent chunks and enjoyed the white flesh, periodically dunking pieces in a mixture of salt, pepper and lime juice.

Soon the eggs appeared, served in the same sauce as the periwinkles but with a few peanuts added.  They were shell-less, light brown in color and appeared to have been slightly hardboiled.  On either side of a soft center was a hardened membrane sack that tasted strongly sulfuric.  Later research would prove that often this part is left uneaten, but I followed Rosy’s lead and dug in.  I trusted her enough to navigate us through the streets of Saigon and didn’t think twice about this.  The center part was really good.  Surprisingly light with a strong poultry flavor.  I’d heard horror stories about crunching down on tiny skulls and bones and beaks but as far as I could tell, these weren’t that far along to being the little quacky guys.  I also maintained eye contact with her through out this eating process while trying to include some peanut bits in each bite, chalking up anything crunchy to them.

Later that night, chatting and calmly driving down quiet and sparsely trafficked roads, Rosy leans back and I can tell she is smiling beneath the mask, “You know right now you are kinda like the female sitting there.” 

I scowl fakely and pinch her side.

“Yup now you are really the female,” she laughs.

“Fuck.”

The 'stans Pt. 1

Neither of us really slept the night before and by 5 am I realized that I’d ordered the taxi for too late.  We should have been at the airport at 7 not leaving for it.  My text to the driver at 5:15 was answered immediately; we could go at 6:30.  At 6:25 I started lugging the 60 kilos of brochures and signs down to the guardhouse.  I’d never seen this guard before and he barely acknowledged my presence as I pilled bags and suitcases at his post.  A light rain fell and I was dressed in the warmest clothes I had, in anticipation of a snowy welcome in Tashkent.  I was drenched in sweat by the time everything was set.

The taxi showed up right on time, driven by a fifty year old Malay with greying shoulder length hair that oddly gave him the resemblance of being native American at that hour.

“You are always very punctual, Mr. Spencer.”

“That’s because I’m always late.”  

And we were off to pick up Nodir.  The convoluted KL highway system, largely devoid of useful on and off ramps doubled the length of the trip.  Nodir was just stepping on to the street from his behemoth of a complex when we pulled up at 6:45.  After a lengthy farewell with his roommate, who had helped him carry his own mass of luggage, we left for the airport.

“What time is your flight?”

“8:50.”

“Oh!”

“Yea… You gotta drive like a fucking speeding bullet.”

“No problem.  Will think I am a Formula One, an F-1 race car.”

“Perfect.”

He delivered.  Pushing 130 the whole way and punching out of the tolls with purpose.  About 15 minutes out from the airport I noticed his leg occasionally twitching, spasming, his hands tightly gripping the wheel, arms flexing to push himself back against the seat.  I had been touched by his unusual eagerness to haul ass around KL this early in the morning but the truth was that this guy just had to go. Badly.

He eyed a rest stop a few kilometers out and our eyes met. 

“Big tip,” I say.

“Ok,” he smiles back.

I had to get out of KL.  We had to make that flight.

______________________________________________________

The international transfers waiting area in New Delhi is not meant to be occupied for 10 straight hours.

Should you ever find yourself in this situation here are some possible activities:

You can get to know the security guy who wands you down every time you go to the bathroom or drinking fountain.

You can play a game of chicken with said drinking fountain; after all you have eight hours to wonder if the gurgling and rising acid level in your stomach is from the water or simply hunger, dehydration and lack of sleep.  Only time will tell if any previous experiences in the country have given you a resistance to Delhi Belly.

You can cram yourself onto the only two seats that are missing an armrest divider and try to get some sleep. (Third row from the front on the right hand side as you pass security.)

You can buy cigarettes under the table using US Dollars.  The tall guy in the black shirt hands you a pack and then you meet him in the smoking room and smoothly palm him a fiver, before exchanging pleasantries.  Cause you know, you have a lot to talk about.  Like how much you both currently hate your jobs.

You can of course, read.  However, I cannot recommend ‘A short walk in the hindu-kush’ by Eric Newby.  Good book, but you don’t want to sit here reading about trekking in the great outdoors while stuck in a low ceilinged, artificially lit box.

You can exchange USD for rupees with the guy in the red jacket next to the pay phone.  Note: he will only give you hundred rupee bills, the vending machine only takes up to fifties and those are no where to be found among the staff.

You can listen to your Uzbekistan co-worker talk with a random stewardess (there won’t be any from your airline around) about the inhuman aspects of the situation and how everyone is starving and unless they get their shit together and get us some food, something violent may occur.  This actually worked and an hour later we were able to hand over some money in exchange for food and coffee.  And then she invited us all to Rishekesh if we find ourselves in the area again.

You can, by about the 5^th hour realize that water was a bad choice.

You can get to know your fellow passengers to the grave.  So far we’ve got one nice Uzbek on his way back from Kathmandu.  Sharing a common destination, we are all fast becoming friends.  I scored him a sandwich and coffee with the food misadventure and I think he’s taking us out clubbing later in the week.  The rest of the occupants I can only guess about, but the long-termers are a lone Mongol looking fellow with a smooth mullet who walks with a gnarly limp, a family that is likely Pakistani from photos I’ve seen and then a picture perfect young Arabic family.  Dressed to impress and with facial features that could cut stone.  They seem to get a lot of attention from the staff, everyone’s gotta be wondering what two ridiculously good looking people and their adorable kids are doing stuck here in purgatory.

You can, if like me you’ve been bumming around the equator for far too long, daydream about getting to a temperate climate.  Imagine that first rush of cold air, a few snowflakes on your face and not being a dripping ball of sweat for the next two weeks.  Nodir has promised to take me to a place where all my worries will disappear.  Usually a statement such as that comes with some caveats.  Big ones concerning the flexibility of certain moral principals, but going a few days without being a sticky mess sounds like a good start.

                                                                                                           

______________________________________________________               

10 Days Later

Ms. Gulia picks me up from the Hotel Uzbekistan at 6 am sharp.  We are going from Tashkent to Samarkand for the day to give a scholarship exam for high school students.  It’s still dark and the hotel lobby is empty save for one bellboy.  My plush lined dress shoes, a must have for winter here, echo on the marble. Nodir is absent.  Ms. Gulia (Think ‘gulag’ + ‘Julia’) is wearing a pink pea coat, possibly the only pink pea coat in a country where all coats are black and all clothes are blue, black or white.  She is in her mid fifties with mid length brown hair and doesn’t speak a word of English.  At the time I knew one word in Uzbek and three in Russian, her native tongues.

Not that we let that stop us from having a full on conversation.  I’m assuming that she is as well versed in this sort of thing as I am.

“Доброго ранку. як справи?

“Good Morning, how’s it going?”

“Де це маленьке лайно, Nodir?”

“I have no idea where Nodir is,” I shrug, then I mime using my phone, “нет (no) answer.”

“Ну, ебать. Я постараюся виклику." She talks for a few seconds and then stalks towards the waiting car, “давай” and waves me to get in.

“You have the materials, right?” I ask, pointing at the trunk.

“так, звичайно.” 

A driver, I assuming her husband, gets out and helps me load the bags.  This education consultancy is completely run by the women of the family, two fiftyish sisters, one girl my age named Maftuna and a guy of the same age who does the IT, I think. When ever we are going anywhere with them, it seems always to be one of the men of the family doing the driving, but even if we are going to eat the men will not eat with us.

Not that driving here is any small task.  The roads in the city are all wide, multilane affairs and the speed limit seems to be as fast as you can go as long as you don’t slide out on a turn and can slam the brakes on with out screeching to halt at cross walks.  The police are everywhere but speed is their last concern, so the general rule of the road is don’t stand out.  Your car should preferably be white like 80% of the others and if not, then black or silver.  When you see a cop, whatever song you are blasting (chances are it will be ‘La La La’ by Naughty Boy or a track off the new Avicii album) should be turned down to a whisper and god forbid you get stopped – just go with it and accept your fate.  I heard a story about one guy simply asking a cop why he was pulled over for no reason and getting a two-week stint in jail.  Apparently, it overall isn’t a bad experience as everyone else is also in there on bullshit two-week charges.

After making a quick U-turn and cutting in front of three lanes of oncoming traffic we lurched to a stop in front of the train station just as the sky was beginning to lighten.

Following another dually one-sided conversation in English and Russian with Ms. Gulia, Nodir appears out of a taxi, smiling.  Like so many other times during this trip I hold back the urge to smack him firmly in the back of the head and ask for an explanation.  I glare at him soullessly.  A uniquely human expression that crosses all language barriers and am garnered with an explanation and a conversation that will reoccur to often in the coming weeks.

“I am sorry.  I do not hear alarm.”

{Glare}

“Really.  I do not hear”

“Nodir, how many phones do you have?”

{Puzzled look}

“You have three phones, right?”

“Yes, but I set only one alarm.”

{Glare}

“Should I set more than one?”

{Sigh}

I turn away and head towards the station entrance as he promises that it will not happen again.  It would happen the next morning.

The train is the pride and joy of the Uzbek transportation system.  It’s Spanish built and looks like a high speed train straight out of Europe with a long gently sloped nose on the front and an interior that makes you forget that you are in the center of a region that the world has forgotten about for the past century.  That the tracks aren’t good enough for it to go full speed is a minor detail.

The seats are occupied by the typical mash-up of ethnicities that you find all over Uzbekistan.  For centuries, from the time of the Silk Road, the country has been crossroads (and before that anybody that could conquered it), leaving it today as the most amazing cultural melting pot that I’ve ever been to.  You see people who look completely Russian, Chinese, Uzbek, Mongol and Afghan and every possible variation in between.  There are beautiful people and people that would make me shit myself if I saw them coming at me in a dark alleyway, both male and female.

It takes just over two hours on the express train to slide through the 400km of barren farm land, occasionally backed by low lying hills between Tashkent and Samarkand.  When we arrive hazy clouds are masking what little light the winter sun is giving off and the air is damp and cold.  It penetrates even the wool/cashmere peacoat with camel collar and insulating vest liner I’d picked up a few days before.  We climb into a waiting car with Maftuna, Ms. Gulia’s niece who had gone ahead to do prep work and head off to breakfast at a café with pictures of the region’s historical places on the walls, no one can place more than one or two of them. 

I can’t say much about Samarkand as a city, but it’s certainly seen better days.  There’s not anything bad about it but all the action and the population has moved to Tashkent.  What Samarkand does have going for it though is some pretty amazing historical sites and so after giving a scholarship exam to about a hundred secondary schoolers we did a site seeing blitz through the town.  I can’t be bothered to write much about two of them, they were well worth it but just take a look if you want.  Registan, was the heart of the city back in the day and consists of three awesome madrasas facing each other.  Then, the Shah-i-Zinda is a collection of masoleums concentrated along a narrow winding road on a hill, very cool in person.

By far the most interesting place was the masoleum for Tamerlane, known as Amir Timur in these parts.  He was basically the founder of the country and an all around bad ass.  If you ask an Uzbek they will tell you of how he built pyramids out of the skulls of his opponents and was also an amazing ruler who ushered in a golden era.  There was a curse put upon his tomb and when Stalin sent archelogoists to open it on June 21^st, 1941 they were warned…  They went ahead with the excavation and on June 22^nd the Germans attacked the Russians.  But anyways, it is the single most beautiful room I have ever been inside.  Pictures certainly don’t do it justice and words can’t do much better.  It has a high vaulted dome with perfectly soft lighting to illuminate the walls which are covered with intricate designs and arabic writing (which to the untrained western eye might as well be designs) done entirely in blue a gold.  I could have sat there all day.  It is the kind of room that the moment you walk into it, you can tell that for lack of a better word, it is holy.  It envelopes you in a sense of peacefulness that few places can.

This picture does it more justice than my camera could.

Following our final stop at the Shah-i-Zinda, which involved sitting in a small dark room and listening to a cleric chant for the healing of a family member in exchange for some bread, we boarded the train and zipped back to Tashkent.  Ms. Gulia’s husband greets us and offer’s me the front seat now that the car is fuller with the addition of Nodir and Maftuna, I know better than to refuse so I climb in and start to put my seat belt on which elicites a chorus of ‘No’ in russian from the driver.  He shakes his finger at me smiling, points firmly to himself and then gives me a thumbs up.  I am informed by the backseat that it is quite rude to wear a seatbelt while riding shotgun.  The driver must wear one by law, but for the passenger to do so is a sign of disrespect that you are so untrusting of his driving abilities to think you could possibly get in an accident.  When in Rome.

In the heart of Tashkent is a large circular park with a tall classically posied statue of Amir Timur riding a horse. It ringed by a wide four lane roundabout and on the other side of that are various important structures.  There are several imposing stone buildings making up the national university, a circular domed museum devoted to the life and conquests of Amir Timur, a brand new ‘Congress Center’ for meetings with foreign dignitaries.  It’s a striking marriage of white columns and black glass and the dome is crowned with two herons straining their necks skyward.  Next to this symbol of everything that Central Asia is striving to become this century is the Hotel Uzbekistan.  It too is in its own way striking.  A striking ode to the horrors early 70’s soviet architecture and is trying to prove that some things can last unchanged, indefienitely.  The façade is one that only a mother could love and words escape me trying to describe it, so here.  The interior includes a marble floored, low ceilinged lobby with oversized chandaleir; the honorable Café Vienna with teal wallpaper and a long center buffet table; and rooms that have never been updated with balconies that come complete with empty vodka bottles.

It was into the Café Vienna that we found ourselves walking after saying our goodbye’s to Ms. Gulia, Maftuna and family.  A few hours before the lobby would have been filled with wedding parties of brides and grooms taking photos as it was every day during our stay and now looking around the restaurant, we had been transported into some scene from a Russian mob movie.  Two monstrous gentlemen with slicked back, oily hair sat at a small table to our left sporting black shirts, expensive leather coats and voices so deep I couldn’t even tell they were speaking Russian at first.  They chain-smoked, did work on a bottle of vodka and devoured a couple of mayonnaise based salads.  Behind them a half dozen Uzbeks, short and wide with bowl cut hair, all in leather jackets, and in their mid-thirties sat hunched over bowls of soup at the near end of a long table, not speaking much and glancing around all too much.  To my right couple of guys in matching white and blue tracksuits were animatedly doing something with an iPad propped up in the middle of the table.  At another a man sat with ear buds in, skyping.  Apart from his laptop, the table held a shot of vodka and a tall beer to his right, a full ashtray on his left with a thin smoldering cigarette resting on the groove.  In the mornings a sign requested that patrons not smoke during breakfast but that sign had been taken down and it was now open season, a slight haze drifted around the room.  We ordered bowls of Borsch and Shurpa with the requisite plates of bread and Nodir poured us all half cups of tea as is customary to show that we were in no hurry and there would always be more.

This job can be very taxing.  Struggling for nearly every waking moment to communicate with non-native English speakers, endless headaches caused by a multitude of cultural norms colliding and the toll of almost constant traveling gets trying on the best days.  But there are also many moments like this one, sitting around the Café Vienna in the Uzbek national hotel when all you’re thinking is Wow.  I’m in Uzbekistan.

Phong Nha, Vietnam

Phong Nha


There's a spot near Phong Nha called 'The Pub With Cold Beer'.  The Aussie owner of the guesthouse in the area, a true pioneer of tourism, discovered it a few years back.  To this day only 2% of people who come to visit the caves of the national park here are foreigners and nearly all who spend the night stay with him.  He was riding his bike on a scorching hot day when he came upon the place and was stunned to find a cold beer on the table.  For reasons  unknown, in this part of the world drinks are not refrigerated.  Even if people have fridges, beers are seldom given a space.  So midway through a lazy Sunday kayak trip we stopped in for a few beers and some freshly fire roasted peanuts.

The reason for the owner stocking cold beer is to serve to loggers coming down from the park.  Logging has been illegal here for sometime now, it's a national park and a UNESCO protected area but logging has been going on for generations and today it continues in via cat and mouse game with the unarmed rangers versus the armed loggers.  Most recently the rangers stationed a man in a hammock along a back trail used by the loggers so the next move is up to them.

Many  years ago when famine gripped the area, the brother of the pub's owner was fifteen and went into the forest with a group of loggers in order to make money to feed the family.  While they were chopping up a tree to be transported down to the river a tiger began to stalk them.  For nights on end they went without sleep while the tiger prowled the edge of their camp.  It would appear creeping around the edges of light provided by the fire, silently circling and vanishing.  Finally the tiger, as big as a cow, trotted into their midst turned its' head to the side, clamped down on the torso of a young man and disappeared into the dark neither to ever be seen again.

Burmese kid see an iPhone

So I was gonna take the train from Hsipaw to Mandalay, a train ride that some tourists take for part of the way cause it goes over a bridge that will fall thousands of feet down into a rocky abyss any day now and then they can say that they went over it.  As a result there is a nice tourist coach with padded seats but I was all like fuck those soft seats I'm gonna go full Christopher Columbus mode here and kick it old school with the locals on the hard seats cause I'm hardcore like that.  And forget getting off after the famous bridge and then taking a taxi to Mandalay making the whole thing a simple seven hour affair, I'm seeing this twelve hour journey through to the end.

I get on my car and it's clear I'm the only person with an assigned seat, which the conductor insists I take even though doing so means temporarily displacing a large family. They quickly re-congregated around me and bombarded me with strange fruits and gel like substances made from red peanuts for the next hour.

The family got off and I was stuffed, ready for a little nap action when this kid starts batting the back of my head from the bench behind me. This happens on and off for a few hours with the kid ducking down behind the seat whenever I turn around and smile.  At some point either he gets up the courage or his parents fell asleep, so he comes over and plops down next to me.

Now one thing you should know about the Burmese railways is that it literally cuts through the jungle. I mean why would you cut away the bushes on either side of the track when the train does a fine job of it an you can just sweep it at the end of the line?  So frequently, 75% of the time all the time, branches smack against the open windows and leaves, sticks, the occasional berry and a small bug or two come flying in.  So here this kid is siting between me and the window getting pelted by shit without a care in the world.  His brother comes over and tries to pull him to the backwards facing bench opposite of me which was recently vacated and offers protection from all the debris.  But no way was this kid not gonna sit by the foreigner so he wedges himself behind my arm and shoulder and latches his arms around mine.

That's when I thought it would be a good idea to bust out the phone and really blow his mind.  An hour or so later he got bored of holding on to my arm and went back to sleep with his family, around that time I lost feeling in my butt.  The train stopped, the tourists got off and the conductor came on without explanation and brought me to first class.  The rest of the ride was comfortable.  Comfortably boring. Nobody ever talks about the crazy ride they had sitting up in first other than to say that it was 'Nice'.

Slow Boat to Bagan

You hop on the back of motorbike before any light is in the sky and ride through the streets of Mandalay, the headlight illuminating a pre-dawn market spread out in the middle of the street.  Reaching the dock, you sit down at the ticket table, passport in hand and pay with perfectly crisp American dollars.  On the boat there are plastic chairs for you and the other foreigners while families spread out on the floor around you.    

The sun rises pale over the Irrawaddy and the night chill lingers. To warm up you head to the back to eat.  Rice with a fried egg, thinly shaven crispy garlic and on the side a jar of pickled shallots with a little chili.  The bench is low and too close to the bar to be comfortable. You are the only one not squatting on it.  On the bar is the ever present thermos of green tea and nearby small teacups in a bowl of water.  The sun, food and tea do their parts to warm you and you're ready for the next thirteen hours.

Later you met a couple from New Zealand, Malaysian by birth.  Probably your parents age but still loving to rough it with the backpackers yet they are a far cuter couple than you'll ever see backpacking.  Perfectly comfortable in the moment.  You don't know it then but you'll end up running into them several times in the coming weeks.

You talk on the steps between the decks, avoiding the sun for sometime.  She goes to ask the captain something about the voyage but comes back without an answer.  He was napping with his head on his wife's lap getting his stubble plucked.  A kid very actively steers the boat with his foot while sitting on a  ledge behind the helm.

The three of you go sit up in front of him to watch the river go by and the loading of massive baskets of bananas carried on the shoulders of spindly legged men.  It takes three to hoist the baskets on to one back and then the carrier scampers to the boat up a narrow board, sarong tucked up to the crotch and a long towel draped over his head and shoulders to keep the dirt off.  The only other upfront is a Burmese man  wearing a button up shirt and a navy blue sarong.  He is a spitting image of Robert Mitchum and just a talkative.

The day drifts along and at major stops women and girls come aboard balancing stainless steel trays of fried snacks, quail eggs, corn and watermelon.  One carries chicken and you are tempted to get some until you observe an old lady meticulously handle every piece before buying none.   You go back up top to grab something to drink, leaving your bag unattended on the bow.  No one steals in Burma, the government doesn't like competition a comedian told you the night before. To avoid another prison term he can only perform in English.

Sitting on the bench is an American girl.  You can't remember the last time you talked to an American.  She is playing with the little girl whose parents do the food and drinks.  She has given her a quail egg and the child  is trying to tear the shell off.  The child refuses help and eventually throws it hard into a basket.  She'll be a handful some day, the girl says.

While this unfolds the boat has stopped and is off loading a surprising amount of cargo and people onto a two story tall river bank in the middle of nowhere.  Carts drawn by horses are loaded down with drab colored sacks of goods. On top of one is perched a bright orange  inflated animal. Probably a goat.  Little kids sit and bounce around on these. The girl laughs and tells you of how she once saw a little kid bouncing insistently on one and when he stopped and got off, his grandmother stood up and gave it a proper kick in the opposite direction.

Later the two of you sit up front, the bag hasn't moved an inch and neither has Robert Mitchum.  A coconut with an orchid growing out of it hangs from the second story on one side of the bow.  The steering boy deftly guides the boat with his foot, taking advice from the captain and flashing a smile of betel nut stained red teeth.  You have a conversation that has nothing to do with traveling and it feels good.  The crew drinks from a clay pot hung near the side and women fill bottles of water from it.  The girl comments that she is thirsty and is tempted to fill hers.

The rest of the boat is sweltering beneath its tin roof but the bow remains cool on the bottom.  More stops are made and the New Zealand couple discreetly takes a few pictures with the maturity of those who have seen enough respect less tourists to know how it should be done.

Something floats by off to the port side, you think it's a log.  Is that a pig she asks?  It is indeed the bloated carcass of a young pig. Must have fallen off of the crumbling banks.  Soon a man goes for water and finds it lacking.  He sticks his hand in, swirls it around and then dumps the contents over the side.  Producing a bucket tethered with rope he drops it into the silty brown water and refills the clay pot.  Turning to her you ask - still want that drink?

Inle Lake, Myanmar

To get off the beaten path in Inle, Barbara, Heather and I rented bikes and headed east.  The roads are good, |(until they aren't good and then they're violent, but I'll get to that soon) unmarked and save for the occasional truck or motorbike, populated by young kids enjoying the end of the Buddhist Lent.  We raced with them and traded shouts of  HELLO  and sometimes GOODBYE when one of us pulled away.  Around one turn, three boys stood in the middle of the road and waved, after Barbara and Heather road past they kept their hands still in the air so I high-fived the three.  Pretty sure it's a global gesture.

After a bit we turned off the main way and headed up a rocky, rutted road to a monastery that over looks the lake.  This was still a fairly well travelled tourist path and we met some middle aged ladies from the northeast huffing and puffing their way down.  The ideal time to climb up this hill would be in the morning but Barb and I had been up before the sun the previous two days and not even the four AM chanting monks and singing nuns were gonna get either of us out of bed.  Our Irish friend Erica calls it morning karaoke and I can not think of a more fitting description.

Ditching the bikes about halfway up at a mom and pop shop, we continued on foot through a monastery too a gold clad pagoda with a loud speaker perched on it's side and one monk inside chanting while another slept.  We napped, staring up at the gold pagoda silhouetted against the bright blue sky with clouds mingling overhead and the monk lulling us to sleep.

Eventually we made our way down and continued south along the eastern side of the lake. The day before we had tried some great cigars that are only made here and Barb was determined to get some and I was down for the adventure.  After a bit, the good, paved road ended and the violent one took over.  Hard packed earth with sharp rocks sticking out for several inches.  There were narrow motorbike paths from time to time on either side but they proved hard to navigate.  The handle bars on the bike were very narrow, amplifying every movement.  Heather wisely turned back but the two stubborn people pressed on.  I was not about to give up and the cigars really are very good.  About the size of a cigarette, rolled with tobacco and aniseed, very sweet to the tongue and mild on the throat.

So the smart one turned back and we two idiots pressed on.  Seemingly none of the road was flat.  Leg burning climbs and bone jarring down hills that turned one into a human jack hammer pounding away at ungiving stones.  Finally, after a hill that nearly threw me from the bike, I hit a rock at the wrong angel and my tire popped.  Completely deflated, inner tube blown.  In most of this part of the world it would not have been a huge deal.  Motorbike shops would be frequent and the fix would cost next to nothing.  But this is Inle lake, a place where life is lived on the water.  Houses are built on stilts and the main transportation is via boat. Canals are carved out of the weeds between towns and navigated by people who can perfectly balance on the bow with one foot, while the other leg is wrapped around a paddle propelling the skiff forwards.   Naked kids jump off front porches into the shallow waters too cool off and the shore town people rarely leave the area except to deliver sugarcane to market.

The first village we came across could offer nothing but fingers pointing on to the next, so Barb rode ahead while I haphazardly dragged the bike onwards.  By the time I reached the next village a small crowd had gathered and Barbara was doing her best to mime the recent turn of events.  A pump was brought out and an attempt was made to re-inflate the tire but air just blew out of the busted rubber.  Now we were at an impasse.  Using hand gestures and a few words gleaned from the back of the lonely planet we tried to communicate that maybe someone with a motorbike could drive me back while I held on to the bicycle along side it.  I had my doubts about this plan as I wasn't sure how I would manage to hold on to the motorcycle myself over that terrain.

Sometime later, two heavily bearded men came along on a bike and the driver spoke enough English to explain that the town we were looking for was about a a thirty minute walk away.  We were about to head off  when the villagers erupted into to conversation led by  a loud, large woman who believed that we should take a different route, go directly to the lake and then take a boat from there.  This route would only take fifteen minuets and so with day light disappearing, we choose this way and headed off the main road down a narrow, sometimes muddy track with the occasional rut that could have swallowed a large dog.

Passing between fields of sugar cane that stretched over our heads we rounded one corner to come face to face  with two pairs of huge water buffalo pulling carts.  Gargantuan would be a better word for them.  Most that you see are rather thin and the size of your average cow.  These beasts each had the build of two Clydesdale's strapped together and pulled carts with the floor space of  Hummers.  They stared at us idly as we scooted around them.  At the village we found the men in the middle of a card game and they did not seem to want to be bothered so they  brought out a young girl who spoke a little English.  She was advising us to go back the way we had come when a man from the previous village showed up along with the loud lady and their child.  They had a boat not far from here and were going to take us onwards.

We made our way down to the boat, clambered in with the bikes and a reed mat was laid on the floor.  The engine wasn't working and so with the wife working the paddle on the bow and the husband with a bamboo pole on the stern  we set off down the waterway lined with bushes.  I reckon the boat was about three feet wide and thirty feet long and steering was haphazard.  Several times we passed and were passed by small, single handed fishing boats that were making their way home for the evening.  The nearly full moon  rose behind us and the sunset was fading into the waterway.  Barb tucked an orchid behind her ear and I commented that this was like the Louis Vuitton print add with Angelina Jolie floating down the river in Laos.

By night the boat had entered the lanes of the village.  Music blasted from several houses and the young boy, standing near the bow against the night sang on full heartily.  Once at the house we were ushered into a large room where a pot of tea was waiting and bundles of cigars rested against one wall.  Off to one side a grandmother nursed a cigar  and a cat lurked.   Tea was poured and it became apparent that these were not the cigars we were looking for.  They asked us to wait and so we did.  In time a young girl showed up.  She was in high school and spoke good English so our situation was made clear and plans were made to take us to the cigar shop and then across the lake back to our guesthouse.

Then we sat and waited for a very long time.  The young boy rough housed with the cat, snacks were brought out and the grandmother took puffs of her cigar.  At first the story was that they had gone to get diesel but then there was the sound of wood being sawed and the lady started bellowing at someone across the lake.  we asked the girl what she was saying.  She was yelling at her husband to hurry up, it's getting late and he can't be out all night.  After twenty minuets of an engine starting and then failing to catch it roared to life and we were off.

We swung by the cigar shop which was reopened for us and were rewarded with handfuls of free cigars in addition to the ones we purchased.  Mission accomplished we set out across the lake, navigating by the light of the moon which was now high in the sky with the lights of the distant stilt towns on our horizons.  Giving wide berths to the solitary fishermen that we came across, in an hour we were back in the canal for the main town and pulling into a rickety, four plank wood dock.