Watch your step at the Cliffs of Moher

For the first six days in Ireland we hardly moved from the tiny village of Corofin. In County Clare, a region famous for its traditional music, Corofin is really just one main street containing as many pubs as shops, all brightly painted. Sinead’s aunt and uncle put us up in their hostel that adjoins the house and nursed us back to life with breakfasts of eggs, rashers, and sausages. Good coffee, wine and home cooked meals were all luxuries that we had missed and we over indulged the entire time we were there. For the first couple of days the rain pounded down with such fury that it felt as if we had already made it to Vancouver. It gave us a chance to wash every item of clothing that we owned. Our attempts at hand washing in Africa were not as successful as we had originally thought – after running the clothes through the first time, a thick layer of mud was left in the bottom of the washing machine, requiring further attempts. We soon abandoned the effort and headed into the nearby town of Ennis to pick up new clothes at the Irish equivalent to Winners – Pennies!

Between rainy spells Marie took us through the countryside and showed us the sights. Through the rocky landscape of the Burren and up to Galway Bay castles would pop up in the most unusual places. Most often all that was left was a crumbling wall surrounded by shaggy sheep which occupied the corner of a farmer’s field, as if there was no reason why it shouldn’t be there. East through the surf town of Lahinch we reached the Cliffs of Moher, one of Irelands premiere tourist attractions. A newly constructed walkway and retaining wall keep most people away from the edge, but for those (us) that ignore the “Do Not Enter” sign and walk along the unprotected edge, it’s a 203 m sheer drop to the ocean below. Of all that we saw in County Clare, I’d have to say the most interesting was the Lisdoonvarna matchmaking festival. Traditionally held in September at the end of the harvest, hordes of older singles flock to the dances in hopes of finding true love. We stopped by a pub hosting one of these dances but a steep five euro cover charge was levied – probably intended to kept the riff raff such as ourselves from actually entering. We poked our heads in anyway to get a good look and then sat in the noon day sun with our pints, peering through the windows at the packed crowd slow dancing to the live music within.

Shoe repair shop & pub all in one

Since it was the end of the trip, we splurged and got a rental car. I’ve since found out that nothing stresses me out more than renting a car. Convinced that the rental company was out to screw us, I drove the car cautiously for the week that we had it, which is no easy task in Ireland. Roads barely wide enough for one vehicle are lined with what look like harmless hedges, but are actually stone walls in disguise waiting to ruin the day for careless individuals that decided to forgo the extra insurance on their rental car. Throw in reckless local drivers, indecisive sheep, thick fog, and driving on the opposite side of the road, and you have the recipe for a very unrelaxing drive through some very beautiful countryside.

Normally a tourist hot spot, with every second building housing a B&B, the port town of Dingle had pretty much shut down for the season. Pubs and restaurants were empty and boat trips to see the world famous resident dolphin, Fungie, had stopped running due to stormy weather. We escaped the rain by doing a two person pub crawl – and what better way to start it off than with a full roast meal and a pint of Guinness in Murphy’s Pub. It amazes me that pubs in Ireland all seem to have roast specials at lunch, and throughout our time there I think I averaged a roast every other day. No wonder the clothes I had tailor made in Vietnam are feeling a little snug. Murphy’s contained a key element that I feel is lacking in all Canadian pubs: a dog. This guy waddled around the place with his stomach dragging on the ground and looking as if he had eaten every scrap leftover since the bar opened. Much to my delight, dogs in pubs became a regular sighting. Next stop on the pub crawl was Foxy John’s, one of those multi-purpose pubs that also doubled as a hardware store. On one side is a counter selling hardware and on the other, the bar. Thankfully, heavy machinery wasn’t available after dark. Next up was the famous Dick Mack’s, another quirky pub that also does shoe repair. By the end of the night we were listening to live music at one of the pubs on the main street. Unlike the excellent jam session we saw in the Corofin pub, this one seems put on for the tourists, but it was still good music to listen to as I sat back and sipped a pint of the black stuff.

Losing my dignity at the Blarney Stone

Back in the rental car we navigated the Dingle Pennisula with limited visibility in the pouring rain which together with the high kilometer winds ensured that every inch of our clothes were saturated in a two minute hiatus from the car. Things brightened up completely by the time we got to the Ring of Kerry, a coastal drive through some spectacular scenery. Distances in Ireland are deceiving as all major roads pass through every village along the way. Just as the car reaches a cruising speed of 100 km/hour, a “Traffic Calming” sign will appear, and I’d be back down to 50 km/hr. On the way to Wexford to visit another of Sinead’s aunts, we couldn’t resist the urge to stop off and kiss the Blarney stone. Through a winding stone staircase we climbed to the top of Blarney castle to plant one on the famous stone. When I saw the procedure that was involved, I almost immediately backed out. Kissing the stone involved much more than leaning over and giving a smooch to some rock. Eloquence seekers must lie on their back, grab on to two support bars, and lean their head way back over an open drop with puckered lips to reach the stone. All the while a burly man holds you in place while your shirt falls over your head in an incredibly unflattering pose. It is impossible to have any sort of grace or elegance while doing this, but somehow the operators still manage to squeeze ten euro out of people to buy what is probably the worst photograph ever taken of them. We decided that we couldn’t get this far and not follow through, but it wasn’t one of my finer moments.

After a brief visit to Jo and David in Wexford, we stuffed their two dogs in our rental car trunk and took them to the beach. Before any animal lovers start crying fowl, let me assure you that the dogs love riding in the trunk. In fact you must physically hold them back if you ever want to open your trunk in their presence. Sadly, we spent the afternoon throwing plastic bottles into the ocean because it was the only thing that they insisted on playing fetch with. Only half were retrieved. North up to Dublin we made our way to the mecca for beer lovers, The Guinness Brewery. We patiently stood in line for over an hour an a half to take the sensational self directed brewery tour with all the fanfare before cashing in on our “free” pint of Guinness at the Gravity bar. The museum may be a little over the top, but the pint of Guinness was the best I’ve ever had with a head so thick that the dent from my lips could be seen in the dregs of my beer. After spending the weekend in Dublin with a few of Sinead's cousins, we had one last taste of Irish hospitality in Cavan at her grannie's house.

Last night of the trip in a black cab

Trying to match up a cheap Ryan Air flight to London with our connecting flight to Vancouver proved to be difficult, so we opted for one action packed day and night in London. Given its size and outrageously high prices, it was a little ridiculous of us to even attempt to take in London in one day. Considering that my bagel sandwich cost me $9, we knew it was going to be expensive. Once in the center of town we caught a hop-on hop-off double decker tour bus that took in all the sights. We raced around London checking out all that we could. We had decided that we could only afford to actually visit one of the sights along the way, so intrigued by tales of torture, rebellion, and priceless jewels, we chose the Tower of London. It was the wrong choice. I couldn’t help thinking “We paid $50 for this??” as we wandered through uninspiring and rather uninformative presentations on the tower’s history.

The main highlight of London was the chance to meet up with Jonald and Claire, friends we met while we were in Buenos Aires. One of the best things about traveling is the people you meet. It’s funny how you can meet people, spend only a couple days with them, and feel like you have made some great friends. It was this way with Jonald and Claire, and meeting up with them in London was almost as if we had just left them in Buenos Aires. They took us to an Argentine steak restaurant, so authentic that all the waiters even sported the mullet that all Argentine men seem to be so fond of. Beer, wine, good company, and a trip home from the restaurant in a London black cab made for a great finale to our journey. So after four hundred and thirty one days on the road, we slung our bags on our backs for the last time and headed for home.

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Carved door of Zanzibar

By the time we made it to Dar es Salaam, it was late. We tried to get some info on the correct price to pay for a cab into the center, but the people passed out on broken benches inside the derelict looking terminal didn’t seem keen to serve as tourist information. Once the agreed upon price was haggled for, the driver laughed and gave a high five to his buddy giving us the impression that our bargaining skills may not have been as good as we thought. There isn’t much to do in Dar es Salaam, and even less on Sundays when everything shuts down and we were stuck with the futile task of trying to find a place to change money. With nothing open, we decided to change money with a man that approached us on the street. From the start, it all seemed rather dodgy. His rates were much better than the bank, and we had to wait while his friend ran behind a post to “get the money”. We were called over and he gave me a wad of fourteen 5,000 shilling notes to count. Taking my time, I held each up to the light to verify that they were real. Once I had checked them, he took the wad back and asked us to hold our fifty dollar bill up so he could check it while he bundled up the bills in an elastic (an obvious hint that something was not right). He took our fifty and handed me the elastic bundled wad, but as he did so I noticed that the outside bill was a purple 5,000 note, but all the inside bills had suddenly become green 500 shilling notes. I would have loved to watch a video reply of me snatching our fifty out of his hand while smacking away the money he was trying to give me. After a brief session of me yelling at him for trying to cheat us, we decided to quickly get out of there as it’s usually best to quit while ahead when dealing with criminals. Lesson learned.

A leisurely three hour ferry ride took us through the turquoise waters to the island of Zanzibar. Stone Town, once the center of the African slave trade, is the most interesting and exotic city we have visited in Africa. A twisting labyrinth of narrow alleyways lined with grandiose wooden doors make up the core of the town and bicycles and scooters swerved around us as we tried to find our way back to our hotel. Many corners open up into small courtyards where men sit around on stone benches drinking five cent cups of the best coffee I have tasted served by an old man with a kettle. It is a predominately Muslim area, and the city's 51 mosques can be heard belting out the call to prayer at 4:30am either waking me up, or strangely mixing in with my dreams. Women with only their eyes visible through black satin or beautiful sheer fabric sport intricate henna tattoos on their hands and often you could catch a glimpse of colourful fabrics peeking out from underneath.

Fresh seafood for sale

In the evening most tourists congregate on the balcony of the Africa House hotel, cold beer in hand, to watch the sun drop into the ocean. The view is spectacular, but for peace and relaxation, it pays to get there early. Once the sun nears the water, the balcony becomes packed with snap happy tourists trying for that perfect sunset shot. After the sun disappears, the market gets rolling, where all sorts of delicacies (and in our case on the third night a nasty stomach bug) can be bought for less than a dollar. Most tables are piled high with fresh seafood, all grilled while you wait. “Hello my friend! Let me show you what we have to offer” each vendor enthusiastically shouts as you walk by seemingly oblivious to the fact that each table sells the same thing. Octopus, calamari, barracuda, tuna, swordfish, marlin and practically anything else you can name is skewered and served with a salad. Our favorite was the Zanzibar Pizza. In record time, meat, vegetables, mayonnaise, cheese, and a raw egg is piled on top of a thin layer of dough, folded over, and thrown on the grill. The end result is more like a pancake/burger than a pizza, but absolutely delicious.

After a few days in Stone Town, we headed to Kendwa beach on the northern part of the island, the sweet smell of cloves filling the air. The white sand beach and picture perfect turquoise water made for one the most beautiful beaches we have visited on our trip. Snorkeling, diving, and lying on the beach are the prime activities and “hakuna matata” (no worries) is the attitude of the locals. I always liked that song from the Lion King, and loved the idea of hakuna matata, but after a couple days at Kendwa it was a phrase I began to loathe. A typical conversation would go like this:

Me: “Where’s my food…I ordered it two hours ago”
Waiter: “Hakuna Matata my friend”
Me: “No Hakuna Matata…I’m hungry. Everyone that ordered after me has gotten their food”
Waiter: “It works like a lottery here. You know how a lottery works don’t you?”
Me: “Yes I know how it works. Hurry up and get our food”
Waiter: “Hakuna Matata”

Zanzibar underwater

I lay on the bed of our 117th hotel room (not including countless nights spent on buses, planes, and trains) staring through the blue mesh of a mosquito net at the fan slowly, but noisily, rotating over my head thinking about the remaining months of travel. So far throughout the trip I would always be looking towards the next step with excitement. Now I just felt weary and couldn’t really get the same feelings I used to. All throughout our trip people would ask if after so long on the road we get sick of traveling. Up until that point, I could truthfully answer “No.” Now I wasn’t so sure. Our budget was getting stretched so thin that it would be a miracle if we were actually able to pull off lasting to our original return date of December 22. At this point, it came down to us only having enough to eat and get a hotel room and anything else would put us over budget. It had been close to fourteen months on the road and we were both starting to feel incredibly weary. So sitting at the most perfect beach in the world, we finally came to the conclusion that it was time to go home.

With mixed feelings we said goodbye to Africa and boarded a plane (actually three planes) bound for Ireland. Travel here had been both exciting and frustrating, but always rewarding and leaving it early would give us reason to return one day and do it properly on a bigger budget. With just one last stop to make on our world tour, it was hard to believe that it was almost at an end.

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Portrait of the Giraffe

After a lengthy border crossing, all hope of arriving before night was gone. Darkness fell as we rambled along the endless Kenyan countryside, slowly making our way to the capital. Everything seemed to be going smoothly until the driver pulled over for an emergency pee break and the bus failed to start back up. We were yet again broken down, this time on a deserted section of road with only the headlights of the occasional passing lorry providing any light. I was amused more than annoyed when all the men were pulled off the bus to push. Even when one of the passengers came back onboard and told me that we were in real danger, I still assumed he was talking about the state of the engine, but when I saw the local men starting to panic, I got nervous. The area we were stranded in was ominously referred to as the Burnt Forest and its reputation preceded it. Bandits roam these parts praying on unfortunate buses such as ours, stripping passengers of everything they own (often including underwear) and leaving them naked at the side of the road. Frantic mobile phone calls were being made by the passengers, one man calling the bus office demanding security, while another was fruitlessly trying to get the police to protect us. The girl behind me called every bus company and private hire within a 300 kilometer radius begging them to send us transportation regardless of cost. Upon hanging up the phone with the second unsuccessful attempt she said that she just wasn’t ready to die. When another lady complained that it would be worse for the women who would all be raped, my alarm escalated – especially when I took into account the AIDS statistics.

The Ugandan pastor tried to calm everyone down by telling us that we were “in God’s hands now” before informing us that both the driver and conductor had left the bus. While English was predominantly spoken, every so often a switch would be made to Lugandan (or Swahili) and mention of Mzungus would be made combined with pitying looks in our direction. One man told us that it is worse when Mzungus are on the bus as bandits assume that they have more money stashed somewhere. Another man replied that if they came near us he would just shoot them, but then lamented that he wasn’t allowed to bring steel over the border anymore. After an hour, the driver returned with a mechanic, reassuring us that “the Lord has a reason as to why the bus isn’t starting”, failing to acknowledge that it was mostly due to the company’s gross negligence in servicing the vehicle. Needing to get away from the infectious fear affecting everyone inside the bus, we risked the alternative and stood outside to calm down. The mechanic mournfully looked at the underside of the bus while a local Matatu driver that had stopped shone his lights for him. The matatu driver managed to ease our minds momentarily by explaining that we were stranded in a perfectly safe area… until he mentioned that the really bad areas were only a kilometer and a half in one direction and four kilometers in the other. Three hours later, close to midnight, the bus reluctantly sputtered to life and we rolled out of burnt forest with our lives, our bags and our underwear.

Sniffing us out

After our ordeal, arriving in Nairobi at 4:00 in the morning was rather anticlimactic. Except for the man that tried to steal our flashlight, everyone on the bus was agreeable and a few even helped us out with getting transport to our hostel. It was a refreshing change from the usual sort of potential friends that approach us looking for some way to extort money…like the fellow claiming to be from Zimbabwe that passed us by on the streets in Nairobi the next day who, coincidently, was accepted to McMaster University in Canada. Weaving through the busy side streets, we chatted with him for a while as he seemed knowledgeable about recent Canadian politics. But when he herded us towards the doorstep of a restaurant in a dubious looking area to continue our “chat,” we told him that we had just eaten and that we didn’t bring money for drinks. Once the words “we have no money” were uttered, he abruptly said goodbye and hoped that we enjoyed our holiday. At first we thought that we had offended him in some way, but later we read that this is a common scam used to get money out of trusting tourists.

Downtown Nairobi is a modern capital city, and as we wandered the streets, we were surprised to see tourists standing in the back of an open roofed safari vehicle with their cameras at the ready. This must have been the city’s safari tour…what must the locals walking on paved sidewalks think of tourists taking photos of people in the same vehicle that is used for viewing animals at a safe distance? We felt relatively unthreatened during the day despite all of the dire warnings of the city’s dangers, but sometimes we’d catch ourselves getting a little paranoid. As we queued up for the bank, we felt rather uncomfortable while the man in front of us toyed suspiciously with a flexible wire and decided to wait until he cleared out before we withdrew any cash. Although mostly safe, walking around by day was by no means pleasant. Exhaust pipes billowing black smoke and chemicals directly onto the sidewalks from the city’s millions of souped up but poorly maintained minibuses ensured that you would arrive at your destination covered in a film of black dust. These minibuses are a sight in themselves, with black light interiors, psychedelic paint jobs, and curious slogans plastered across their backs, they resemble a disco on wheels rather than a public form of transport.

We had lunch under the middle tree unaware of this guy nearby

But it wasn’t the city life we came to Kenya to experience, it was the animals. With an Italian, a couple from the Congo and a sleepy Canadian girl we set out from Nairobi for Maasai Mara (the Kenyan side of the Serengeti). Armed with binoculars and cameras, the five of us (the Canadian girl preferred to nap) stood with our heads poking out of the top of our safari van like sentinels as Gabrielle drove us over the plains. Far away we could see about thirty white specks on a hill in the distance. “Ah, that is Nairobi,” Gabrielle explained as he put his foot on the gas. Rocketing past zebras wildebeests and gazelles, we arrived to where a few dozen vans, identical to ours, were surrounding a pride of lions that had just acquired their afternoon snack. While an angry lion chased vultures away from his recent kill, the lioness and her two cubs were licking and playing with their latest conquest – the wildebeest. Everyone looked on with their massive zoom lenses and video cameras poised as the bored lions made their excited admirers wait. One by one, the vans pulled away as their inhabitants lost interest with the lack of blood and gore and moved on in search of the remaining four of the big five.

At first I was a bit jealous of the radios that seemed to be a fixture in every van except ours, but after our second Nairobi – a cheetah spotting with literally a traffic jam of vehicles in a 1700 square kilometer national park – I was happy to wander across the landscape without a parade of vehicles surrounding us. We yielded to a family of elephants plodding south towards the hills and held our breaths when a lion with a full head of hair grazed the front of our van as he strode past us (Brett chose to lean out the open window for a photograph, rather than to sensibly roll it up in a panic). We roamed through the green landscape which changed to yellow before we tucked into our lunch under the much needed shade of an acacia tree. Looking up with a half ravaged chicken leg hanging out of my mouth, I was ordered back into the van by a park ranger who stopped to tell us that there were lions in the vicinity. We finished up and drove only twenty five meters to find a couple of docile lions basking in the sun and turning back, we counted four more.

Professional animal spotters

While we managed to spot three of big five in Maasai Mara (plus many others we think should be included), we never saw the spots of the elusive leopard, only empty leopard trees. After three days, everyone was starting to get burnt out and the safari was turning into one of the dreaded Sunday drives that my dad used to take the family on after church. For hours at a time we would see no animals at all and once when I suggested we stop to look at the ten or so giraffes that had paused by the roadside, an American girl that joined our party suggested snappishly that I should go to the giraffe park in Nairobi (I guess she had seen one too many). Luckily, both Brett and I never tired of seeing the quirky zebras and, without fail, there always seemed to be at least one dominant male half hidden in the tall grass swishing his tail in our direction, just daring us to come closer or else……he’d run away.

The next day promised a new national park and we arrived at Lake Nakuru which was pink with flamingoes in the morning light. They looked like a crop of cotton candy growing in the shallow waters, and as we drew nearer we could see each puff balancing on spindly legs and either preening itself or needling through the waters for the sought after algae. They seemed unabashed by the large herds of buffalo grazing just meters away. Much to the alarm of all the surrounding animals, a mother and baby white rhino in the center of the herd suddenly got the urge to go for a jog. A stampede followed with buffalo running en masse while intermingling zebras frantically zig zagged it as fast as they could away from possible danger. Once the rhinos had shaken the crowd, we followed them on their lakeside jaunt, the pink of the flamingos glinting behind their silhouettes.

Back in Nairobi we traded our safari van for another cramped Akamba bus (the company we swore we’d never use again) and headed for the Tanzanian border looking for relaxation on the island of Zanzibar.

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The events that took place in the early nineties were a long time in the making. In 1932, under colonial rule, the introduction of an identity card made the previous socio-economic Hutu and Tutsi classes of the Rwandan people racial. Those with ten cows were labeled Tutsi and those with less than ten cows as Hutu, which also applied to their descendants. The minority Tutsis were favored by the colonialists who gave them power and privileges over the Hutu people, thus igniting racial tensions between the two groups. When independence came in 1962, power transferred to the Hutu majority, and many Tutsis unwilling to accept their loss in privilege, formed guerrilla groups and mounted raids on Hutu communities. In 1972 the slaughter of tens of thousands of Hutus in neighboring Burundi increased racial tensions, and then in 1990 Rwanda was invaded by the RPF, a 5000 strong Tutsi rebel group prompting the Rwandan army to go on an all out offensive against the Tutsi people, killing thousands. Fighting raged for the next three years, with the RPF gaining ground over northern Rwanda until a ceasefire was drawn up with the warring parties brought together in Arusha, Tanzania for discussions. Returning from one of these conferences, the plane carrying both the leader of Rwanda and the president of Burundi were shot down by a surface to air missile, killing both.

Garden at the Kigali Genocide Memorial

Within hours, roadblocks were set up throughout the country by Hutu extremists determined to carry out a final solution to the Tutsi “problem”. To ensure that their plans went unimpeded, ten Belgian UN peacekeepers were murdered, prompting Belgium to withdraw all of its remaining troops. Tutsis and Hutus suspected of sympathizing with Tutsis were mercilessly slaughtered. Endless propaganda spewed out from Radio Television Libre de Milles Collines urging Hutus to eliminate the Tutsi cockroaches and men, women and children, caught up in the blind hatred, joined in on the carnage. It was often a case of kill or be killed. Friends turned on friends, family members on family members. Nobody was spared. Women were raped and then killed in front of their families, while children were hacked to death and discarded by the roadside. Those that tried to take refuge in the church were often turned over to the extremists by the people that were supposed to protect them. Foreign nationals were airlifted out of the country, but no soldiers were sent to help. Pleas from UN commander Dallaire, one of the few remaining in the country, went unanswered as the international community turned its back when it had the power to stop the bloodshed. By the time the RPF was able to mobilize and push the Rwandan army and extremists out of the country, up to one million people had been massacred.

This terrible chapter of Rwandans history is presented in the Genocide Memorial in Kigali. Set amidst a leafy garden on one of the mass grave sites, a modern building houses an extensive exhibit dedicated to preserving the memory of those that lost their lives, and making sure that these terrible events do not get forgotten. It was difficult to choke back the tears as the genocide was recounted in both text and video. How anything like this can happen was the most difficult to come to terms with. How do ordinary people turn into bloodthirsty killers? Why did international intervention not happen when so many innocent people’s lives were just wasted? Photos of love ones lost to the genocide fill a wall putting faces to the atrocities described. While it may be easy to associate these events with a faraway country, it would be wrong to assume that everything is so different from our own. The memorial serves as a reminder of the darkest part of humanity, an evil that may exist in all of us.

Rwanda has made remarkable progress in overcoming what took place in the nineties. The capital, Kigali, retains few scars and is very much a city moving forward. It appears to be developing quite rapidly, playing host to Expo during our visit. Perched on a hilltop, views of the valley below can be had from throughout the city. Like most big cities, people are busily going about their daily life. Also like most African cities, there are a disproportionate number of men that hang around doing nothing. When I first saw signs in restaurants stating “Idlers not welcome here”, I wasn’t sure what was meant, but it is easy to see now. In Africa, the women seem to do all the work, while many men are content to sit on the corner staring off into the distance. One of the best examples we saw of this was on a road construction crew in Kigali. Two men lazily leaned on their shovels chatting with each other while the third member of the crew, a woman, was bent over, sweat pouring off her brow, shoveling all the dirt out of the hole that they were working on.

Our favorite barber shop

Our arrival in Kigali corresponded with local elections. As we got out of the matatu, the city was buzzing with people all moving about. What we failed to realize was that practically the entire population was all walking in the same direction – away from the city. We joined in and after an hour of frustrated searching, we managed to locate a hotel, much further out of the city center than ideal. The hotel was grungy with a slight mosquito infestation in the bathrooms, but adequate enough. The garbage can in the bathroom labeled Condoms made us slightly unsure of what kind of hotel it was, but I suppose in a region where Aids is rampant, it’s good to see that precautions may be taking place. Heading back into the centre in search of food, we discovered a city transformed from the one we had witnessed just hours before. Because of the election, everything was closed and the city was deserted. Small groups of idlers sat on the corners staring at us as we walked the empty streets searching for food. I fully expected tumbleweed to blow past as we made our way through the eerily deserted streets. Finally, a woman carrying a basket of bananas on her head came to our rescue supplying us with enough food to tide us over until things opened up again for the evening.

Rwanda’s major tourist draw card is the chance to track the mountain gorillas. With stability returned to the region, tourists are returning with confidence and bringing much needed tourist dollars to the country. At $375 per person, it isn’t cheap, but the experience is one not to be missed. Only around 700 of the mountain gorillas remain in the world, confined to small area straddling Uganda, Rwanda, and Congo (Zaire). It was here that Dian Fossey spent thirteen years researching the gorillas before being murdered by poachers in 1985. Both poaching and political instability of the regions continue to threaten the gorilla population, although security in the park seems to be fairly tight. In addition to our two guides, we were accompanied by three armed soldiers on our trek, partly to protect us from animals, and partly from poachers. In 1999 eight tourists were murdered while tracking gorillas in Uganda, so the army maintains tight security these days. Only thirty gorilla permits are available each day, with most people booking months in advance, so when we showed up at the tourist office in Kigali on August 23 and asked for the first available day, we were disappointed to hear September 26. “How about August 26?” “Let me check…yes that date is available”. I’m not sure what sort of psychological game they were playing with us as another couple in our group was told only January was available before being given a permit for the same date. Perhaps they try and keep tourists in Rwanda as long as they can. With our permit in hand, we headed off to the jungles of Parc National des Volcans for what many have called the experience of a lifetime.

The impressive Mr Silverback

For an hour we trekked amid tangles of bamboo and dense snake-like vines with the sun piercing through the narrow gaps throwing a mosaic of sunlight on the jungle floor. When our path became too thick the machete came out and opened up the way. At times the jungle would open up to reveal spectacular views of the misty peak of Sabinyo Volcano before we were sucked back into the density of the jungle. Before long Olivier’s radio crackled with good news, the gorillas were nearby. In order to ensure sightings and to minimize the time spent looking for the gorillas, a team of trackers heads out early in the morning to locate the group. Once the location is established, the coordinates are relayed back to our guide. After scrambling up one last slope, trying our best to avoid grabbing the stinging nettles, a dark figure leapt in the canopy above us and we were upon the gorillas.

Forgetting our gorilla tracking etiquette, our entire group pointed excitedly at the gorilla until Olivier reminded us to lower our hands. Along with flash photography, spitting, eating, and (this one seems rather obvious) going to the bathroom in front of the gorillas, pointing is a big no-no. I had no idea how hard it was to control the urge to point whenever we saw a new gorilla. We followed Olivier single file into a clearing and came practically face to face with a massive male silverback. To ensure our arrival was seen as peaceful, one of our guides began making low grumbling noises. The male silverback responded with similar grunts, which according to our guide, translated loosely to “Hakuna Matata.” From a distance of no more than five metres we crouched trying to contain outbursts of excitement while the silverback went about his routine of chowing down on bamboo, completely unperturbed by our presence. Every now and then he would look over at us and then go back to his bamboo, obviously not as interested in us as we were in him. A few feet away from him one of the females laid on her back, a hand draped lazily over her forehead in a pose not unlike Homer Simpson splayed out on a couch while a four month old baby crawled around her. One of the most amazing things about the gorillas was their humanlike characteristics. Their eyes, fingers, faces, the way they moved, the way they ate, and even the way the male silverback picked his nose seemed identical to humans. Not surprising since they share ninety seven percent of our biology.

Just chillin

Bored with the daily annoyance of slack jawed gawkers, the group got up and began to move through the jungle. One of the females tried to take the lead, but the silverback, dominant male that he is, jumped off the ground, fist raised, and sent a punch to her back, sending her with a whimper to the back of the line. The dominant male has multiple mating partners and calls all the shots in the group while the other males either have to obey and remain celibate, or take off and try to start their own group. Not all is lost for them, as behind the back of the dominant male, there is some cheating that goes on between the lesser males and the females. It all sounds somewhat like a primate soap opera, but our guide assured us that it was true. As we followed the gorillas to their new location, I heard the guide in the rear whisper to me “Do not be alarmed”. Not sure what he meant by it, I looked down as one of the females shoved past to get ahead of our line. We followed our new leader into another clearing for one last glimpse of the group before our time was up and it was time to head back to the park.

From the gorillas we were set to head east to Lake Kivu for some relaxation, but at the last minute hopped on a matatu headed for the Rwandan-Uganadan border. Eager for more wildlife, we needed to get to Kenya where safaris are cheap and the animals are plentiful. The easiest way to make the long journey to Nairobi was via Uganda and it would prove to be our scariest bus ride yet.

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My first taste of Lake Mburo national park was from the backseat of a boda boda which was tripling the 30 km/h speed limit. I clutched on to the back for dear life, hoping that an obstinate buffalo didn’t decide to grace our path around the next corner. Luckily, all we nearly ran into were a family of zebras who seemed to be on the ball enough to scatter as we sped through them. We secured the largest and most expensive cabin in the park (everything else was booked out) and after paying not only for our entry but also that of both of our boda boda drivers and their vehicles, we were ready to sit down in the expensive restaurant and order a pricey lunch. It all became worth it when we noticed the party of hippos wallowing in the lake a few metres from our table, poking their heads up every few minutes to take note of what we were doing. Grazing nearby were the seemingly harmless warthogs, snorting away as they got down on their knees to be just that much closer to the grass they were munching on. Don’t be fooled by the laugh lines in their jovial faces – they don’t seem to like it when you get too close and I got a couple of warning charges from one particularly moody one. The excitable warthog pups ran around the elders playfully with their skinny tails sticking straight up and ending with a frizzy puff at the top. Whenever I so much as looked at them they would lay down flat in the grass with their chins on their hooves thinking I could no longer see them. As the monkeys raced around wrestling with one another and searching for open windows in the car park, we watched a narcissistic bird continually attack its own image in the side mirror of one of the SUVs.

It only got better. That afternoon we took a boat ride out on the lake and noticed that we were being monitored carefully by sets of eyes and pairs of twitching ears belonging to the enormous hippos who chartered our progress. They didn’t seem too perturbed by our close proximity, but we managed to startle a group that was closer to the shore. One of the males heaved his body out of the water, showing off his wrinkly pink bib before diving in and swimming away. Every once and a while we’d see a baby hippo (a popular snack for Nile crocodiles) poke his relatively wee nose out of the water for some air. A rather judicial looking water buffalo stuck to the shore resting near the water while several crocodiles (one very large) basked in the sun on the shore doing their very best to look like harmless logs. Much to the delight of our birder boat mates, we also spotted several rare bird species. We arrived back at the restaurant and puttered about until nightfall when the hippos come out of their watery dens to forage for food. Thankfully they are vegetarians, but still wouldn’t hesitate to trample anyone who gets between them and the water. We left before we actually saw any – without our flashlights I was unwilling to risk getting trampled on a technicality. While others camped right on the shore, we went back to the relative safety of our cabin in the middle of the bush which was a fair distance from the bathroom that we had to visit a couple of times in the middle of the night. It was a scary experience as there are warnings throughout the park that one is prohibited from wandering off without the protection of an armed ranger.

Tracking our progress

We awoke at dawn and met our armed guide, Jamieson, for our walking safari. There were loud groans sounding all around us, not from those having to get up so early for the safari but from a couple of dominant male hippos fighting in the water over a kilometer away. While the zebras, steenboks and warthogs tended to intermingle at night and the early morning for protection and to discuss who killed who last night, the buffalo stood apart, a menacing solitary figure that glared at us from behind bushes just daring us to come closer. The zebras were definitely the most stylish of the bunch with their outrageously striped jackets and punk hairstyles. While we couldn’t get enough of the zebras, our companions were more interested in the birds. After each sighting, a Birds of East Africa book would come out and there would be much discussion over which species we had seen. After it was determined to be a Red Faced Tit Babbler (or whatever) a giant check was satisfyingly made beside the photograph, and the book was returned to the bag. Unfortunately, Jamieson was not able to use his firearm on my assailants. I must have stepped in an ant highway and several of the little vampires sank their teeth into my ankles, stomach and neck. I was ordered to strip while Brett had to inspect that all were dead and gone before we were able to move on. I guess I too would be upset if someone interrupted my morning commute to deposit me somewhere inconvenient.

Stepping off the crowded Matatu in Kabable we were followed by several boda boda drivers and a couple of special hire taxi drivers who tried to extract our bags from us, continually asking where we were going. Brett said “here”… I said “for lunch,” but this didn’t seem to dissuade anybody. We left the taxi park with an entourage that followed us past the ominously titled Lord’s Mercy Barbers to a woman sitting behind a table with a telephone on it. These serve as the public phones in Uganda, and in the most unlikely of places there seems to always be one. I gave her a number and while she dialed it the hushed crowd awaited an answer. It came in the form of Friday (named for the day of the week he was born), a worker at Byoona Amagara Island on Lake Bunyoni. Rather indiscreetly, I made reservations for that night and no sooner had I hung up the phone, a renewed flurry of excitement erupted. Everyone wanted to be the one to take us to the dock. We disappointed them all by ducking into a nearby restaurant.

Warthog pups

Our tummies satisfied, we looked for the cheapest way to get to Lake Bunyoni. Luckily it was market day, and pick up trucks overloaded with people, rice, pineapples, sheet metal and anything else you can think of transport people between the two locations. We piled into the back with everybody and waited about forty five minutes until so many people and goods were loaded on that we resembled Dolly Parton in an A-cup. Trapped in the middle of the truck and seeing nothing more than elbows and braids, we actually started to move and I suddenly had three kids holding onto my legs for balance and a woman clutching my left breast as if it were a handrail. We turned a corner, moving a total of about ten meters to load for another fifteen minutes before returning to our original loading spot for half an hour. When we finally started moving again we made six more substantial stops before climbing the mere nine kilometers to the lake. By this time, I was starting to think that walking would have been faster and more pleasant. Next to me a woman breastfed her talking, walking and demanding two year old who roughly grabbed down her shirt and slapped at her face. Halfway up the steep hill, everybody had to get off the truck in order for it to make it up the hill. We finally made it to the banks of the lake where rows of dugout canoes awaited the trucks arrival. As everyone busied themselves loading their goods onto the wobbly dugout canoes, we climbed into Nicholas’ canoe and paddled the last hour of our journey across the quiet lake to a little island in Lake Bunyoni. It was at this point that we could truly appreciate our surroundings. Tall green hills surrounded a calm and peaceful lake and as I sat back and enjoyed the tranquility, Brett was given a paddle and ordered to row. Ah, the joys of being the inferior sex!

The view from our Geo Dome

The destination more than made up for the hassle of getting there. We were shown to our Geo-dome, which was a thatched dome atop a hill with a large balcony that overlooked the lake below. Although it was fully sheltered, the wall was a semi-circle which allowed us to go to sleep while gazing at the stars from our queen sized bed and wake up watching the sun slowly light up the mountains on the opposite side of the lake. It was such incredible accommodation in the most beautiful setting imaginable. In the mornings the lake was like glass and after being woke up with the chirping birds, we would lift our lazy heads and see perfect reflections of men and goods in their canoes as they quietly dipped their paddles in and floated by.

We spent our last few days in Uganda lounging on our sun deck or the larger restaurant, reading books from the library and taking the occasional swim. The place is not only a mecca for travelers but also an important fixture in the community, using their proceeds to help fund the local school, provide a library and computer facilities to children and instruct all those who are willing to learn about computers and the internet. They also teach cultivation techniques, allowing those without property the opportunity to grow food on their land and introduce a huge array of crops that are a departure from the exclusive sweet potato and sorghum in the area. In a country full of foreign NGOs (non government organizations), its nice to see a grassroots organization such as this one making sure that tourist dollars get put back into the community.

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Taxi park madness

Kampala is unlike any city we have been to. At the center are two taxi parks, absolutely crammed with minivans called matatus, which ferry people off to both local and distant destinations. Upon first glance it looks like there could not possibly be any order to the parks, let alone any room for a matatu to even make it out, but somehow it all seems to work. Moving out from the taxi parks, the streets are busy with people, some with places to go, others selling all sorts of goods, and some just happy to hang around doing absolutely nothing. It is an interesting city to explore on foot, but every time it leaves me exhausted within a couple hours.

Walking past the stadium on our first day, we noticed it full of people with a steady stream pushing through the gates to get in. A sign outside was advertising a football match between Botswana and Uganada, so we filed in with the crowd excited by our luck. Once inside, we realized that we read the date wrong, and the football match had occurred two days prior. Instead, the mayor of Kampala was putting on a celebration, for what we aren’t sure, complete with live music, food, and games. We wandered through the stadium with murmurs of “mzungu!” (white person) following us everywhere. Having an entire stadium staring at us didn’t exactly put at us at ease, but we soon realized that if we smile and say hello, stares quickly disappeared and a huge grin would replace it.

Streets of Kampala

Before long a smiling local came up waving a 100 shilling coin, talking about a game that I have to try. “Don’t worry my friend, I will pay!” he assured me. All my traveler instincts told me a rip off was in progress, but I decided to see where it took me. It turned out that all he wanted me to do was play a ring toss game, and he was treating. A crowd of Ugandans crowded around a mat laid out with numbered blocks. If your ring lands on a block, you win money. True to his word, he treated me to my first toss, and then I was hooked. Much to the amusement of all the locals, Sinead and I repeatedly tried, but were unable to land our rings on any winning blocks. “Do not worry”, he told me, “it is a very difficult game, but you mustn’t let it upset you”. As the sun started to disappear, two tough looking younger guys came up to the man that had been so friendly to us and started yelling disapprovingly and pointing to us. They continued to scowl, so we chugged the rest of our beers and made a quick exit, confused as to what had taken place.

Without wanting to openly check our map, we wandered the streets aimlessly looking for a restaurant until the sunlight ceased to exist. The crowds became fewer, and some blocks were without power. Still shaken up by what had just taken place, our nerves started to act up. Dark faces blended into the shadows giving the sidewalks an empty appearance. Every so often a silhouette of a man carrying a gun would appear, which made us a bit uneasy until a friendly “hello” was directed our way as we walked past the bank or shop he was guarding. After a year of travel I should be used to all these experiences, but for some reason I feel as if our entire trip up until now has been practice, and now we are really starting out.

Ugandans are fairly well dressed and in an effort to blend in (not that it is possible), I would need another pair of trousers in lieu of my shorts. Clothing spills out of the shops and into the crowded alleyways and it becomes tedious wading through all the crap to find something decent. When I find a pair that might look good, the vendor proceeds to pull down every other pair completely unrelated to the one I chose (obviously thinking that I have no idea what looks good). Then comes the fitting – inevitably the 32 waist will be half the size it should be and the 33 will hang to my knees. The shop owner is already packing the pants into a bag to complete the sale when I tell him that I don’t like any. A guilt trip follows and I need to escape from the store before the price becomes so good that I have to buy them on principle. Finally finding a pair that fits and looks good, I begin the bargaining procedure and manage to get a price that doesn’t leave me feeling like too much of a sucker. The only problem is that the pants are too long. “Don’t worry my friend” the shopkeeper assures me, “I know someone that will take care of that for you”. I followed him across the busy street and down a narrow alleyway where buzzing sounds filled the air. Rounding a corner the alley opened up to dozens of sewing machines all with people hunched over them. We wandered past all the busy tailors to find our guy, who hemmed my pants for a dollar while I waited.

Taking in the view

Uganda lays claim to the source of the Nile, which flows out of Lake Victoria and carries on all the way north to Cairo. On this mighty river, a popular activity is to pile into a rubber raft and launch oneself through grade five rapids. Having never been white water rafting before, I was a little nervous, but Peter, our guide, quickly reassured me: “It is my first day on the river, but I have been watching the videos all morning, so I think I know what to do”. Our boat consisted of the Austrian ambassador, his bratty teenage daughter, and a couple of their friends. Whilst other boats cheered and sang, we received lectures from the ambassador on how if our boat flips, we have failed as rafters and complaints from his daughter who continually told our guide to “shut up!” and stop bothering her.

“PADDLE HARD!” Peter shouted as the raft dropped over the edge and headed straight into a massive wall of water erupting in front of us. “GET DOWN!” We all fell to our knees clutching the safety rope as the raft plowed headfirst into white water. It felt like someone turned a fire hose on my face and suddenly the raft was no longer below me. Everyone was ejected in different directions with Sinead ending up underneath the overturned raft clawing to get out. I managed to completely let go of the rope and as I was jostled down the river, through occasional breaks in the spin cycle I watched the rest of my boat mates in similar predicaments. We all eventually made it back to the raft, it was flipped upright, and the fun began again. Out of the twelve rapids we hit, we only flipped twice. The rest of the time the raft managed to plow down waterfalls and though rapids with us safe and sound, albeit a little shaky. The adrenaline flowed all day, and at the campsite that night, the party went into the wee hours of the morning with everyone still on a high from the day’s excitement.

Travel in Africa is uncomfortable at the best of times, but with a hangover it’s almost unbearable. With pounding heads we waited as our boda boda driver chased down a broken pump and spent 15 minutes pumping no air into the tires. Once satisfied with his handiwork, we climbed back on the deflated motorbike and made it just in time for a matatu bound for Sipi Falls and already overflowing with people. Legally, matatus are licensed to carry 14 passengers which corresponds to the number of seats. Our driver was obviously unfamiliar with this law as he piled 24 bodies (and one chicken), still honking his horn for more as we sped down the road. Three hours and two crowded matatus later we arrived at the falls.

Sipi falls is absolutely beautiful. Three falls spill one after another over tall cliff walls into the lush green vegetation below. The land here is so fertile, with coffee, matoke, avocado, maize and all sorts of bananas fighting for space. Staying in a quiet guesthouse on a hilltop overlooking the falls was all the peace we could ask for after our hectic time in Kampala. The moment we stepped out of our matatu, Dennis appeared out of nowhere and started outlining our activities for the next few days, stating that he would be waiting the next morning for us with or without our consent. Sure enough, the next morning he was waiting outside the gate of our guesthouse. We hadn’t planned on taking a guide, but it was easier to go with him than to try and shake him. Unfortunately torrential rain cut our hike short so Dennis broke off a couple of banana leaves for us to use as umbrellas and we darted into the nearby school where a competition was taking place.

Spot the one that is out of place

Every year primary schools compete in music, dance, poetry and drama. We waited outside the packed schoolhouse trying to find out if there was room for us inside as a group of children surrounded us, staring blankly in a creepy Children of the Corn fashion until we were beckoned to come inside. The afternoon meandered through amazing musical performances on instruments that I have never seen before. All carved out of wood, various string and percussion instruments filled the air with melodic African music as the children sang along. After the music came the poetry category and a selection of children from each school presented a poem on Lake Victoria. The crowd was very unforgiving. As soon as a slip up was made by the kids, the back of the school house erupted into jeers making it difficult to hear the end of the poem. The afternoon was such a great experience, but in the end it was ruined by the headmaster who after hours of us being there, leaned over to me and asked me my name, and proceeded to write out a receipt. It was a free event and to be presented with a receipt just because we are white felt completely unfair. Since nobody else in the schoolhouse paid, we got up and left feeling dejected and unwelcome.

Despite this one incident, and constantly being overcharged for transportation, we have found the people of Uganda to be among the friendliest that we have met on our trip. People constantly point us in the right direction and are always approaching us for conversation. Not to mention all the kids that run down the road as we pass waving and shouting "Mzungu!". Now that we have had a taste of an African big city, it is time to head out and see some wildlife.

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Smoked Omul...tasty

We prepared a written note in Russian describing what train we wanted, but communications between us and the clerk quickly deteriorated. As the queue behind us grew larger and more impatient, we heard the miraculous words “let me translate for you” from behind us. Sandy, a friendly Muscovite who claimed she was probably the only person that spoke English in Irkutsk, came to our rescue. The Baikal train #9 was far too expensive and Sandy decided for us that we would not be purchasing them. Instead, she brought us up to the second floor to complain, taking a number (67) which she promptly ignored. After a couple of minutes, Sandy announced that she hated waiting and much to the chagrin of numbers 65 and 66 marched up to the counter and attempted to get cheaper tickets. They were unavailable, but she gave us her phone number and the plastic number 67 (it may be useful later), insisting that we call if she could be of any help at all. We quickly tired of the adventuresome task of tracking down the cheapest tickets on our own and eventually had the hostel purchase them for us while we checked out the Irkutsk nightlife.

The popular evening ritual in Irkutsk and the place to see and be seen is along the promenade on the River Angara while drinking a few beverages. Women of all ages parade around in tiny miniskirts with see through blouses, exposed midriffs and impractical shoes modeling any combination of the three popular hair colours: peroxide blonde, wine red or copper brown. Men wear jeans or dress pants with long pointy shoes, sport crew cuts and mullets and tend to carry a disposable well-worn plastic bag in one hand and an open beer in the other. The riverfront is also a popular spot for wedding parties to congregate and we watched half a dozen brides and their posses getting pictures taken on the water clutching their cans of beer - we even saw one group with its own accordion player.

The following morning, I thought I’d quickly pop into the post office and send home a couple photo CDs. It turned into a two hour affair. For forty five minutes not a word was spoken between the postal worker and the six people that stood watching her slowly wrap parcels in brown paper packaging and tie each one up with string. I filled out customs forms in triplicate half in Cyrillic and half in English – there was no carbon copy technology. A massive abacus sat on the counter next to a large bucket of glue and hot red wax was kept in a tub next to the postal worker where packages were sealed with a stamp after being carefully tied. Bar codes were used but they had to be cut by hand from a large printout and brushed with a glob of glue before being attached to packages. Air mail tags and return address labels were given the same treatment. When my turn finally came I had to fill out yet another form. The envelope that I was specifically sent next door to get was rejected, by the same person that sent me, as customs would need to open it and it was not resealable (wasn’t that the point?). It was repackaged in brown paper and tied up with string, but there was then the question of whether or not Canada accepts CDs. It wasn’t clear in her double spaced type written notebook circa 1970s, so she would have to make a phone call. As she waited to hear back, she opened up the carefully wrapped parcel of the girl behind me and proceeded to count the pairs of underpants that she was sending home. When it was finally established that Canada does in fact accept CDs, I was eventually able to pay for my package and get some lunch.

The temperature was freezing in the small fishing village of Listvyanka on Lake Baikal and I reluctantly took my shoes off to wade into the crystal clear waters. The oldest and deepest (1637m) lake in the world, Lake Baikal is estimated to contain twenty percent of the world’s fresh water supply. The brides were out in full force on the main dock of the lake, most of them sporting their groom’s suit jacket over their strapless dresses. When we climbed a small hill for a vista point of the lake we saw one bride sneak into the backyard of someone’s house and squat on their lawn all the while holding up her huge crinoline before joining the impromptu dance party that was taking place in the parking lot. It reminded me more of a high school prom than a wedding. As we were walking back down along a small dirt road (in rural Siberia) Brett recognised Robin Esrock, an editorial writer for the Vancouver Sun, from the pictures on his website. He has been traveling the world for the last year and we had been occasionally checking the online journals of his trip. He pointed us in the direction of a small market where we could find fresh omul, a delicious fresh water fish only found in Lake Baikal. In amongst the wooden trinkets, jade eggs and communist memorabilia there were fish everywhere: hanging from umbrellas, laid out on tables and kept warm in styrofoam containers. Our first round of smoked omul was quickly devoured at the lakeside and we went back for a candied one for dessert. As we carefully avoided bones and skin, the quirky Irish guy we met ate his whole, like a sandwich.

St Basil's Cathedral

After a couple of hot cups of tea to warm up our fingers, we were ready to make our way back to the train station in Irkutsk for our four night journey to Moscow. The train ride that we had organized our whole trip around ended up being a bit of a disappointment. We were hoping to meet some locals, practice our Russian and drink tea and beer as we watched the landscape go by, but this was not the case. We had secured two top bunks and I think in normal circumstances this would have been fine, but we were sentenced to four nights with a grouchy sourpuss and her snotty little daughter. We took a seat on the bottom bunk with our tea and after many practice trials, I nervously communicated in Russian that we were going to Moscow, and asked where they were going. The woman glared at her daughter as I meekly ventured “Moscow?” and abruptly replied “Moscow. We go to Moscow,” resumed playing cards and completely ignored us. After the first affront, it became painfully obvious that we were not welcome in the lower quarters as the pair stretched out on their bunks reading, sleeping or whatever else they could to take up the maximum amount of space without so much as glancing out of the coveted window. We were banished to the top bunks, our only view the railroad tracks and the shrubbery around it. We became so excited when we found out there was a dining carriage as it meant the possibility of at least a temporary window seat. Unfortunately, we were shooed away on all attempts. First with an impatient Zachrito (closed)! and later just ignored until we figured out that we couldn’t sit with only a beer. Deciphering the overpriced and extensive menu which supposedly only has a few available items was too daunting for us with our limited Russian and the abrupt waitress. Defeated, we went back to our upper cell with our grumpy inmates and cheered ourselves by playing cards for a few days.

Palace square in front of the Hermitage

Because of its reputation of being the most expensive city in the world, we opted to spend one full day in Moscow and catch the train out that night. Arriving into the station at a quarter to five in the morning, our first stop was the empty cobblestone Red Square where the sun slowly came up behind the fairytale castle that is St. Basil’s Cathedral – our only company being a lazy German Shepherd and a couple of police officers that were interested in our passports. There can be a hefty fine (read bribe) for not having your passport with you or not having the proper visa registration stamps for each city you visit within a 72 hour window of entering. Leftover from the Soviet era when population movements were rigorously controlled, police still stop Russians at busy intersections during rush hour or hang outside of hotels looking for the unsuspecting tourists. Luckily, we had our train ticket stubs with us to prove our whereabouts for the past four nights and we were sent on our way. In an action packed day, we visited the gorgeous domed cathedrals in the Kremlin, the first ever McDonalds in Russia and took an inexpensive metro tour (the price of one ride), to admire the amazing architecture, sculptures, frescos and outlandish chandeliers on many of the stops along the circle line. My Russian was improving insomuch that I could now successfully get beer at a kiosk, find the toilets and buy metro tickets.

After an exhausting day, our platskartny (third class) carriage seems like a luxury and woke up in St. Petersburg. St. Petersburg is a beautiful European city where every building is an architectural masterpiece and the many canals make over 700 bridges necessary to span the city. Across the sprawling Palace Square is the extensive Hermitage with its lavish interiors and impressive collection of paintings, sculptures and artifacts. Oh, the balls I could have attended had I been alive and filthy rich in 18th century St. Petersburg!

Joining up with a motley group on a Dostoyevski walking tour, I was reminded again of high school as we followed the 720 footsteps of Raskilnokov (Crime and Punishment) from his apartment to the scene of his victim’s murder. One member of our group kept interrupting our guide with irrelevant facts as he tried to show off his literary prowess, while a self proclaimed ignoramus talked incessantly about how little she knew on the subject. Two young guys joined us late and reeking of alcohol, obviously confusing our walk for a hard core pub crawl. Mike took us through back alleys and to a few watering holes in what is considered the seedier part of St.Petersburg. It didn’t seem very seedy for us, but maybe the mass city cleanup before the G8 summit may have had something to do with it.

Last night in Russia

On our last night Brett heard his name echoed across Palace Square – Robin Esrock had spotted us and needed rescuing. He had taken the infamous “Vodka Train” which is an organized tour from Beijing to St. Petersburg and was in desperate need of company that didn’t include any of the twelve people that he had spent the last two weeks with. We went to Fidel’s, a small pub off of Nevksy Prospekt, and met up with a ballet dancer from New Zealand, drinking beer until our train left at one o’clock the next morning. It was a fantastic night, but it made for a long morning and somewhat groggily we managed to make it to Moscow airport in time to catch our flight to Entebbe, Uganda. It was a blow to our pride but a bonus for the wallet when Brett found the incredibly cheap fare all the way to the middle of Africa, thus ending our overland travel. Making it all the way from Singapore to St Petersburg without taking a flight was really enjoyable as we could see the gradual change in faces, landscapes and lifestyles. But time and money are of the essence and the last leg of our journey, Africa, promises to be a challenge.

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With Joel and Jaa

The green landscape gave us ample opportunities to camp, and at White Lake we pitched our tents right along the water with only a few others in sight. I was beckoned over by a couple of stumbling Mongolians in traditional dress who insisted that I come over to their tent where five people sat around a small table, its centerpiece a bottle of vodka. I scanned each face, trying to figure out their intentions, and my gaze fell on Joelle from San Francisco. He was in Mongolia for a couple of weeks and Jaa, a friend of his mother's, was showing him around. I think that Jaa’s friends beckoned me over as a companion for Joel as he hadn't seen another English speaker in over a week. I was eagerly offered a cupful of vodka, and a snuff bottle from which I sniffed a pinch of the powder which giving a slight burning sensation to my sinuses. I fetched the others and we spent the rest of the evening miming, laughing and talking (often through his daughter who acted as interpreter). Between swigs of vodka and an endless supply of food, Jaa told us stories of how he used to drive goods between Russia and China, and how he even went to Finland to box competitively at a young age. Like most Mongolians, he was interested by Karin's dreadlocks and asked if her parents had them as well and if she had them from birth. As we parted ways for the night, Jaa warned us to be careful of the “bad people” in the area. Thanks. For the rest of the night I couldn’t sleep, waiting for bad people to come and ransack our tent. At three in the morning when a couple of vehicles pulled up to find a spot to camp, I was convinced that we were done for and began stuffing all of our valuables into the bottom of my sleeping bag for safe keeping. Sometimes I think that I get a little too paranoid.

Our trip to Mongolia coincided with the Naadam festival, the biggest event of the year and we decided to skip the main event in Ulaanbaatar to visit several smaller countryside festivals. Wrestling, archery, and horse racing are the main events, but we witnessed the unofficial event of boxing as one vodka induced competitor pulled another off his horse and fists were thrown. In total we were able to see three different festivals of varying size. Our first experience was in the tiny town of ____, where ringside seats were guaranteed, but the caliber of the competitors was a little mixed. We seemed to be the few that didn’t show up on horseback and in the queue for food, those on horseback had the right of way. Fried mutton dumplings, only cooked around Naadam, were the most sought after.

Battra (right) faces off against his opponent

Naadam in the town of Moron was the event that we were waiting for, and Baatra's chance to display his wrestling prowess. Unlike the smaller Naadams, the wrestlers here meant business, and each was dressed in the full traditional outfit. We squeezed into seats amongst the waiting wrestlers who were wrapped up in long jackets to keep warm. An announcement was made and suddenly every wrestler around us stripped down to their speedos and reverse bras and paraded out into the stadium. Each wrestler marched onto the ring raising his arms as if trying to take flight, walking in a slow circle past the officials where hats were ceremoniously removed prior to starting the match. Ten simultaneous matches took place for each round, and as far as I could see rules were minimal. Wrestlers usually engaged in a mutual headlock until one worked up the strength to throw the other to the ground. If the headlock lasted too long, a jovial old man would enthusiastically smack the butt of one of the wrestlers, I assume as a sign to get things moving. The loser is the first one to the ground, and the winner does yet another eagle dance before reclaiming his phallic shaped hat. Some matches were definitely one sided as the previous winners are allowed to select their opponents. This resulted in many huge wrestlers throwing down small guys in less than a minute. Baatra was singled out by a fairly large guy, and although he gave a good fight, was unfortunately defeated.

Baatra was keen to make a side trip to visit his mother, so we altered our itinerary and were promised a traditional Mongolian feast. We were given warm hospitality and were shown all the animals including a newborn calf who was still a little shaky on his feet. It was amazing to see how completely self sufficient the family is -cows are milked twice a day and vats of the fresh milk are stored in the ger and used for all sorts of food. It all takes tremendous work and there were plenty of children around to help. The children, who spend winters at school in Ulaanbaatar and summers in the countryside, seemed delighted to have us around and loved posing for the camera. The eldest had learned some English and was keen to practice. Whenever he could, he cornered me and asked endless questions on subjects ranging from my views on the war in Iraq, the best Hollywood movies of the year and if I was sad when Princess Diana died. My fumbled answers led him to observe that I didn’t seem to be very well informed. Upon returning from a walk around the area, we noticed a rather confused looking goat tethered to a large table outside the ger.

I think his time is up

I don’t know why, but I pictured a lot of blood, cries of anguish, and possibly a headless dash around the yard. I had never seen an animal killed before, and really had no desire to, but morbid curiosity forced me to watch. The process was much more methodical than I had expected. Baatra’s brother performed the entire process, first laying the sheep on it’s back, slicing a small in incision in it’s stomach, and then reaching inside to tear the main artery. No blood was spilled, and the animal died silently. Once the sheep had been sent to greener pastures, it was skinned and cut open. Everything that could be used, was. The only thing thrown away was the gallbladder, which must not be very appealing as even the dog turned his nose up at it. Luckily for us Jacob and Karin are doctors, and were able to point out each part that was being removed. The ventricle, intestines, stomach, kidney, heart, and all the other good stuff were cleaned and boiled for a soup that we unfortunately never had the pleasure of tasting. The meat was cut up and placed into an airtight canister with an onion, water and boiling rocks, and within half an hour, it was cooked to perfection. It was definitely the freshest meat that I have ever had, and absolutely delicious.

After three weeks in Mongolia it was time to get back on the train and we were quite happy to find our four berth compartment empty. For the next thirty minutes I scrutinized every person that walked near our carriage, wondering if they woulb be sharing the small space with us for the thirty six hour journey. I was determined that everyone had some sort of bad quality and therefore made an undesirable companion. As the train chugged away from the station our compartment remained empty. That is until two in the morning when a Mongolian woman and her eleven year old son boarded the train and moved in with us. They somehow managed to both fit on the bottom bunk and fell promptly asleep, snoring at an alarming volume.

The evening light in Mongolia is perfect for photos

Our train arrived at the Mongolian-Russian border at four in the morning, and we were to spend the next eleven hours going through border procedures. Luckily we had entertainment - our cabin mate had started rummaging through her two large duffel bags revealing more shoes and clothes than could possibly be for personal use. Through a series of hand gestures she let us know that she was headed to Russia to sell them, and wasn’t planning on bringing them in legally. She frantically started to stash items of clothing around the compartment, handing us clothing and shoes for us to pretend were ours. Occasionally, she would pause to show us her bible, reassuring us that she was a Christian, and break out in a repetitive chant of “Jesus Jesus Jesus, Amen Amen Amen”. While she was busy stashing, her son was donning as many pairs of pants and shirts as he could, making him look like an unconvincing junior bodybuilder. When no more clothes could be piled on, the duct tape came out and remaining clothing was taped to his legs and arms. The poor kid then had to sweat it out in the hot cabin while Russian customs officials searched his mother's bags. Somehow it was all pulled off, and a series of “Hallelujahs” were exclaimed before she gathered all her goods and hurried off the train to make her fortune. If this is a taste of what Russian bureaucracy is going to be like, we would be in for a challenge in the next couple of weeks.

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Friendly locals

We awoke to the wide open spaces of Mongolia, a far cry from China where every square inch of land is spoken for. The desert went on for miles and we chugged along until everything turned green and we reached Ulaan Baatar. On the approach to the city some smiling kids ran up purposefully to give the finger to the entire length of the train – I guess punk kids are the same all over the world. Dreary Soviet concrete apartment buildings fill the city blocks of UB while Russian made vehicles clog the streets. Drivers honk and yell at each other instead of accepting the organized chaos, yet once and a while a car would stop for a pedestrian – it started to feel a bit more like home. A sign hanging on the guesthouse door warned that “outside is not so safe” and everyone we met warned us of pickpockets and even those that don’t speak English offer the pantomime version. The Cyrillic alphabet (named after Cyril who invented it), a confusing mixture of backwards numbers, letters and characters, adorned all the signage - yet another completely foreign language to us.

We arranged with Jacob and Karin to hire a van with Baatra as our driver and Daava as our interpreter/guide and embark on a nineteen day jaunt in the countryside that would take us through the Gobi Desert and as far north as Kovsgol Lake. We were not sure of what to expect of country life as the Mongolian greeting in our phrasebook translates loosely to “hold the dogs.” Baatra commandeered us through muddy, rocky, dusty roads and through many streams and rivers. We never tired of watching sheep and goats that got caught in his path fleeing for their lives in front of the van yet still unable to make a collective decision (all decisions must be collective) on whether to go left or right to safety. The end result is an entertaining zigzag with invariably half a dozen sheep on one side of the dirt path reversing their initial decision of staying put and instead risking life and limb to dart in front of the van to get to the other side. Baatra humoured us by stopping the van at every white skeleton or camel from UB to the Gobi in order for us to take photos but did not share our morbid fascination in photographing them. While skeletons held little interest for him, rabbits were an entirely different story. One morning he spotted a hare and abruptly turned the vehicle off the road and chased it for a good ten minutes. Anytime the flustered rabbit stopped momentarily, Baatra would lay on the horn and continue the chase, his boyish grin flashing us in his rear view mirror.

Ger Accomodation

Most nights we stayed in a ger which is a round tent made up of sheepskin and canvas and supported by wooden poles and a trellis that can easily be set up or taken down. Through the southerly facing door you can see a small table with tiny chairs behind a stove which dominates the center, it’s pipe poking out of one of the pie shaped windows above. Gers are suited to the Mongolian population’s nomadic lifestyle as they are easy to relocate when necessary. Summer is a season of tough work in preparation for the winter and the nomads follow their animals to the wide open pastures. In winter they take shelter in villages to bear the brunt of the cold together. The tendency of not owning land is obvious in the Mongolian diet – meat is heavily relied on as well as unpasteurized milk products and little or no vegetables are available. We supped on camel, antelope, mutton, and yak and enjoyed dairy treats such as yak butter, dried yogurt, fresh goat’s cheese, and the most popular drink, fermented mare’s milk (airag). As we passed by gers in the countryside kids would chase the van with water bottles full of it, much pushier salesmen than the kids at home with their lemonade stands.

Every village in Mongolia seems to be the same; tall fences with metal gates line the empty dusty roads and a symphony of barking dogs can be heard at all times. Nothing appears to be marked and every junction looks like the one before it. Baatra and Daava get around by asking every second person where to find either the showers, the shops or the well. Village wells are found in the middle of the fence labyrinth and are quite modern in that they usually consist of a hose coming out of a small building. Country ones are covered holes in the middle of nowhere with a leather pouch dangling on a rope and a trough on either side for roaming animals to come and drink from. Unless they get creative, households are not set up with running water so everyone goes to the local showering hole for a good wash. This usually means a very long queue of Mongolians. Showers are a business in Mongolia and during our nineteen day trip I was only able to have three. The price of a shower can be twice the cost of dinner so I guess people want to get their money’s worth – singles are given a half hour and couples forty five before the employees come a knocking.

A visit to the local watering hole

We visited Yolyn Am (Eagle Canyon) and spied several circling eagles, a scary looking vulture and visited the small interactive museum nearby. The museum was full of dinosaur eggs and bones laid out on a table for your licking pleasure. Daava got us started by telling us (unconvincingly) that we could tell the authenticity of the dinosaur bones if our tongue stuck to them. We never noticed this phenomenon but decided that licking dinosaur bones on display was too fun to be missed. We also got right in there with the stuffed reindeer, antelope and gazelle exhibits but stopped short of draping the snow leopard skin on our backs and prancing about. Before setting out, we played a fortune telling game with goat ankle bones. Secretly, you pose a question to the bones and depending on how they land (as a camel, goat, sheep or horse) the bones will give you an ambiguous answer not unlike the more modern magic eight ball.

Sunset on the Dunes

For our last night in the desert we camped right in front of the massive dunes and crawled out of our sleeping bags at five just in time to watch the sun rise. We would be heading north from here and although it is supposed to get quite cold we can hardly believe it in the intense heat of the Gobi where there is not so much as a shrubbery to take shelter under.

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Army of the Terracotta Warriors

The overnight train journey brought us from Xi’an, the end of the eastern line for the caravans who once traveled the Silk Road. This route had opened up China to the rest of Central Asia, bringing in exotic goods, religious thought and individuals that influenced the political and cultural shape of Xi’an. Xi’an has grown to a population of over six million, but somehow still manages to seem small with an old-meets-new feel. In the Muslim quarter, markets and mosques spring up out of narrow alleyways making for peaceful exploration. By contrast, larger streets are lined with mobile phone stores staffed with a 4:1 employee to customer ratio, each trying to outdo each other with grandiose sales complete with salesmen dressed in ancient clothing. The flyers stuffed in our hands as we passed the stores served us much better as parasol replacements rather than as advertisements.

Of the thirty five thousand archeological sites within the Shaanxi province, the Army of the Terracotta Warriors has the biggest draw. In 1974 local farmers drilling for water stumbled upon an underground vault which would be excavated to produce thousands of life-sized terracotta warriors and their horses in battle formation. In 246 BC, emperor Qin Shi Huang had 700,000 sculptors begin construction of the soldiers, each one varying in height, uniform, hairstyle, and even given a unique face (reportedly modeled after the sculptors themselves). The project would ultimately serve as a tomb for the self indulgent emperor and the warriors guard over him and his treasures. As is often the case with visiting archeological sites, the idea and history is more fascinating than the actual site. It was impressive to see the sheer size and magnitude of the project, but being only able to stand on the viewing platform looking down over the warriors, it was hard to get a feeling for the detail that went into their construction. If only we could have walked amongst them. It was amusing to watch an endless stream of Chinese tour groups arrive, each being given a whirlwind tour by their flag toting guide who only allowed enough time to stop for a photo before moving on.

Flying a kite in Tiannanmen Square

Bejing is huge. Not just the size of the city, but the size of the buildings, the streets, and the city blocks. Getting around on foot is practically impossible, as short distances on the map take hours to cover – and possibly longer in the blistering heat. Those looking for a typical Chinatown should look elsewhere. Here construction cranes dot the horizon (if you could see the horizon through the haze) as older buildings and neighborhoods are being torn town and replaced by generic modern ones. Development has been significantly sped up with the upcoming 2008 Olympic Games.

Another temporary casualty of the 2008 games is every main tourist attraction in the city. Despite summer being the high season, many sites are shrouded in scaffolding as restoration work is done. This fact is usually omitted when paying full price for admission. Upon entering the Forbidden City, a vast complex that at one time was home to two dynasties of emperors and today contains some beautiful ancient buildings, we were surprised to see main buildings completely enclosed in scaffolding. In order to make tourists feel as though they were still getting full value, a life sized photograph of what the temple actually looks like is painted onto the scaffolding.

Posing with random people

Approaching Tiananmen Square in the evening, we were delighted to find it rather empty. As we passed earlier that day, it had been full of people either queuing to catch a glimpse of Mao’s corpse, or lingering in the square, trying to find the perfect angle for their obligatory photo under Mao’s gaze. Now it seemed that all the crowds had gathered under the oversized portrait of Mao to watch the flag lowering ceremony, leaving the main area of the square quiet. We were headed over to join them when a man approached us asking if we wanted to buy a kite. Brushing him off as just another vendor, I walked past, and then the thought suddenly occurred to me…wait, I actually do feel like flying a kite. We eagerly unwrapped the kite and held it up into the evening breeze ready to set sail, only to realize that, despite overpaying significantly, the kite included no string. Before we had time to chase after our kite supplier, another vendor appeared ready to supply the missing link. And the ten yellow and red faces of our kite were airborne. Children ran and played while others joined kites together in what appeared an attempt to outdo each other for the longest kite. The scene was so peaceful it was hard to imagine that we were in the same spot where in 1989 army tanks and soldiers forced pro-democracy demonstrators outside of the square, killing hundreds.

Quite often while traveling I feel self conscious about pulling out my camera and taking photos, especially when it comes to photographing people. It always feels strange to ask someone if I can take their photo, for fear of them saying no and me looking foolish. The tables were turned in China and we were on the receiving end for once. We felt a bit like celebrities as we walked around the sights frequently having people ask if they could have their photo taken with us. One couple jumped off their bikes at the chance to get their picture with us and a boy had made an English sign and followed us with it until we read it and agreed to the photo shoot. Most often young couples would whisper to each other while holding their camera and point nervously at us. A few minutes later the guy would usually approach us on the girlfriend’s behalf and we would then take turns posing with each of them. It was hard to imagine what they would then do with these photos, and how they would explain to people who we were.

The spectacular Great Wall

A trip to China wouldn’t be complete without seeing the Great Wall and like Machu Pichu, it completely exceeded our expectations. Instead of going to the more popular section of the wall that is packed with souvenir stalls and hoards of tour groups, we hiked for ten kilometer along the wall from the less visited section of Jinshanling to Simatai. Whichever way you turn is another incredible view of the famous wall that still crumbles over the green mountaintops into infinity. It seemed an impossible task to build as the wall appears to connect all the highest peaks visible along the horizon. This made for many steep climbs up and down the mostly eroded steps in the blazing heat but luckily along the way we could count on shade in the twenty four strategically placed towers. The peacefulness of the scenery was only broken by the vendors, who seemed to appear out of nowhere encouraging us with “You buy Coca-Cola??” Some of the more eager ones would attempt to follow us for the entire duration of the hike, repeating the same sales pitch and giving us terrible guilt trips when we refused to buy their heavily inflated goods.

After six days in Beijing, we were ready to move on. It contained enough historical sites to keep us busy, but the city itself lacks character and charm and the air quality was starting to have a noticeable effect on our lungs. It was time to begin our long awaited trip on the Trans-Mongolian.

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Yummy Egg cakes

Yangshuo seems to be a big destination for tourists and for the first time on our trip, the local tourists outnumbered foreign ones. Somehow the Chinese tourists managed to look just as out of place as the foreigners despite being in their own country. Nestled in amongst hundreds of green haystack mountains, Yangshuo offers beautiful views and an endless amount of activities. The Chinese have a much different idea of a holiday than what we are used to. For example, floating down a river in scenic Yangshuo on a bamboo raft, we were photographed five times and ordered out of our raft to look at poor quality photos on a computer that was also floating on a raft in the middle of the river. We later passed by silk clad monkeys tied to a pole and a poor horse dressed up idiotically for those memorable photo opportunities. After floating by countless refreshment rafts, we got stuck in a bottleneck of about a dozen large rafts, each of which carried about ten tourists, a paddler and traditionally dressed girls singing into a megaphone. Each girl sang a different song to her group indifferent to the fact that they were no more than a metre away from each other.

The short hike up Yueliang Shan (Moon Hill), named for the crescent shape hole in a limestone rock, is worth it for the spectacular view alone. Also interesting to watch are the practices of the women selling cold drinks at extortionate rates out of their portable coolers. It seems that they operate together and each non Chinese person that climbs the hill is accompanied by one of these women who ask at every break in the conversation if you would like to purchase a drink. Despite having six litres of water between us for a mere twenty minute climb, they would not believe our claims that we did not require any additional drinks. We finally managed to shake two of our ladies when we were a quarter of the way up the hill by emphatically telling them that we will never buy anything from them, but one still pressed on. Ultimately Brett and I lost her by sprinting ahead, but our friend Nuria stayed back and eventually had to buy a coke just to be rid of her. Once we got to the top, we noticed that other tourists were not so lucky – some even had two following at close range.

Mud bath in Buddha Cave

With Anna as our guide, we cycled among the hundreds of limestone cliffs that rise up out of a sea of rice paddies. We had to cycle quickly past old ladies that would chase after us with postcards or fresh flower headpieces. They were beautiful, and would be lovely for a wedding but I couldn’t imagine what they thought Brett would do with one. The highlight of the day was the Buddha Cave which had so many incredible formations that varied considerably from chamber to chamber. We were helmeted and forced to surrender our shoes in exchange for ripped plastic sandals with little grip. We were debating the reasoning for this in the rocky and sometimes slippery cave until we had clambered down several meters to an underground river that led to our favorite chamber, the healing mud pool. We stripped down to our bathing suits and waded through the slimy mud avoiding sharp hidden rocks below and having more fun than a couple of water buffalos wallowing on the roadside. Just as we were heading back into town, the rain started and didn’t let up for the next two days. It was Brett’s birthday that night and he was spoiled with two pizzas and a cake from a local bakery. I wasn’t sure what I was going to be getting as the bakery staff tried to explain to me that they didn’t have chocolate, but only one flavor which was a mixture of milk and fruit. I pictured some sort of pudding but it turned out perfectly – the milk was cream, the cake was sponge and the dog that I asked for lounged across the top in spectacular whip cream formation.

Milk & fruit birthday cake

Stocking up on instant noodles, lychees and egg flavoured twinkies, we hopped onto another train, this time in a hard sleeper to Xi’an. We chose the top bunks in a stack of three which provided ample room as long we remained horizontal. For the twenty eight hour trip we spent most of our time either sleeping or reading in our bunks and drinking tea as we gazed out the window from the jump seats opposite the bunks. We had to share the seats with a scowl-faced bunk mate who remained fixed at the window. If we ever both managed to acquire the precious seats we’d be sure to lose them as soon as we got up to get some hot water or go to the toilet. That night we went to sleep while lush green haystack mountains and rice paddies whizzed by and awoke to arid orange gorges as deep as the mountains were high behind them. No matter how unsuitable the farming conditions, ever inch of land seems to be utilized and from the train we could see meager plots right beside the tracks and winding all the way up the mountains. We arrived in Xi’an soon after the sun had set and found that the landscape had changed once more, this time to a flat developed city.

Uh oh, I think we're next

That night on a stroll through a park in Xi’an we stumbled across a large crowd congregated around a Chinese building enraptured with a woman singing. We lingered, taking a couple of photos when a man came up to us and started speaking to us excitedly. We decided that he was explaining what the event was all about and nodded appreciatively. We tried to move on, but he insisted that we come over to the steps where we could get ringside seats. People moved aside for us to sit down and it was then that I noticed that everyone around us had sheet music. Nodding and giving the thumbs up sign, we thought that we were commenting favorably on the performance. When the last act was over, two microphones were thrust into our hands and we were brought out into the center of a crowd which seemed to have grown larger. After we were given an introduction in Chinese, the crowd went silent and all eyes were on us. Unsure of what was expected, we decided to sing the only song we both knew all the words to – our national anthem. It is so much longer than I remember. When we finally finished croaking out our pathetic duet we attempted to give the microphones back to no avail. Our coaches were humming an unfamiliar tune and encouraging us to sing something specific. Finally after a couple of shrugs and a quick “thank you” to the applauding crowd, we managed to ditch the microphones and escape. As we made a clumsy exit we obliged one of our fans who wanted her photo taken with us.

China is a place where it is unthinkable to leave your chopsticks sticking upright in your rice and beckon with your palm up, but where shoving, burping, spitting and nose picking appear to be socially acceptable for all occasions. Overcoming these idiosyncrasies in restaurants while minding our manners, we have managed to fall in love with Chinese cuisine – particularly the dumplings, herbal teas and noodle dishes. We are looking forward to tasting Peking Duck but will save the delicacy for its founder city, Beijing.

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Awaiting our new wardrobe

We met Mr. Trung after a day full of appointments and fittings while having a drink in an outdoor restaurant. He started making small talk about Vietnam and we agreed the next day to hop on our bikes and follow him the three kilometers to his fishing village for a small tour. He showed us the ins and outs of their small fishing industry as well as the local pottery factory. We gave fishing a go ourselves but we only managed to catch a couple of guppies. Afterwards Mrs. Trung made us an incredible lunch while her daughter insisted we practice Vietnamese characters in her notebook.

The road to Hanoi hugged the coast and when we weren’t going through 6000 meter tunnels, we could see the glimmering water on our right and field after field of green rice paddies on our left. We arrived just after dawn and the morning exercises around Hoan Kiem Lake were already well underway. Hundreds of Vietnamese turned out in their spandex and leotards to practice Tai Chi in groups. We were hating that first day when bureaucracy involving our passports would hold us up in Hanoi for six days. In addition, on returning to our guesthouse we frantically searched for our air conditioning remote control only to find that the man that checked us in took it away while we were out and claimed that we had only a fan room and wanted to charge us more for the air conditioning that we had previously agreed was included. We were angry at his deceitful manner and for peace of mind we left for a more trustworthy hotel with a room twice the price. Once we were settled in the nicer place, we began to enjoy the extra time we had in Hanoi and discovered the city at our own pace.

Dodging traffic

My favorite part of Hanoi was wandering the busy streets. Swarms of bicycles and motorbikes loaded with goods ten times their weight weave past trains of cyclos giving tours of the city. Riding single file with one tourist per buggy, the guides looked more like a dozen mothers on a day out pushing their finicky cargo. Women in conical hats balancing two baskets of fruit with the poles on their shoulders miraculously made it through the throng of motorbikes to the other side of the street without dropping one precious pineapple. A man spray painted a mannequin silver on the meridian of a busy intersection while a pair of ladies consulted their map in traffic. A mother whizzed past with a tutu clad toddler hanging on to her skirt yielding to a woman whose white poodle stood on the scooter in front of her, paws at the helm and fuzzy ears flapping in the wind. Dozens of children in miniature motorized vehicles did laps around the floodlit square near the lake. I’m not sure who was having more fun, the children who thought they were driving or the fathers behind them with the remote controls.

Bia Hoi lovers

At a crossroads of four narrow streets, affectionately coined Bia Hoi Junction, we sat drinking the twelve cent beer (bia hoi) sold at every corner as our company morphed around us. Located in the heart of the Old Town and full of locals, travelers and vendors, it is a really interesting way to spend an afternoon. Especially when the police come by and our host scrambled to take away the miniature chairs from anyone sitting on the road and bustling them onto the curb. When the police were almost out of sight she would give them all back again. We also enjoyed watching women selling pineapples particularly when they “spontaneously” asked the non-buyer to balance the pole on their shoulders for a photograph again and again. I think the photographs go for more than the pineapples. In situations such as this one, I find that I prefer my Vietnam nickname of Madam instead of the “Hey Lady” I was coined with in Cambodia. Even when the receptionist at our hotel in Cambodia politely said “Goodbye Lady!” it still felt weird.

Seemingly a tradition in Communist countries, we visited the preserved, wax-like body of the venerated liberator of Vietnam, Ho Chi Minh. It was as if he had passed away yesterday and we were attending his wake. The queue snaked around city blocks and rows of large fresh flower pieces were on display as you approached the mausoleum. White uniformed guards stood at regular intervals maintaining that all kept cameraless, quiet, orderly, single file and above all, appropriate. Brett was busted a few times for the forbidden act of putting his hands in his pockets. Inside the mausoleum, a perfectly preserved wax-like Ho Chi Minh lies prone in a glass case, an island in a sunken room and guarded over by six silent, motionless guards. Additional guards grabbed at our arms and hustled us along lest we get too long a look at the corpse. It was all rather eerie.

The show did not end there. The same line snaked past replicas of his modest dwelling, his two car garage and into his one room stilt house in true Disneyland fashion. The museum is one part photo gallery of Ho Chi Minh being a generally great guy while the upper level is a fantastic although questionable modern art interpretation of how communism relates to worldly events and trends. All Vietnamese are granted free admission to these sites and it seems to have become a pilgrimage especially for students. Communism in theory seems to be a solution for people less fortunate and maybe it is encouraging for them to see that a figure in a position of power like Ho Chi Minh may have lived a modest life without excess. If communism is as successful in Vietnam as this compound seems to indicate, is it really necessary to go to such extent to convince everyone of its merit?

Halong Bay sunset

Passports in hand, we were finally able to indulge in our much awaited and slightly postponed anniversary treat - an overnight boat cruise in Halong Bay. We arrived in the harbour with about fifty other busloads of tourists and set out on our trip, luckily we were only seven. In our spacious cabin there were windows on either side and we could lay back and watch as hundreds of haystack shaped limestone islands jutting out of the green waters came into view. By far the highlight of the trip was leaping off the third floor of the enormous junk into the abyss of warm but seemingly invisible ocean after dark. It wasn’t long before the glowing phosphorescence began dancing over our bodies as we swam through the black waters. It was all over too soon, and the next morning after a two hour paddle in the kayaks and another gorgeous seafood meal, we were on our way back to the harbour – and then on to China.

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Saigon Traffic

Traffic in Saigon can only be described as organized chaos. Endless streams of motorcycles flood the streets, making any crossing a test of faith. Waiting for a break in the traffic would require hours, and the easiest solution is to move slowly and steadily across the street, letting the motorcycles swerve around you. Sudden changes in pace or direct eye contact with cyclists only seems to cause confusion. Hopping on the back of one of these motorbikes is an even more death defying experience. We would cling on to the back as traffic seemed to head straight for us in every direction. Somehow, our driver managed to maneuver us through somewhat safely every time.

A much more interesting, but no less terrifying, way to see the city is by cyclo, a rickshaw-like bicycle taxi. These cyclo drivers can seem pesky as they comb the tourist districts for fares, but many have had a tough life. After the war, many South Vietnamese soldiers were sent to re-education camps for years, where upon emerging, they were stripped of their jobs, qualifications, and citizenships. For many former doctors and lawyers it has been made impossible to carry on their careers, and have therefore had to resort to driving a cyclo to earn their living. These cyclo drivers seem to have a great sense of humour and ours gave us and good tour of the city. I think he was slightly confused that we didn’t know what we wanted to see…we just wanted to go along for the ride.

Vietnamese rap star at 15 May School gala

One of the reasons we were most excited about visiting Saigon was to be reunited with Eliette, our friend that we met in South America. We left our bus and found ourselves in her neighborhood, but the address didn’t make any sense. Stepping off the main streets, we became lost in a labyrinth of narrow alleyways with people lying back in plastic recliners, cooking up meals in makeshift stands in nooks and crannies and some even maneuvering their motorcycles around the tight corners. With a bit of help, we were directed to a cramped alley and eventually found her small rented room. She has living there for three months and volunteering at 15 May School. The school provides free schooling to disadvantaged children in Saigon as well as providing housing for about thirty. The children follow the regular Vietnamese curriculum and also have additional vocational training programs available such as dancing, tailoring and cooking. The volunteers had been working for the past few months on preparation for their big fundraising event, and we arrived just in time to see their hard work pay off. Set in the very plush Carvelle Hotel, I felt quite out of place in my traveling gear, but at least Sinead had a nice outfit to give me a bit of credibility.

The two most visited sights related to the American war (as it is referred to in Vietnam) are the War Remnants Museum in Saigon and the Cu Chi Tunnels. The War Remnants Museum, formerly the Museum of Chinese and American War Crimes (renamed for obvious tourism reasons) houses various exhibits demonstrating the horrors of war, or more specifically the horrors committed by the Americans during the war. Photographs of GI’s dragging a Viet Cong body behind a tank, a soldier holding up half the remains of a dead VC soldier, and jars of deformed fetuses affected by Agent Orange are all rather hard to stomach. Slightly less shocking is an excellent exhibit chronicling many of the photojournalists that lost their lives covering the war, displaying many of their moving photographs.

Firing the AK-47

In order to maintain control of the rural area near to Saigon, the Viet Cong developed a complex network of underground tunnels of varying depth. Sprawling for more than 250 KM in the Cu Chi district, the tunnels made it possible for communication and activities to be carried out without the knowledge of the Americans. One set of tunnels even went underneath a US military base. To adapt to this type of combat, the American’s developed their own squad of what were called “tunnel rats”, soldiers of smaller size to infiltrate the tunnels to seek out the enemy. Tunnel rats uncovered information about the tunnel structure, and the US later carpet bombed the region destroying much of the original underground system. Today a few hundred meters of the tunnels have been renovated, widened to accommodate “fat ass tourists” as our guide put it. Despite the modifications, the tunnels were cramped, hot, and dark - and that’s without the poisonous snakes that were known to reside in the original tunnels. After waiting in an incredibly uncomfortable position for what seemed like ages while those in front of us posed for endless photo ops, Sinead and I bailed out midway at one of the tourist exit points, happy to breathe in the fresh air. In addition to the underground network, there were also tiny camouflaged compartments built especially for snipers and various booby traps that awaited American and South Vietnamese soldiers. Trap doors gave way to different designs all involving sharp bamboo spikes guaranteed to inflict terrible pain or certain death to any that tread near.

Without question, the gun of choice was the Kalashnikov (AK-47). One last attraction of the tunnels is the chance to let off some steam at the firing range. After queuing up to purchase my ammo, I was led down to the range where the AK-47 awaited. Slightly disappointed to see it firmly attached to the counter, I awaited further instruction from my guide. “Shoot!” he told me, pointing to the gun. Never having fired a gun before, I relied on what I had seen on TV. Closing one eye and leaning down came to mind, but I really couldn’t see anything. Nervously I slowly squeezed the trigger, and instantly the air was filled with a deafening bang. The flimsy ear muffs provided little protection in dampening the sound. Unfortunately my shot went far below the target. “Too low!” the employee told me, and I lined another one up. Four shots later I had yet to hit my target. Each shot was followed by a disappointing “too low!” or “too high!”, and at $1 per shot, it would cost me a lot of money if I ever wanted to hit that damn bulls-eye.

Seafood vendor on the beach

Intending only to stop for the night in the coastal town of Nha Trang to break up the 22 hour long journey from Saigon to Hoi An, we extended our stay for a few days. Nha Trang was a pleasant surprise and provided just the relaxation we were looking for. The beach was nice, clean, and quiet. For a dollar, including one beer, we were able to rent shaded lounge chairs for the entire day and listen to the sounds of the ocean lapping at the sand. Women wearing conical hats and scarves around their faces worked the beach peddling their wares. Most we would ignore, but had to give in to the lady balancing a pole with a boiling pot full of fresh crabs, scallops, and prawns on one side and refrigerated condiments on the other. Our plate was piled full of delicious seafood and we sat in our beach chairs chowing down, quite content with our surroundings.

In Nha Trang we also discovered that beer really can get cheaper than fifty cents. Wandering the streets we passed by numerous plastic kids chairs setup on the sidewalk underneath a sign that read: Bia Hoi, Very Cheap, Very Good, Very Vietnam. A puppy scrambled for cover as we awkwardly placed ourselves in these tiny chairs and awaited the beer that we had heard so much about in Vietnam. Bia hoi, translated as “fresh beer”, is Vietnam’s own microbrew. Seventy cents buys two litres served in a plastic pitcher. Combined with the cheap food, this establishment was an instant hit, and each night in Nha Trang we sat with the locals and downed the cheapest beer we have ever had.

We had heard so much of the hassles in Vietnam, that we were expecting the worse. Someone even went as far as to say “Vietnam is beautiful, but the people ruin it”, a rather offensive comment. We found it to be quite the opposite. The people were friendly and helpful, the food is delicious, and the hassle is minor compared to Thailand or Cambodia. Best of all, the living is cheap, which is always a good thing since we need all the help we can get making our money last.

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The people are friendly and smiling, but Cambodia is still very much on its road to recovery from a turbulent and tragic recent history. Colonized by the French in the nineteenth century, invaded by the Japanese during the second World War, and occupied by fighting French, Ho Chi Minh and Viet Minh armies, Cambodia only got its shaky independence in 1954 under Prince Sihanouk. Seeing the US as a threat to national security, Sihanouk broke diplomatic relations and allowed communists to use Cambodian territory in their war and the 1969 USA anti-communist carpet bombing raids in Cambodia and Laos followed. A year later, a successful military coup led by the head of the Cambodian army ousted the Prince who from the safety of China, broadcasted to citizens to fight back alongside communist Vietnam and Chinese troops. With the help of allies from Thailand, South Vietnam and the USA, the Cambodian army kept the communists armies at bay but an indigenous allied force called the Khmer Rouge comprising mainly of jungle rebels and loyalists to the absentee king was becoming a stronger force.

When the allies pulled out of Cambodia in 1975, the Khmer Rouge took Phnom Penh from the Cambodian army, victoriously marching through the streets promising peace. During the next four years, the Cambodian people suffered under the leadership of the communist dictator and Khmer Rouge leader, Pol Pot. He created an agrarian society in which the whole population was relocated and forced to work in a Maoist, peasant dominated cooperative that brought the country back in time 400 years. Even the calendar year was turned back to zero. Educated people were considered the enemy and were mercilessly tortured in the many killing fields around Cambodia. The members of the defeated Cambodian army who were promised a new way of life were herded into trucks, taken into the jungle and brutally murdered. Between the years of 1975 and 1979 it is estimated that two million people died at the hands of the Khmer Rouge. The Vietnamese finally drove the Khmer Rouge to the Thai border, but for twenty years guerilla warfare continued and those responsible have yet to stand trial for the mass genocide.

Tuol Svey Prey High School

Sitting at the confluence of three rivers, the city of Phnom Penh is a blend of beautiful (albeit sometimes crumbling) French colonial architecture and run down shanty towns. The charming riverfront district is lined with palm trees and cozy cafes, a city of great excess that satisfies the needs of a large expat population but where the homeless wander the streets. In a busy neighborhood, in the center of Phnom Penh, the Tuol Svey Prey high school was transformed by the Khmer Rouge into a prison to detain and torture over 18,000 prisoners over a four year period. It is now a museum which displays torture devices, untouched blood-stained cells and the meticulous record keeping of the Khmer Rouge. We walked through old classrooms where thousands of photographs line the walls taken of prisoners before and sometimes after their deaths. Particularly disturbing to me was one where a woman cradling an infant is photographed in profile with a tear rolling down her cheek. The contents of the museum and the somber expressions on the faces of its patrons stood in stark contrast to the laughing group of men playing a game of volleyball in the courts behind the school and the smiling drivers waiting at the exit, eager for their next fare.

As if having to live through the horror of the Khmer Rouge reign wasn’t enough, the people of Cambodia still have to face daily the reality of living and working in a minefield. Walking past huge stacked piles of detonated grenades, pineapple mines, anti-tank mines in the Landmines Museum at Siem Reap, I can only begin to realize what effect the ones still out there can have on a country where only fifteen percent of its inhabitants live in the cities. The founder of the museum, Aki Ra, was orphaned at the age of five by the Khmer Rouge and forced to work in their army. He learned how to lay mines, shoot guns and make bombs before he was ten years old. Now happily married at thirty three, his goal is to rid his country of the landmines which still claim an average of ninety victims per month. He takes into his home many young landmine victims and orphans like him, educating them and helping them to grow up independent.

Local kids at the Bayon Temple

Driving past a few large scale landmine warning advertisements the next day in our respective tuk tuks, we headed to Angkor Wat and its surrounding temples to see the handiwork of Cambodia’s ancestors. From what looked like a pile of rubble from a distance, the Bayon Temple ended up being a jewel up close. Dozens of enormous faces made up of giant jigsaw blocks of stone glared down at us from every direction as we made our way up to the third level. Playing an instrument in one of the temple ruins, a man missing both his legs sat with a hat in front of him. We gave him a couple of dollars and when we rounded the corner, another man with only a stub above where his knee should have been crouched in front of us.

Angkor Wat itself is not only the biggest, but by far the best preserved of the temples around Siem Reap, and every square inch of the sandstone has been carved, depicting stories of ancient Khmer history. It is little wonder that the majority of tourists congregate here. If you are able to climb the three flights of extremely steep stairs to the top, you may be able to evade most, until you have to wait in line to take the only safe staircase down. While the Bayon and Angkor Wat show the genius of the ancient Khmers, Ta Prohm shows the power of nature in slowly reclaiming man’s finest accomplishments. Giant roots have toppled its strongest walls and trees have sprouted from underneath the ancient building’s very foundations scattering intricately engraved rubble everywhere.

Karli and I are swarmed by young salespeople

Traveling in Cambodia seems to be a series of endless moral dilemmas. In a country where there is no social support, many victims of landmines end up on the street begging for money. We were angry with ourselves for buying from a bookstall when there was an amputee selling the book we wanted out of a basket. Groups of children spot us from a mile away, their pleas for money and food becoming louder as we walk on. Is it any better to buy them food than give them money? I want to do what is right, but no matter what I decide to do I end up thinking I’ve done the wrong thing. One night we ate at a restaurant that trains former street kids in the hospitality industry. Several other businesses around Phnom Penh are also run by aid organizations to help raise funds for their social programs. Maybe giving a bit of cash to people on the street can help them in the short term, but supporting trustworthy aid agencies can do more for them in the long run.

If the passage of time can cause nature to take over the majestic architecture of the past, maybe time can also heal the wounds of this recovering nation. Despite all of the horrors that life has thrown at them, it is amazing to see everybody smiling. People like Aki Ra who remove landmines without proper equipment or funding and other people who make it their business to help people in need make me feel good about the future of Cambodia. Also, with the incredible gift of Angkor Wat from their ancestors, comes an exploding tourism industry that so many can benefit from.

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Slow boat to Luang Prabang

Prior to visiting Laos, I really knew nothing about the country or its history. In the fourteenth century much of the region was conquered by the warlord Fa Ngum, who gave the region the fitting name Lan Xang (Land of a Million Elephants). The kingdom didn’t last and in the eighteenth century it came under the rule of the Siamese, who in turn handed it over to the French, and the boundaries of Laos were drawn up. Following World War II, Laos gained independence, but twenty years of chaos followed. Seeking to squash the North Vietnamese presence, the United States waged a secret war, in direct violation of the Geneva Accord, and began carpet bombing Laos between 1964-1973. During this time approximately 1.9 million metric tones of bombs were dropped on the country, over half a ton for every man, woman, and child in Laos. The desire to rid Laos of communists failed, and within two years of the US’ withdrawal, the communists had taken over, and Laos remains today a communist country.

River travel is a way of life in Laos and after the rainy season, the level of the river swells making travel much easier, but at the height of the dry season, navigation can be a bit tricky. We were convinced our captain was drunk as he snaked us back and forth across the river in what seemed to be a random fashion, but we soon realized that the water level was so low that a constant change of direction was necessary to avoid the shallow patches. He was doing a great job until one such zigzag brought us too close to a shallow patch. Before he could change our course, the grinding of motor on the rocks echoed through the boat. People started to panic and the sudden movement within the boat caused it to surge from side to side. At one point I was sure we were going to tip, and just as I was encouraging Sinead to get close to the window for a good jumping point, the captain managed to right to boat and everything calmed down. Trying to save face, a couple of the guys claimed that they were just on their feet to help balance the boat. I made no such claims …I was completely freaked out. The next day was another all day affair on the boat, but this time we managed to get on a slightly more comfortable boat that even included a vendor selling the exceptional Beer Laos, essential for a long day of river travel.

Laos country side

Luang Prabang was one of the most pleasant cities we’ve visited in South East Asia. Surrounded by mountains, it sits at the confluence of two rivers making it picture perfect. It’s mix of historic Buddhist temples and French colonial architecture has earned it a nod from UNESCO and time can easily be passed aimlessly wandering the town. The night market was about the most relaxed we’ve come across. Lining the street are stalls of textiles and crafts illuminated by a single bulb, with each vendor sitting on the ground with their merchandise, chatting with their friends and uninterested in the tourists that walk by. It isn’t until active interest is shown in anything that they enter into sale mode, but even then it is in a very laid back manner -. a change from the markets elsewhere. As we walked through the market, the internal weather detection of the locals kicked in and suddenly everyone was frantically packing up their wares. We were a bit confused as to what the rush was, but sure enough lightning soon rolled in and the heavy rains followed. It seems that people here just know when it is going to rain.

We decided that one long boat trip wasn’t enough and joined our new friends Chris, Lindsey, and Nick on what promised to be one of the most scenic river trips in Laos. In a boat that should hold no more than eight, nineteen people and one curious chicken crammed in for what was supposed to be a six hour journey. Again the low water level made the journey difficult as our overloaded boat constantly scraped the bottom and only an hour after leaving, suffered its first breakdown. Everyone unloaded from the boat to stretch their legs as the furrowed browed captain applied his screwdriver to the engine. These unscheduled stops would continue for the rest of the journey. In one section the river level was so low, that all but eight people had to get out and walk while the lighter boat went on ahead. With only a couple hours of daylight left, the engine puttered and died once again, but this time we had ran out of gas. While the frustrated group of passengers waited on the shore, contemplating the best spot to set up camp, our captain hitched a ride with a fisherman and luckily returned not too long after with a jerry can filled one fifth full of gas. We were skeptical, but it proved to be enough to make it the final distance, and nine hours after we set out, we arrived at Nong Khiaw.

Friendly kids swim after our boat

Annoyances and delays aside, the scenery lived up to expectations. Our captain steered us through the lush jungle, palms springing up along the banks and vast limestone cliffs towering overhead. Villages embedded in the greenery appeared every so often and the river was full of life. Fisherman crouched on the ends of rickety wooden boats casting their nets while the children splashed and played in the water and water buffalo wallowed happily in the shallows. As our boat passed all the kids would frantically wave, while some would show off with a dramatic leap off the nearest rock. It was such an enchanting sight that it made us temporarily forget about the agonizing state of our bodies.

We headed to Nong Khiaw with the intention of doing some trekking, but the intense heat persuaded us to spend the days not doing much of anything. The heat soon subsided giving way to torrential showers, but our positions on the balcony were firmly established and our intense bouts of card playing were not interrupted. The living was easy and the company was good, but we soon figured it was time to move on, before our visas ran out. Laos seems to be that type of place where it is easy to just do nothing and still not miss out on seeing the country.

Vang Vieng draws in busloads of backpackers with its beautiful scenery, cheap accommodation, and easily available supplies of opium and marijuana. The center of town seems to have sprung up from a backpackers’ paint-by-numbers. The usual internet cafes, guesthouses, travel agencies, and restaurants line the main street, but the new addition to the mix are the TV bars. These bars play back to back episodes of Friends, The Simpsons, and Family Guy from open to close. Every day. From the street several different episodes can be heard, while zombie like travelers lounge on the cushions staring straight ahead. The popularity of these bars may have something to do with the “Happy Pizzas and “Happy Shakes” served throughout town, in which you can probably guess the main ingredient. Not exactly our scene, but stepping away from the dusty center, it is an entirely different atmosphere. Our guesthouse overlooked the river and the limestone mountains that line the horizon. Here we could relax for $3 per night without the sound of Ross, Rachael, or the others pestering us.

Trying my best not to belly flop

The most popular activity in Vang Vieng is spending the day floating down the river on an inner tube. Now this isn’t just any ordinary float down the river. Makeshift bars of all shapes and sizes line the river banks offering up ice cold Beer Laos. The tranquility of the river is only interrupted by calls of “Beer Laos! Beer Laos!”. If the tuber is interested, a long bamboo pole is thrown out and the tuber is dragged in to get the beer, otherwise you just float on by. Some “bars” are as basic as a boat floating in the middle of the river, while others are setup along the banks with music blaring and free rope swings to those that buy beer. One such bar had the most ridiculous rope swing I have ever seen. It starts from a platform thirty feet off the water, reached by an uneven wooden ladder that shakes with each step. Once at the top, the only option is to hang on tight and try and let go in the right spot, and right body position. We had a warm up at a previous bar where the swing wasn’t quit so high, but Sinead’s face plant unfortunately won the contest for the worst entry. After watching me go a few times on the high swing, she worked up her courage and executed it perfectly. Others weren’t quite so lucky however, and one girl managed to slip and knock her head on her knee, requiring a trip to the local hospital to get stitches. It’s a good idea that this swing is early on in the trip, as an increase in river beers probably wouldn’t be conducive to the high trapeze.

Many people we met in Laos intended to stay for a couple days and weeks later hadn’t moved on. It is the type of place where one of the biggest attractions is the opportunity to do very little, but still feel as if you are experiencing a part of the country. It would have been easier to stay longer, but we had to get back on the move to meet Craig and Karli in Cambodia.

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