With our thirst for the east not yet ceased we once again find ourselves exploring behind the bamboo curtain of South East Asia. Quickly it becomes apparent that while Canada and Cambodia may start and end with the same letters, that is where all similarities end!
Culture and chaos co-exist in Cambodia, reminding us with a jolt that so many here fight for survival daily. As one of the most war-torn places on earth, people are still recovering from the poisonous past of Pol Pot, whose murderous Khmer Rouge regime was responsible for the 1975-1979 genocide of almost one quarter of the country’s population.
Our Siem Reap no-star hotel room’s air conditioner is so asthmatic that we’ve become a smorgasbord for a profusion of plasma-gulping mosquitos, and after a night trying to unleash violence upon the bad-beaked little bastards we complain to staff on our way out for breakfast. Returning to the room Christine opens the bathroom door and lets out a squeal with zeal, as it seems we’ve also been cohabitating with cockroaches!
Eight cockroaches large enough to trip over appear to be doing the backstroke, with antennae and legs pedaling in the air during their dramatic demise. Staff obviously engaged in some potent chemical warfare, capable of eradicating the entire cockroach clan! With an aversion to any residue from the determination of their extermination used on our vanquished roommates we bolt from the roach-ridden wretchedness and head to the nearby Socheata Hotel.
Cycling into the dawn with the streets still lean we reach the 12th century Bayon Temple, and as daylight stealthily creeps across the forest, find ourselves in the presence of 200 enormous stone faces serenely smiling down at us. The magnificent but crumbling temple is dubbed the ‘Mona Lisa of Southeast Asia’, and exploring the site with nobody else around is absolutely awesome.
Our next stop is Ta Prohm, the jungle temple of ‘Tomb Raider’ fame. While clambering about ruins absolutely wondrous in their decay, our ears are assaulted by the shrilling insistence of the cicada’s need to breed. Two entrepreneurial little kids suddenly appear, and for a few Cambodian Riel, offer to act as tour guides. After we happily pay their miniscule ask, they help us discover some intriguing spots camouflaged by vegetation that we may never have found on our own.
In 1947, French archaeologists uncovered Ta Prohm after it was buried in jungle vegetation for 400 years. The uniqueness of this temple that time forgot is the flourishing 600 year old kapok and strangler fig trees, whose muscular roots have been silently stalking the ruins with the patience of centuries. Spreading up to a hundred meters from the tree’s trunks, the thirsty roots have patiently encroached, entwined, entrapped, embraced, ensnarled, and entombed the temple like the arms of a giant petrified octopus devouring its prey. The awesomeness is absolutely spellbinding – even without Angelina Jolie.
Leaving Ta Phrom we’re spotted by a scruffy sprinkle of souvenir-pushing kids, and avoiding them is like trying to walk on our ears, it’s just not going to happen. Tugging at our heartstrings as well as our shirts they cling to us like hair on a bar of soap, imploring us to buy something, and one forlorn looking little girl trails behind us like a little duckling long after her friends have gone on. In our backpack is a new teddy bear acquired with a Singapore purchase, and by mutual nod Christine and I agree it should belong to her.
A remarkable transformation happens to somebody’s destitute daughter as we pull the bear out of our bag and give it to her. Her pouty-lipped face vanishes and forms a lighthouse smile branded into our brains in perpetuity. Hundreds of languages exist in the world but a smile speaks them all. After allowing us to take a photo, the little one excitedly runs off down the path tightly clutching her new best friend.
Next stop is the largest religious monument ever built; the architectural wonder of Angkor Wat. Discovered buried in the jungle in 1860, it contains more stone than all the pyramids of Egypt combined, and its immense stones weighing up to 1.5 tons each were floated here on bamboo rafts from quarries at the base of Mt. Kulen, some 37 km away. A bamboozling feat indeed!
Climbing the near vertical steps of the temple we escape the sun’s assault by slipping inside and joining monks draped in bright orange robes contrasting dramatically with the ancient grey stones. Seeing an old woman sitting on the floor with a little girl, I pull out one of the finger puppets brought along as gifts, and it’s a toss-up who gets the biggest kick out of it, the child or grandma! The templishious day is etched into our memory not dissimilar from how the country’s chronicles are etched into the temple’s massive stones.
Wandering the streets of Siem Reap is gut-wrenching with a plethora of enfeebled amputees trying to wheedle out a payout from the pity of camera-slung tourists. Cambodia is known for being one of the most heavily mined countries in the world, with over 40,000 people having lost limbs from landmine explosions.
Cycling through the countryside we can’t help rubber-necking at fascinating sights before us. Trussed up ‘bacon-to-be’ are secured to motorcycles with their trotters in the air, tiny tykes lead huge water buffalo about by a nose ring, stunning fields of lotuses are so vast they seem to follow the curvature of the earth, and frisky little school squirts shout out ‘hallo-goodbye’ then giggle into their hands at their boldness.
At Tonle Sap Lake the heat is hotter than a goat’s butt in a pepper patch as we cycle beside a milky-brown multipurpose river functioning as a motorcycle wash, swimming hole, public bath, dishwasher, sewer, transportation route, buffalo drinking trough, and laundromat! We lock up our bikes on the lakeshore and boat to a floating village serving as a self-contained community; with a school, police station, market, restaurants, and even its own church!
Ending our dazzling sojourn in the Kingdom of Cambodia we hop across the border into Thailand and bus to Hua Hin. The former fishing village used to live off the sea, but now lives off travelers who love the sea. Masticating our way through the culinary delights on what used to be squid drying piers, I quickly learn the phrase ‘mai ped’ which roughly translates to ‘easy on the spice buddy’. With a dizzying variety of diabolical chilies lurking in most of Thailand’s meals this is a crucial phrase to add to my Thai vocabulary!
Sitting on our balcony where the sun can find my face I become engaged in some shenanigans with a furry mango-muncher in the treetops next door. Each time I start aping it, my simian sidekick whoops back a hoo-hoo-hoo; leaving Christine simply shaking her head as though she thinks I should be committed.
Finally terminating my monkey malarkey, Christine and her ‘upright ape’ boat to Kha Sam Roi Yot National Park. With an emerald necklace of jungle in the background and the sands of Laem Sala Beach massaging our toes as we wade ashore dodging a plethora of beached jellyfish, and then slog up a rocky path avoiding what locals call ‘the train’; a giant creepy-looking Asian centipede that looks like a walking snake.
Where the rock wall yawns open we follow a crude path leading down into the jaw-dropping Phraya Nakhon Cave. Slanting down through the cave’s collapsed ceiling, the afternoon rays of the sun illuminate stalactites and stalagmites, as well as a small temple with a roof crowned with images of rearing cobras. All alone in the mystical space it is so quiet one could hear a sparrow sneeze.
Next up is big bad Bangkok whose tongue-tussling name happens to be the longest in the world; KrungthepMahanakhonAmonRattanakosinMahintharAyutthayaMahadilokPhopNoppharatRatchathaniBuriromUdomratchaniwetMahasathanAmonPimanAwatanSathitSakkathattiyaWitsanukamPrasit. (Translation: Great city of angels, the supreme repository of divine jewels, the great land unconquerable, the grand and prominent realm, the royal and delightful capital city full of nine noble gems, the highest royal dwelling and grand palace, the divine shelter and living place of reincarnated spirits). Whew!
While the sprawling no-holds-barred city is not for the fainthearted, it does guarantee a serious buzz for those who enjoy feeling the pulse of a city injected directly through the jugular. It brings to mind a line in the lyrics of a Murray Head song; ‘One night in Bangkok makes a hard man humble’.
On the streets of Chinatown, crevices of concern change the landscape of our nose with the airborne sting of chilies, diesel, garlic, sewer, fish sauce, urine, and an assortment of other UFO’s (unidentifiable foul odors). One of the worst of the snoot-crinklers is the evil porcupine-like durian, as for those with a nose, one good whiff of this botanical wonder is likely to put your lunch on your shoes courtesy of an odor strikingly akin to the south end of a north bound skunk!
Other dubious delicacies include crickets, chicken feet, beetles, grubs, scorpions, spiders, water bugs, cockroaches, and other crunchy critters with legs. The curious collection of creepy crawlers would seem to indicate locals are doing their utmost to mitigate the megacity’s pest control issues!
Churning Bangkok lives around the clock, and infestations of motorbikes farting out noxious diesel fumes have traffic gridlocked 24 x 7. They face off against each other at traffic lights like opposing armies in battle, and at the merest hint of the lights turning green begin their charge; miraculously avoiding street vendors, cars, rival motorbikes, and most pedestrians!
With Christine off throwing money at the ‘merch’, I’m lone-wolfing it to a bar to do some 12 ounce curls with my ass kissing a barstool. Letting my gaze wander over seductive toffee-colored dancers twerking hard for their money, I’m fantasizing that if the erotic energy from all the Thai booty gyrating around on stage could somehow be connected to electrodes, there would be enough power to provide air conditioning for the entire sultry city!
As most know prostitution and HIV infection are at epidemic proportions in Thailand, making it imperative that rubbers be used on every conceivable occasion. In fact, if one is silly enough to take the bald-headed gnome for a stroll in the misty forest they might want to seriously consider wearing a full on wet suit!
And on the subject of condoms, we’ve discovered an intriguing restaurant called ‘Cabbages and Condoms’ which is located on a side street between the Planning & Community Development Center and the Non Scalpel Vasectomy Clinic. Implausible, but true!
The courtyard setting is under the leafy canopy of a 60 year old tree dressed in subtle fairy lights, and the bwoking chickens strutting about make us forget we are in the city. The interior décor is comprised of art works made from thousands of condoms, and fittingly the name of its tavern is ‘The Vasectomy Bar’! Whenever in foreign countries a ‘safe’ eating experience is always our preference, but this ridiculously rubberized restaurant is taking things to a whole new level.
Today’s agenda is bussing to Ayutthaya to see its dazzling selection of temples. Sadly, many of the Buddha statues were beheaded long ago by Burmese invaders as a way of demonstrating their power, but amazingly at Wat Mahathat one of the severed heads survived thanks to a sprouting Banyon tree. As the tree grew up it embraced and miraculously positioned the stone head among its massive roots, and it has since become the iconic image of the former Thai capital.
Back in the buzz of big bad Bangkok we have a chuckle with our taxi driver, who despite a slight English impediment is eager to fill the air with words. Turning towards us he takes both his mitts off the wheel, and gesturing like a boxer he exclaims ‘Boxing Sadam’, followed by ‘Bagdad Kaboom’; referring of course to the current war in Iraq. As I pull out my glasses to inspect our map his head nods up and down like a dashboard bobblehead and he quips ‘Aah, put on you zooms’. Exactly so my friend, exactly so!
In town a kid excavating his nostril tries to nab my wallet, but luckily I foil the picker of pockets (and nose) and send him scurrying away after tasting the back of my hand. Almost ‘clipped’ on the street, I decide it’s time for a legitimate clip in a barbershop, and despite my hair being cut using scissors and a straight razor the girl does a great job, and I’m flooded with joy to report that both my ears and jugular are still intact.
In Bangkok’s World Trade Centre we’re surprised to learn it has an ice-skating rink on the eighth floor. Unfortunately the skate blades about as sharp as a cue ball and make wobbling across the squidish white ice about as much fun as gnawing on a woolly mammoth! Quickly we put an end to the numb-nuttery and rejoice at the opportunity of stepping back into our Tevas!
Hemming and hawing over visiting Vietnam due to a current SARS outbreak, we eventually commit as we’re anxious to have a look at certain areas missed on our last trip to the country. Looking to lighten our wallets in Hanoi’s airport, a cooing flock of touts are all over us like pigeons pursuing popcorn, but sidestepping the formidable gauntlet of professional smilers we grab a cab and head to the ‘Old Quarter’.
This is the heart of the thousand year old city, where claustrophobic streets spread out like thirsty bamboo roots. Paddy-hatted women shuffle about as mobile markets balancing heavy baskets from a strip of bamboo on a shoulder, and via the ‘Bamboo Telegraph’ young boys on bikes act as mobile menus by using rhythmic thwacks on the handlebars to advertise offerings at nearby soup stalls. On many street corners squatting old ladies function as mobile gas stations by holding a funnel and plastic bottles full of petrol.
Some of the many streets we walk include; Hang Ma – paper products, including ghost money to burn for the dead. Hang Mam – fish sauce street. Hang Gai – silk street. Hang Bac – gravestones street. Hang Dao – clothing street. Lo Su – hat street. Hang Quat – funeral flags and religious objects street. Hang Ruoi – clam worm street. Don Xuan – a wet market street offering frogs, crabs, eels, fish, and snails. One of the more mysterious is the medicine street of Pho Lan Ong with outlandish lotions and potions including the famous snake wine infused with ginseng roots and a cobra holding a smaller green snake in its mouth; and a label reading: ‘Real Specialty of Vietnam, Snake Wine. Usage: Rheumatism, Lumbago, and Sweat of Limbs’! So, if any of you suffer from ‘Sweat of Limbs’, be sure and let me know!
Another place for a chortle is the Highway 4 Bar on Hang Tre Street, offering a gloriously twisted array of Vietnamese moonshine meant to cure any and all ailments. Below, other than the bracketed comments, are descriptions of the bizarre drink potions copied verbatim, incorrect spelling and all:
GOAT’S BALLS – Dam Duong Hoac strengthens your virility and is also used against backache. People discovered its property by watching frolicking mountain goats who regularly dine on the leaves of this bush. Hence, goat testicles are added to the potion. (BEEN THERE DONE THAT ON THE LAST TRIP!)
GHEKKO – a precious blend of ghekko and indigenous flower stem. Natural antibiotic and stimulant effecting the male body parts, the respitory system, and your nerves. Its properties are further catalyzed by a precious medicinal plant. (I PREFER MY GHEKKOS ON THE ROOM WALL RATHER THAN MY STOMACHE WALL!)
CROW – a pair of black coucal birds (one male and one female) give this potion a strong meaty flavor, strengthening, and cures backace. (THEY DON’T EVEN REMOVE THE FRIGGIN’ FEATHERS!)
FIVE SNAKES – five different poisonous snakes makes this potion invigorating and strengthening. (OH GREAT, SCALY VIAGRA IN A BOTTLE!)
GHEKKO, SEAHORSE, STARFISH & GINSENG – This liquor is a sublime combination of the invigorating characteristics of various marine creatures (seahorse and starfish) and the reptilian ghekko. This liquor is the ultimate thrust for men. (NOW DONTCHA JUST LOVE A GOOD THRUSTING GROG!)
Oh Lord, how I’m missing a nice mellow bottle of Pinot Noir or Zinfandel right about now!
Walking anywhere in Hanoi pedestrians are potential bumper magnets with the roads a mean melee of movement resembling a busted ant’s nest in full panic. In Canada we drive on the right, while in Europe they drive on the left, but here in Vietnam it seems they respect both customs!
This is especially spooky when in a three wheeled ‘cyclo’, which is like sitting in a giant mobile lawn chair while some poor bastard in a pea-green pith helmet seated behind you pedals directly into oncoming traffic. The only shock absorbers on these contraptions are called passengers, who at any given moment have reasonably good odds of becoming somebody’s grille ornament and wearing the ‘wooden overcoat’.
Yes, it’s never a bad idea to bring along extra underwear when traveling in Vietnam!
Ingenuity being synonymous with Vietnam is evidenced by bicycles and motorbikes ludicrously laden with implausible cargo including building supplies, furniture, plate glass, entire families, and livestock! It’s impossible to not have admiration fathoms deep for this nation of innovation, and when it comes to the ‘Outrageous Two Wheeled Cargo Options’ event in the next All Asian Transport Olympics, look for the Vietnamese to be the clear winners; sweeping gold medals in both the artistic and technical categories!
Hoan Kiem Lake, Hanoi’s centerpiece, is a hive of early morning activity with badminton, volleyball, and running all underway by 4 a.m. Sprightly seniors are admirably outside performing daily Tai Chi rituals despite the fact many have more wrinkles than an elephant’s scrotum and fewer teeth than fingers!
While we savor the sun, slender Vietnamese women do their best to avoid it, as pale skin is most desirable. Before hopping on her motorbike a woman will often pull on gloves reaching her shoulders, don a conical hat, wrap a scarf over her nose and mouth, and then add a pair of sunglasses to complete the disguise. Sun protected indeed, and as an extra bonus, fully prepared should they acquire the urge to rob a bank!
From hectic Hanoi we ride a scruffy night train to the mountain village of Sapa; listening for eleven long hours to a juddering rat-a-tat rhythm of the rails that sounds like a couple of skeletons making love atop a metal roof! Only 2 km shy of the Chinese border at Lao Cai we switch to a minibus for the final 2 ½ hour mountainous stretch to misty Sapa.
Our room at Cat Cat Guesthouse is drowning in issues, including a busted bed, a broken sink spewing water on the floor, and a cheek-pinching toilet seat with one crack too many. Nonetheless, the rugged surrounding scenery makes up for it with an inspiring view of Mt. Fansipan, the highest mountain in Vietnam and all of Indochina.
Sapa has many intriguing hill tribe villages all reachable within a few hours, and to check them out we rent an old army jeep literally taped and wired together. With skin stretched taut over our knuckles, we drive over malnourished dirt roads so outrageously steep they would leave even the Dali Lama tense!
From inside one of the village huts we hear the sound of wooden looms clacking beneath their attendants. Outside, Black Hmong dressed in their traditional blue-black clothing and pillbox hats busily hand spin large balls of hemp from which they create their unique dresses, leggings, and sashes.
Trekking to Lao Chai today Christine nearly passes out and ends up lifelessly draped over a large rock like a puppet whose strings have been cut. Abandoning our hike to get her back to Sapa, I’m beginning to think a trip to Vietnam wouldn’t be complete without one of us enduring some sort of medical mishap!
Thankfully Christine’s health seems back to normal today so we’re cautiously off to explore the village of Taphin; home of the Red Dao tribe. The women have their hair tucked into turbans of vivid red cloth adorned with bells, coins, and tassels; and combined with dangling silver earrings, the odd bright gold tooth, and both eyebrows shaved off, they are quite the conspicuous crew.
As I’m taking a picture of a little girl sitting atop her water buffalo in the rice fields, a Hmong woman wanders by dragging a wire leash attached to a couple of Bamboo Rats that would suggest they’re the offspring of a rat being romantically involved with a groundhog.
Perhaps sensing their doom, the irate rotund rodents aggressively try sinking their bared oversized teeth into anything within range, including me as I try to take their photo. Before making a decision to purchase one of the vermin a Red Dao woman does an inspection by prodding it with a stick, and once satisfied, drags the gnashing bewhiskered detainee critter away for dinner. Oh how nummy – roast rat!
Running a broken mountain road outside of Sapa and eye-level to a tsunami of heavy clouds censoring the sky, I add an air of intrigue for little kids walking to school. Clearly they’re not accustomed to seeing runners up at this altitude, and we share a few giggles as they attempt to run along beside me.
The time has come to train from Sapa back to Hanoi; an event providing all the enthusiasm of a barium enema. Boarding the train we’re given a small plastic bottle of water and a bread roll in the advanced stage of rigor mortis! We can’t help but chuckle at the appropriateness, knowing we’re about to be imprisoned in the bug-infested train for the next 10 hours.
With Christine’s aversion to intimacy with insects, she is busily pulverizing any little beasties crawling about the bed into an omelet before pulling the soiled sheet over her head for a few fitful hours of sleep. No pillow-talk tonight! Reaching Hanoi Station with the fleeting commodity of sanity hanging by a thread, we hot-foot it from our incarceration with a suddenness that would make a blur look lethargic! Happily, tomorrow we are homeward bound.
Eating what the airlines call breakfast on our daylong flight home to Canada, the plane suddenly drops alarmingly after hitting the mother of air potholes; simultaneously testing our bowels, bladders, and cardiac functions. The captain makes a stern announcement for everybody, including attendants, to immediately take a seat and buckle up. As the plane violently shudders and shakes doing its best impression of a pissed-off rodeo bull, thoughts of ending up as a crimson splotch begin percolating through the back of our brains.
Unattended cart trolleys careen down the aisles, spilling an assortment of items while looking for an unwary knee-cap to decapitate. The captain urgently instructs passengers to put our pillows on top of the food trays and place our heads down on top of them. With our pillows now painted in a most unbecoming collage of egg and accouterments, we pray that at 35,000 feet in the air the potential winged coffin will avoid becoming cringe-worthy airline news.
After a seeming eternity the violent turbulence diminishes; along with all our enthusiasm for flying. Hoping nothing unseemly has taken residence beneath our pants, we let out a whoop of joy on making it safely to ground; wondering if sometime soon our stomachs might be joining us!
Mark Colegrave 2003