tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5019718507321721622024-02-19T08:53:22.602-08:00Singapore to the UK by Land - Our Journey<b><u>SINGAPORE TO THE UNITED KINGDOM BY LAND</u></b><p>
A trip first conceived in 2009, we are on a journey from Singapore to the United Kingdom by land covering 20 countries over two years. Using any means of transport most appropriate; by foot, yak, tuk tuk, motorbike or the Orient Express.</p>ofParadiseVisionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08535511199313264230noreply@blogger.comBlogger53125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-501971850732172162.post-66761589171083117972013-01-21T23:33:00.000-08:002013-01-21T23:36:13.301-08:00On Hold<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">For those who regularly check up on this blog, please know that there will be no updates until Julian returns from his second season on the Ice Road in Yellowknife, Northwest Territories, Canada.</span></b><br />
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">His input is essential and I simply can't go on without him!! :) I might play around with other blogging sites to see if a better option is available as I have had continuous issues with formatting.</span></b><br />
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">I will await his return in Ton Sai, southern Thailand, helping a women run her guesthouse in exchange for free accommodation and some food, hopefully getting some climbing in as well. </span></b><br />
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">I expect we will continue catching up around mid April.</span></b><br />
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">Thanks heaps for the continued support!</span></b>ofParadiseVisionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08535511199313264230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-501971850732172162.post-31604081465276805362013-01-17T18:49:00.004-08:002013-01-17T21:26:56.039-08:00The Mythical Land of Shangri-La; a Tibetan Region of Yunnan Province, China<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Leaving Tiger Leaping Gorge behind our mini bus, packed with dirty hikers, followed the valley north towards the mythically named land of Shangri-La. As we followed the road up and and over a mountain pass the snow capped peaks we had just hiked through stood mightily above the rest and a couple Chinese passengers requested a photo stop. Jumping out of the van the cold was immediately upon my bare toes, my breath hung in the air with every exhale. </span></b></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYbwRJgrKhUT2E0aV0DSY2hm8KlYjGKnLycMELSYQqL5i7rz2i9L9jkRwCTNIYDtftp7DCfiTtwWH_pgEBZbolHailj7E7_Z2L5CZNqpeJ-dfjpZsnnFgjR1X1u2QAsqM7JRKQHTZT2vIZ/s1600/Shangri+La+-+Yaks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="157" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYbwRJgrKhUT2E0aV0DSY2hm8KlYjGKnLycMELSYQqL5i7rz2i9L9jkRwCTNIYDtftp7DCfiTtwWH_pgEBZbolHailj7E7_Z2L5CZNqpeJ-dfjpZsnnFgjR1X1u2QAsqM7JRKQHTZT2vIZ/s400/Shangri+La+-+Yaks.jpg" width="400" /></a><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">As we descended the pass and continued north it was like the China we had gotten to know over the past three weeks melted behind and disappeared completely. Yaks roamed the golden countryside where corn stalks and barley rested upon large wooden drying frames for winter animal feed and a brisk wind rustled multi coloured prayer flags flying from white washed stupas, yurts and hand woven fences. The courtyard homes gave way to massive whitewashed, timber framed, mud brick buildings with elaborately carved and brightly painted wooden windows and eaves, each easily larger than some the most expansive mansions I have seen. The identifiable hand woven clothing worn by the ethic people was strikingly different, and all this was evidence of an extreme culture change as we gained altitude, a land so different it could suggest a country all of its own: Tibet. </span></b><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjczr18qz4VBXDKvpwv0JJhsJN1KI1aMrToEC211w8dXLi69-Fb4AtGBoWZVW-SsjJ2kMJvoXmOxHdn0iQZU_iRDREqebKDMuIMUFrP0qSpNfbRQkB9U-cf_zhMZGCj8nq5WU8N3aLURbWg/s1600/Shangri+La+-+Old+dude.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="286" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjczr18qz4VBXDKvpwv0JJhsJN1KI1aMrToEC211w8dXLi69-Fb4AtGBoWZVW-SsjJ2kMJvoXmOxHdn0iQZU_iRDREqebKDMuIMUFrP0qSpNfbRQkB9U-cf_zhMZGCj8nq5WU8N3aLURbWg/s400/Shangri+La+-+Old+dude.jpg" width="400" /></a><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">The political circumstances in Tibet itself are constantly changing and currently is closed to tourism. A leadership change in Beijing looming in the near future as well as unrest with Japan over a dispute regarding ownership of an island bringing a palpable tension within China's boundaries and adding to the ongoing paranoia of the government regarding the occupation of Tibet and the emotive reactions of its people. As the bus trembled along the unpaved dirt roads, through the mountainous farmland towards Shangri-La in north western Yunnan province, it was evident that Tibetan culture reaches beyond its political boarders, allowing us the opportunity to dip into this fascinating part of China, home to five ethnic minority groups; Tibetans making up the majority of the population along with the Naxi, Bai, Yi and the Lisu as well as the Han with their exclusive privileges backed by the governments program to 'resettle the west'.</span></b></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Times; font-size: small;"><b>Upon arrival in Shangri-La, and after deciding to turn away from a double room in a hostel for 120RMB, we were soon taken in by a lovely elderly women in traditional Bai dress in a courtyard style home just within the walls of the old town. She showed us a large room which appeared far beyond our means and we were certain we misunderstood her price of 80RMB per night. It turned out however the language was hardly a barrier when communicating with her and every word and hand signal exchanged between us was understood as though we were speaking the same tongue. She lead us into her living room to take our details, where we stood before a stunning ornately carved wooden family alter for ancestral worship which stretched the entire length of one wall and up to the ceiling. Portraits of deceased family members sat behind lit candles and in front were money and offerings of fruit, water and cigarettes which are replaced daily. The Chinese believe that even after death family members still have a continued existence and possess the ability to influence the fortune of the living.</b></span></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Out to satisfy stomachs next we walked deeper into the old town amongst streets similar to those of Dali and Lijiang, where we found the main square alive with music and about a hundred people engaged in a Tibetan 'square' dance (which actually was performed going around in a circle). Clearly the five elderly women who danced in full traditional dress with very young children snugly strapped to their backs with brightly coloured patch work cloth were the respected leaders and everyone else followed the choreographed steps, though some better than others. </span></b><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEHrgWhCzvvT-Lh_ttxlzAbHihT5B5r14s6506jVNZuO857m2_-NLxViP7MTm_6AgEGxxsRcyHMsRi4lVRujXjPUsawdl-zva4yK5bBqjlBlN7-ezJ1Nszvi6u-BdB1fxItQuE1E7Nu_lj/s1600/Shangri+La+-+Streets.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEHrgWhCzvvT-Lh_ttxlzAbHihT5B5r14s6506jVNZuO857m2_-NLxViP7MTm_6AgEGxxsRcyHMsRi4lVRujXjPUsawdl-zva4yK5bBqjlBlN7-ezJ1Nszvi6u-BdB1fxItQuE1E7Nu_lj/s400/Shangri+La+-+Streets.jpg" width="400" /></a><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">I was approached by a Tibetan man who spoke rather incomprehensible english as he threw every phrase he knew at me for a while as I nodded and encouraged him to practice with me. Once he was out of words he pulled a notebook from his woven shoulder bag and began reciting more, asking for my pronunciation when he got stuck. I couldn't wipe the smile from my face as the music and people drifted around the square and we watched some interesting characters. One man exceptionally flamboyant in his movement who clearly took much pride in his dance, another dressed similarly to an LA thug with his jeans hung low, a rotund policeman barely 5ft tall and still in uniform, a women in a long flowing black jacket with beautiful flowing gestures and a short, scruffy man awkward in his footing and not at all in time with the others, laughing incessantly, who could only have been the village drunk. A western girl stumbled along past us, soon to throw her arms up in the air and give up altogether, retreating. We patted her arm in encouragement as she passed and she stopped to express her frustration as my Tibetan friend continued to go over his english with me and it wasn't long before the energetic older couple from America we had met in Tiger Leaping Gorge joined our group. Julian eventually tore me away from my conversation as I was being gifted a photograph by the Tibetan man, and the four of us followed our new Spanish friend, Veronica (Nikka) to a restaurant of her recommendation.</span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">A fire warmed the interior of Tantra Restaurant and we were greeted with a complementary glass of local brandy by RIcki, a Chilean, who it transpired had worked as an attaché for the Chilean government before packing his suit and tie away in exchange for travel and ended up here with an invitation to co-own the restaurant. The food we were served was exceptional, with ingredients of far higher quality than anything we had eaten throughout Asia. Our table grew when two Brits, Steve and Leanne joined us, acquaintances of Nikka. After teaching for the past 18 months in the wild north west they were on a journey south following the Tibetan border, before returning to England in time for Christmas.</span></b><br />
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Shangri-La is still a major stop on the tourist route in Yunnan for the Han, but in the far western reaches of the country it's far enough away from the major cities of China and a world away from SE Asia that it seems to attract a certain sort of western traveler, those who have been on the road for a while and have fascinating experiences to share; of travel through rugged lands, of exceptional journeys and lifestyles. Like minded people with whom conversation flowed easily until we realized that we were the only ones left in the restaurant. When we finally extracted ourselves from the fireside and headed out into the autumn chill we found ourselves locked out of our courtyard home, soon remedied by some loud knocking in the early hours (our apologies here to the local residents). </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">The inviting, comforting vibe of Tantra made us feel at home and with the great group of people we had met there and despite our plan to remain in town for just 36 hours we found ourselves sucked in and spent the majority of the first few days in Shangri-La within its walls, drinking Yak butter or green tea, catching up with writing and discussing each others travel routes, offering ideas to those who were heading in the direction from which we had come, and drinking in the suggestions of others who had come from the north. The sliced yak meat was perfectly cooked and among the nicest dishes I have ever had, the quality of the cut of meat far exceeding our usual fair. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">The first couple of nights as I tried to sleep, I was very aware of my heart beat, slower and much stronger than usual. I could feel its pulsations through my entire body and hear it in my ears and sometimes would have to gasp for breath to satisfy myself. At 3,270 meters (10,728 ft.) meters above sea level it was the first time I had felt the effect of altitude and my system was having to work a little harder than usual due to decreased levels of oxygen and atmospheric pressure. It was a considerably uncomfortable feeling for me for the first few days and simple tasks such as walking had us out of breath in moment, heart racing and lungs gasping. Julian still felt the affect though not as significantly as myself, and I found it necessary to avoid alcoholic and caffeinated beverages as I acclimatized. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Finally, on our third day we decided to get out and see something other than the interior walls of Tantra. Ricki loaned Nikka and us his two electric motorbikes to get out to Songzanlin Monastery, the largest Buddhist Monastery in Yunnan province. As we approached, it appeared as though we were looking at a cluster of ancient castles with glowing golden roofs set at the foot of a mountain. With Ricki's direction we approached from a less used road, circumventing the tourist charges and were rewarded with a view of the monastery from across the rim of a basin. </span></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVg_gxqm1hsCWAXfWY6NbmCy1SwanOG5NxIJJB1iChEalTGpnmj4EP1KMfnWw5Z6PRVHK80XU3CqT0xxc6PZChCe2mNhyphenhyphenD79BTo155upd3W2WoXp2PZR2O89WPIuUOvt2fuQ_BWB767Ybq/s1600/Shangri+La+-+Songzanlin+monestary.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="288" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVg_gxqm1hsCWAXfWY6NbmCy1SwanOG5NxIJJB1iChEalTGpnmj4EP1KMfnWw5Z6PRVHK80XU3CqT0xxc6PZChCe2mNhyphenhyphenD79BTo155upd3W2WoXp2PZR2O89WPIuUOvt2fuQ_BWB767Ybq/s640/Shangri+La+-+Songzanlin+monestary.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSqoKiPp_Tz7dc5bKlqV-bSfsCD5bdm2XKUmilRfaXrkpIlBVZI8pCpbODz912IZsnoauBfrdWKAQUSgBxScQZQWcadW4-0To3jsdnw5F-AnicYV00qK43rR1OEol6R6PfG9X1tmun2JD-/s1600/Shangri+La+-+Upper+level+at+Songlian.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSqoKiPp_Tz7dc5bKlqV-bSfsCD5bdm2XKUmilRfaXrkpIlBVZI8pCpbODz912IZsnoauBfrdWKAQUSgBxScQZQWcadW4-0To3jsdnw5F-AnicYV00qK43rR1OEol6R6PfG9X1tmun2JD-/s400/Shangri+La+-+Upper+level+at+Songlian.jpg" width="400" /></a><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">The temple buildings loomed above us, tiered up the mountains lower slopes and after a hotly contested debate in the 90's were the reason for the town being renamed Shangri-La after the mythical setting of the book Lost Horizon by British author James Hilton. Tourist numbers to the town have increased from 10,000 when the town was known as Zhongdian (or "Jiantang" in Tibetan) to over 1 million visitors a year after the renaming! Whilst an obvious ploy by the authorities to artificially increase tourism in this remote region, it has been successful surely beyond even the most wildly optimistic predictions, the atmosphere was as magical as the name suggests. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Above the magnificent front gateway, the ubiquitous prayer flags fluttered in a strong breeze and we approached to be accosted by a monk asking to see our tickets. At 120RMB each, we had avoided the charges with good reason and retreated with Nikka's thickly accented english claiming innocence. We wandered along the outer walls just 100m up the hill and found another, smaller gateway, without doors or desk and walked into the grounds. Following narrow streets between residential buildings we headed up the slopes to the main monastic structures. Officially the monastery is open and free to all but the coach parties and uninformed are tapped for funds as and where they may be easily removed and no doubt both the local economy and the tax man benefit greatly from this easy supply of cash.</span></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf5NBmkM66RdC1a9rEkNy4xHkXzl0xWhT9fPluIjnDnb7odS7jQmzfrKWdT39nU11sgUjDMUVk5Lo81VyG0aljmD9vyNgVo2wADboxUE48qrF4S4TPMO_trLfeqcA3fhqzAOSvt-PT8LBq/s1600/Shangri+La+-+Songzanlin+monestary+at+prayer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="222" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf5NBmkM66RdC1a9rEkNy4xHkXzl0xWhT9fPluIjnDnb7odS7jQmzfrKWdT39nU11sgUjDMUVk5Lo81VyG0aljmD9vyNgVo2wADboxUE48qrF4S4TPMO_trLfeqcA3fhqzAOSvt-PT8LBq/s400/Shangri+La+-+Songzanlin+monestary+at+prayer.jpg" width="400" /></a><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">We stood for a few minutes in the central square under more streams of prayer flags admiring the huge building before us then climbed the few steps into the main assembly hall. The hall was barred by a cloth and from within we could hear the sounds of chanting. Cheekily, Julian set his camera and lifted it high over the cloth barrier, snapping the interior before we turned away and headed up a staircase to the floors above. Our exploration continued up through five or six brightly decorated levels, the walls covered in buddhist murals and dotted with statues of deities and guardians, until we emerged into the bright sunshine upon the roof, offering wonderful views down over the monastery and across the valley to the town in the distance, the gilded roof tops surrounding us in a sea of gold.</span></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqP7foktVaINetHiGSaT5biRK6482l8XPNRZ_KU-IfeXfZhYiCLd3zxZ_fIrz1s1ypFoSEcb8GgS0aSg8BaO_XAzsl8Ai31isD9SKZeW58TWJzxms67ggYRoUT_c_-o4x68HFJ9-b5-rGc/s1600/Shangri+La+-+Songzanlin+monestary+assembly+hall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="264" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqP7foktVaINetHiGSaT5biRK6482l8XPNRZ_KU-IfeXfZhYiCLd3zxZ_fIrz1s1ypFoSEcb8GgS0aSg8BaO_XAzsl8Ai31isD9SKZeW58TWJzxms67ggYRoUT_c_-o4x68HFJ9-b5-rGc/s400/Shangri+La+-+Songzanlin+monestary+assembly+hall.jpg" width="400" /></a><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Heading back down a symmetrical set of stairways on the opposite side of the building we found the monks had finished their devotions and the assembly hall was open to us. From the ceiling hung brightly coloured banners above rows of benches covered with cushions. The pillars supporting the floors above were similarly decorated and the whole effect was an assault on the visual senses. Two Tibetan horns stood on their bells, concetinered from their fully extended 25ft length down to quarter size and a huge double ended drum hung from its frame in one of the aisles. At the 'alter' end of the room, three giant statues rose three stories high and around their feet lay offerings from the devout, ironically each bank note featuring the face of Chairman Mao. Pictures of revered monks, including the Dali Lama were placed at intervals between the statues feet as well as incense sticks and smaller effigies. The walls were painted with murals from floor to ceiling; fantastic characters of myth loomed down over us with demonic faces and scenes of both the macabre and serene surrounded them and the three of us wandered around the hall as a detail of monks cleaned away the detritus of a hundred more with grass brushes, sharing good humour between themselves and accompanied by much laughter. </span></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPEEo-A2vGHsvO_xTnQIunrZCWcObp-ZWqlm5BiujWLH8gqOgFNj_9y8qYNI9UjhrKZ77N7lyKHBx6bpQybmbMtg0teOS_iL40x2Pxsmlj0qeGvTJDlUAnTosICdQK1tbHXvgSLuSIJQJ5/s1600/Shangri+La.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="393" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPEEo-A2vGHsvO_xTnQIunrZCWcObp-ZWqlm5BiujWLH8gqOgFNj_9y8qYNI9UjhrKZ77N7lyKHBx6bpQybmbMtg0teOS_iL40x2Pxsmlj0qeGvTJDlUAnTosICdQK1tbHXvgSLuSIJQJ5/s640/Shangri+La.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijoGY3waM6V2FC4wrBL9vEbSGoC_9iIXnyH_oy5_i0MYbuPhqFpEtnJEJ3J6Xk2aIjd4X9_zjcioDusy-FOFdkR4_6kEZtLlRKk3T-yLV-fUJaxgqlw-sulfLcHw6zXxZiTBzVBId0YrJQ/s1600/Shangri+La+-+Breakfast+at+Eco+Lodge+II.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijoGY3waM6V2FC4wrBL9vEbSGoC_9iIXnyH_oy5_i0MYbuPhqFpEtnJEJ3J6Xk2aIjd4X9_zjcioDusy-FOFdkR4_6kEZtLlRKk3T-yLV-fUJaxgqlw-sulfLcHw6zXxZiTBzVBId0YrJQ/s400/Shangri+La+-+Breakfast+at+Eco+Lodge+II.jpg" width="400" /></a><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">One night, the six of us, Ricky, Steve, Leanne, Nikka, Julian and I, headed out to the Eco Lodge, a hostel in progress, set in the countryside 10km from the town. Steve and Leanne had recently sealed an agreement with the Tibetans building the place and after a couple months visit back home to the UK, they aim to return to to assist in setting up and running the place. The four story wooden home was set beautifully on the edge of a village in a stunning landscape, quiet and secluded amongst the foothills of the mountains upon which yak roamed, large cow bells around their necks jingling throughout the night. After a tour of the place we spent some time brainstorming, our years working in the hotel industry and travelling we came up with some fresh ideas; the Eco Lodge has potential to be an exceptional experience and offers exactly the sort of 'off the beaten track' twists we look for when travelling. We spent the night sitting in front of a warming fire, enjoying some food from Tantra which Ricky had brought along as well as some medicinal brandy which can only be purchased in pharmacies and very inexpensive (which I actually ended up sincerely enjoying). I slept exceptionally well in the quiet of the countryside in a toasty warm bed with a heated mattress pad (essential for these frigid climates) while Julian and Steve stayed up talking into the early hours of the morning. </span></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitsx50NOVcRMXZOTpE_6BsM1vCnCrjUl4tf9nBe5tpSDIlRMdCltqokm70OhYD84pS2s2YrXgTW5Dt6eb4zPNhvUgZapbt4SqMqMELhszutl5sC3TvojBr2dMQ7tFYniaDYl5QbYOyp7rt/s1600/Shangri+La+-+Village+life.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="288" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitsx50NOVcRMXZOTpE_6BsM1vCnCrjUl4tf9nBe5tpSDIlRMdCltqokm70OhYD84pS2s2YrXgTW5Dt6eb4zPNhvUgZapbt4SqMqMELhszutl5sC3TvojBr2dMQ7tFYniaDYl5QbYOyp7rt/s400/Shangri+La+-+Village+life.jpg" width="400" /></a><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Before breakfast the following morning Julian, Nikka and I went for a stroll around the grounds, admiring the landscape and clusters of large Tibetan homes and drying racks in the company of a herd of yaks, some with pierced noses and ears. The sun melted away the frost on the ground as we returned back to the house where we were served yak butter tea; a savoury soup like beverage which is traditionally made with tea leaves, yak butter and salt though also it is also served with the salt substituted for sugar. Butter tea is a regular part of a Tibetans diet, especially amongst the nomadic tribes who are said to drink around 40 cups of this each day as it is very warming with lots of calorific energy particularly suited to high altitudes (and also helps prevent chapped lips). With the tea we were also served tsampa, a powder of ground barley flour. At the time, none of us knew what the tsampa was for and we dipped our steamed buns into the tea then into the tsampa. I later read on Wikipedia though that "You leave a little buttered tea in the bottom of your bowl and put a big dollop of tsampa on top of it. You stir gently with the forefinger, then knead with the hand, meanwhile twisting your bowl round and round until you finish up with a large dumpling like object which you proceed to ingest, washing it down with more tea." It was interesting to enjoy this traditional Tibetan breakfast, Julian very much enjoying the salted butter tea whist I much preferred the sweet. Ricki's well aged yak cheese topped the steamed buns nicely, along with the spicy tofu spread and raw, local honey. We sat in the courtyard in the late morning, enjoying the warming rays of the sun and each others company. Prior to the taxi coming to take us back to town Nikka and I went for a walk around the village, greeted by local families and their pigs.</span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">That evening, we all gathered at Tantra once again where a few more travellers joined our group for a couple days; a Quebecois couple and a French man. We shared a large spread of exceptional food, the sweet an sour chicken worth a particular mention, the Sichuan chef adding her own special twist to this common dish. The South American spirit Piscal flowed freely and we danced the night away together. Two Tibetan girls joined our throng, their natural reserve and shyness eventually overcome until they too danced with the carefree abandon of the inebriated, accompanied by wide smiles and fits of giggles as Leanne encouraged us all into a line dance over the familiar western beats emanating from Ricki's stereo. The soundtrack chosen by many DJ's, spanned 50 years from the eclectic tastes of our group, brought to these borderlands on i-Phones and MP3 players that we all find essential kit in our travels. The following morning was within the top five worst hangovers I have ever experienced! I woke up for breakfast in a sickly state and returned to bed immediately after eating, waking five hours later feeling much better and ready to head back to meet everyone for dinner. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">The following morning we met up with our Quebecois friend, hired out a couple of bikes and ventured out into the countryside for a ride around Napahai Lake as per Steve and Leanne's suggestion. We left the city behind and followed the flat paved road into the surrounding grasslands. The sun was warm yet the breeze quite chilling and it wasn't until we began to ascend a long sweeping hill into a valley hidden behind the hills that I began to warm.</span></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGMl3oxf3FmGsif7nqIx5jsuXyvgqD0TO5a8i6RutEH1FqgrFVjMqP1zt2vvXjjgl-PKLd-xsNxPkdL1YXIT5TLGMhkg6dQZRPSC7X4FQZtCOUQ8OMuph10Sd9YFE7Qbd1ucSsuLelZe3W/s1600/Shangri+La+-+Prayer+wheels.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="196" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGMl3oxf3FmGsif7nqIx5jsuXyvgqD0TO5a8i6RutEH1FqgrFVjMqP1zt2vvXjjgl-PKLd-xsNxPkdL1YXIT5TLGMhkg6dQZRPSC7X4FQZtCOUQ8OMuph10Sd9YFE7Qbd1ucSsuLelZe3W/s320/Shangri+La+-+Prayer+wheels.jpg" width="320" /></a><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">A cable car was available to take tourists up into the mountains but we turned down the 60RMB fair, appreciated the large yurt style building and after a long rest to catch our breath and cool down again we hopped back onto our bikes cycling past eight large white stupas at the foot of the mountain, the final resting places of local families. We headed down a dirt track, Julian and our accomplice tearing ahead of me at breakneck speed towards a Tibetan village en-route to Nappa Lake. The residents of the village, dressed in their native attire, went about tending to pigs and goats amongst their enormous homes and drying racks as children peered at us curiously. Nikka and Julian road on ahead and as I walked alone, three young children followed me, not responding to my attempts at communication. Their darker skin, mysterious eyes and bright red cheeks distinctly Tibetan. I have heard (though found no evidence) of ideas suggesting parents may burn the cheeks of their children when they are young to protect them from the strong sun found at high elevation. There was something particularly magical about this village, still rich in tradition, culture and old ways not at all for the amusement of money spinning tourists, the coaches ferrying the Han to the mountain never pausing here; real life as it has been for a thousand of years with only the occasional tractor unit and the telephone wires providing a nod to the outside world.</span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Rejoining the road, we descended from the village towards the grasslands again and we began the ride around the lake which we were told was here. We passed small clutters of large stone houses, some in the process of being built. I learned that the most expensive part of building these homes is in fact the interior support pillars which are actually entire tree trucks and must be quite old considering their thickness. Nikka said they were local trees yet I failed to see evidence of this amongst the pastural valley until we came upon a group of workers bringing the lumber down off the highlands. A young boy waved in greeting as he leaned out from an intricately carved window of his stone house and I wondered how much such structures costs these families to build. In the west similar homes would be well into the millions of US dollars. Obviously with the amount of new buildings being constructed many of the tourist dollars now flooding into the area are invested within the community and the standard of living is slowly being raised. </span></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgtYCUDtFj1OImvYZfNTN08CYr4fmYB50kCiu6D06fhRQlC6rqS6iYtjv2nVGaFOLG3RDgVOaE8HZxrOCkDANkR75C8jC4RWXJHABxfe9nfJbU574Wc-1ISg47LM0PI9Krq8UES9Ft5BHr/s1600/Shangri+La+-+A+pause+for+breath.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgtYCUDtFj1OImvYZfNTN08CYr4fmYB50kCiu6D06fhRQlC6rqS6iYtjv2nVGaFOLG3RDgVOaE8HZxrOCkDANkR75C8jC4RWXJHABxfe9nfJbU574Wc-1ISg47LM0PI9Krq8UES9Ft5BHr/s400/Shangri+La+-+A+pause+for+breath.jpg" width="400" /></a><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">As the sun began to descend we realized we still had quite a long way to go until we arrived back in Shangri-La, and finally we came across Napa Lake. Being the autumn dry season, the lake had dried and receded, opening up the shallower regions to grasslands, the prairie now golden and herds of yaks, horses, sheep grazed upon land. During the wet season the lake will expand and the water will rush through nine surrounding caves and empty into the Jinsha River. Now cycling in shadow the temperatures dipped considerably and we picked up the pace. Just before the sun dipped behind the mountain Julian and a couple other Asian photographers passing in a car, were blessed with exceptional light upon the grasslands we shared with flocks of geese and a some white cranes, the sky blessing them and us with a very atmospheric sunset. </span></b><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWDCRmBJS1dTe7ZuGM8OQpQSdpOjUk4lY3eXHrUBWeMNLW67aP0R7dWn5-OljYMPaNqPun8KNh0cQwg1tsz0ZdrSWOrXC5-6NgI2NvbuulswD3Z380FPWUfhUtmGWizhhHPsy086xr_aHY/s1600/Shangri+La+-+Drying+racks+B&W.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="252" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWDCRmBJS1dTe7ZuGM8OQpQSdpOjUk4lY3eXHrUBWeMNLW67aP0R7dWn5-OljYMPaNqPun8KNh0cQwg1tsz0ZdrSWOrXC5-6NgI2NvbuulswD3Z380FPWUfhUtmGWizhhHPsy086xr_aHY/s400/Shangri+La+-+Drying+racks+B&W.jpg" width="400" /></a><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">The route around the lake ended up being much longer than we anticipated, about 40km in total, and the final stretch was a long hill up and over a pass back into Shangri-La. We waited for Julian as he took his pictures back in the valley and the cold crept over me and deep into my bones. I had been trying to put off spending money on buying some warmer clothing but finally, the cold won and Steve and Leanne hiked around town with us acting as translators until I found a warm, down jacket which makes me look like a shiny MIchelin man. I would have bought the smaller, more attractive one for a few dollars more but Julian managed to bargain himself an ugly red hat in for next to nothing and apparently that was a deal maker. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">On our fifth day, we took the decision to finally move on the following day but we still had yet to see the worlds largest prayer wheel 500 meters from our guesthouse. Climbing the stairs up to the temple we approached the copper prayer wheel engraved with the sanskrit mantra 'Om Mani Padme Hum' standing 21 meters overhead. A number of people had joined at its base in attempt to rotate the 60 tonne mass in a clockwise direction and much to my amusement it wasn't until I grabbed hold that it started to move. Gaining momentum it spun faster and abiding by ritual I kept with it for three turns. According to the Tibetan Buddhist tradition spinning a prayer wheel will have the same meritorious effect as reciting prayers. We wandered around the grounds of the temple overlooking the city and decided that the overview of the city itself wasn't a particularly lovely site, most single or two story rooftops creating a very uniform look. </span></b></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Of course, as we had every other night since we arrived in Shangri-La we all gathered with Ricky at Tantra for yet another mouth watering meal, which Ricky offered on the house with the suggestion we tip his staff in liew of charge, which we did with much thanks for the manner in which they had looked after us. Ricky has turned out to be one of the most generous, selfless people I have ever met; a very beautiful soul and so rare to find. Steve and Leanna also decided to continue to new pastures for a while after getting stuck in Shangri-La for over a month and we all congregated for one last time. A new face had joined our group a couple days before, a lovely middle aged Chilean women, who treated us to a couple of the the most fabulous cocktails I have ever had which she squeeze exclusively from fresh ingredients; green apples, red chillies, raw ginger and a generous helping of Piscal. As much as we enjoyed being in Shangri-La, the reason we ended up staying so long was sincerely because of the fabulous people we met there. The times we shared, lessons learned and experiences told sealed a bond between us unique to travellers who may never actually meet again. Being away from home for so long, away from family and friends for years, these moments are priceless. </span></b></span><br />
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ofParadiseVisionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08535511199313264230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-501971850732172162.post-78745047212249016502013-01-13T06:35:00.000-08:002013-01-13T06:35:03.960-08:00Trekking Tiger Leaping Gorge, Yunnan Province, China<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b>(Since we plan on being in Ton Sai for a fair length of time we splashed out on a mobile internet dongle <USB connection>. Hopefully this will help us catch up on the blog a bit before Julian heads off the Ice Road newt week but truth be told, there are much better things to do than sit on the computer around here. The climbing is great, the people are wonderful and quite frankly, sitting on the computer is the last thing any of us want to do here. Thanks to all who have regularly checked for new postings. Really nice to see we generally have about 40 people who do so. Hopefully we get a few up over the next week before things on here go on hold for about 15 weeks until Julian gets back the the tropics). </b></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWeoYPWo067Qv2mWHMJxoQ7XU6gOhSylgUS5k1vGkxZ7JV4aPt2Wm6kTVWG6G05g0igOkexar-vYjp3ft6tszcLHtXTVoIW2OzlhmNM1qnF102PgiSwvXFmVvAZ6N6vLjTxla6JMqViqvo/s1600/Tiger+Leaping+Gorge+-+The+Middle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWeoYPWo067Qv2mWHMJxoQ7XU6gOhSylgUS5k1vGkxZ7JV4aPt2Wm6kTVWG6G05g0igOkexar-vYjp3ft6tszcLHtXTVoIW2OzlhmNM1qnF102PgiSwvXFmVvAZ6N6vLjTxla6JMqViqvo/s320/Tiger+Leaping+Gorge+-+The+Middle.jpg" width="320" /></b></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b>Jagged teeth of snow covered granite loomed in the distance as our bus neared Qiaotou Village at the mouth of Tiger Leaping Gorge. Legend has it that a tiger jumped across the gorge at its narrowest point using a large boulder (about the size of a house) known as Tiger Leaping Stone in order to escape a hunter. From the snow capped peaks of Haba Shan (5,396 metres or 17,703 ft) to the gushing rapids of the Jinsha River is a sheer drop of 3900 meters, making it one of the deepest gorges in the world and as avid hikers, a much anticipated part of our exploration of Yunnan. Leaving the majority of our belongings at Janes Guesthouse we paid the 65RMB fee to the national park and hit the trail late in the afternoon. Climbing up to Twenty-Four Bends Path, we chose the higher trail over the one alongside the river. Passing through someones front garden to access the trail (for which we were taxed for the privilege) we found ourselves on a narrow path with a chinese couple from Beijing and soon after we were joined by a horsemen, hopeful that one of us might grow tired of the steep climb and opt for the services of his four legged accomplice. The residents of the gorge are the indigenous Naxi we had met in Lijiang, who live in a handful of small villages throughout the gorge and have been utilizing this 22km long trail for centuries. Along the route they farm grain, tend livestock, mine natural crystals and now extract a few foreign dollars from the millions of tourists who pass this way each year. </b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b>The bells around the horses neck jingled as we hiked upwards towards the jagged peaks; the river, terraced paddies and courtyard homes on the lower banks growing further and further away. The vegetation varied dramatically; from palm trees and ferns up to pine trees, cacti, a species of thick, hardy lavender and colourful alpine flowers. The scent of marijuana often graces the nose which grows in clusters up to 8ft high along the path, which we shared with herds of goats. The chinese women we found ourselves hiking with, whose name I was never able to pronounce, was gasping for short, sharp breaths; the elevation here clearly affecting her city lungs in particular of us all. </b></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b>My yoga practice has me very aware of my breath which I feel made a big difference but it was the intense beating of my heart, common at high altitude, that forced me to pause. As we approached the most strenuous part of the trail, a set of 24 switchbacks up to the highest point of the trail, a Naxi women bustled around her teahouse customers like a mother hen, serving us a delicious 'raw honey and ganja tea' and refreshing slices of the largest cucumber I had ever seen. </b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b>Revitalized and ready to tackle the 24 bends, Julian motored on ahead (<i>just longer legs - ed</i>) whilst I set steady pace, followed by our friends from Beijing, stoping regularly to catch our breath. We almost levelled with the rocky snow covered peaks opposite, the dramatic grass covered ridge lines now below us sweeping into the gushing rapids below which have only been successfully navigated once, claiming the lives of all others who attempt it. As we neared the summit a granite outcrop offered spectacular views of the gorge, as intense as any mountain landscape I have ever hiked through as I giddily stood on the edge. Julian had managed to find himself a secluded outcrop just off the trail above a sheer drop of several hundred metres to admire the view in solitude for a few minutes as he waited for our arrival. </b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b>Dusk was upon us and the setting sun cast long shadows down the east / west lying gorge; the granite peaks above us changing shades of pink and grey, as our path descended towards Tea Horse guest house, our intended stop of the night. The descent reeked havoc on my knees slowing us considerably and we found ourselves hiking in the darkness of the night. Preceded by a brilliant glow, the full moon rose above the Himalayan peaks stopping us in our tracks. Illuminating the trail brightly, the snow covered peaks and occasional fluffy white cloud glowed radiantly under the light. Dogs throughout the valley howled to welcome the night as we checked into our twin room, throwing open the windows to the moon lit gorge below. </b></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFGsh8iCqKGXykpdkim4A58OzDKMFZiGCn103e4vnFx0TX0r6PsatmKWF9-WghpgLoNSqvYvzrsK-_GNUwkZFNU3ovi6kZEg2HUhXMoYw__PYGq7LNBcgXpDh65YIVg0DYsbklj20Nx6un/s1600/Tiger+Leaping+Gorge+-+Hurling+view.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b><img border="0" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFGsh8iCqKGXykpdkim4A58OzDKMFZiGCn103e4vnFx0TX0r6PsatmKWF9-WghpgLoNSqvYvzrsK-_GNUwkZFNU3ovi6kZEg2HUhXMoYw__PYGq7LNBcgXpDh65YIVg0DYsbklj20Nx6un/s400/Tiger+Leaping+Gorge+-+Hurling+view.jpg" width="400" /></b></span></a></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b>Our evening meal was decidedly void of flavour but seemed to satisfy our bodies until I was later woken with waves of nausea. On the other side of the room I heard Julian moaning and asked him if his stomach was upset. He told me no, still deep in sleep with no memory of the conversation, and the nausea subsided allow me to drift back to sleep. I woke later as the pain swelled again and moments later Julian sprang from his bed, swung open the windows and heaved the contents of his stomach into the valley below. The pain in my stomach woke me numerous times but refused to release and it wasn't until early morning that I induced vomiting in attempt to relieve my system. Clearly last nights meal had poisoned us both and despite discussing hiking two hours to the next guesthouse neither of us could summon the energy to rise and we ended up sleeping until late in the afternoon, waking only to vomit occasionally. I can think of worse places to be ill though; the cool mountain air and quiet valley allowed us to be sick in peace, and I have never puked out of a prettier window. It was a painful, disgusting bug that drained us of every once of energy. Despite having no appetite we knew would have to fuel our systems that evening and eating out of that kitchen again not an option, so we packed our bags and hit the trail to the next guesthouse. Thankful for the homemade fruit and oat bars Louanne had sent us away with we had a small bite to eat out of necessity for the energy we were about to about to expend. It was a slow and painful start but mercifully the path gained no elevation and the going was relatively easy, and stunningly beautiful. The thrillingly narrow path followed deep gullies weaving in and out of the hillside, passing two distinctly different waterfalls; one being crystal clear glacier run off, the other thick and grey, murky with clay and sediment. A man tended a motorized shifter and we thought that perhaps he was collecting the clay for pottery however having read about the area afterwards, I realize he may have been sluicing for minerals or crystals. </b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b>By the time we got to the Halfway House guesthouse we were both feeling considerably refreshed despite a hollow pain in the stomach and exceptionally low energy level. Our room was nestled in the far reaches of the guesthouse, offering views just as splendid as the previous evening. After a hot shower we had a look at the menu, the local Chinese food having no appeal what so ever. The only thing remotely appealing was a banana pancake which took ages to get through, though the ginger tea was exactly what I wanted. Two couples we had shared the previous guesthouse with were in lively mood as they enjoyed a locally brewed barley spirit, though Julian and I were in no fit state to socialize and we were both in bed by 2000, and slept a solid 12 hours. </b></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEYil6t53ov6kGUl958jDHshB2b2vzaNhv2TE1n8Cx7m285RwO-zcy5dj-t2g5JcPgxhKRkVHiHRWsM5wF_SUrKLBswQ3IlOmNq4sc3gYtCMKPhkTVyABlI6O7MouDjVmi30M2AY_H0paJ/s1600/Tiger+Leaping+Gorge+-+Overnight+rest.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEYil6t53ov6kGUl958jDHshB2b2vzaNhv2TE1n8Cx7m285RwO-zcy5dj-t2g5JcPgxhKRkVHiHRWsM5wF_SUrKLBswQ3IlOmNq4sc3gYtCMKPhkTVyABlI6O7MouDjVmi30M2AY_H0paJ/s640/Tiger+Leaping+Gorge+-+Overnight+rest.jpg" width="640" /></b></span></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPJGRQkJCSfiNZcVjFgSoOAPYBa1pZXKnkh2cJoXku2BNIcTL-wJGW2OMi6p5WhmxXoA5gu6P2cScj8F7jrRgmsBEHcZTNdJsGQAIlfPpUzb4REui9GRThS3IdVbaP3sgWvZ13o0a3EB2U/s1600/Tiger+Leaping+Gorge+-+Village+below.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPJGRQkJCSfiNZcVjFgSoOAPYBa1pZXKnkh2cJoXku2BNIcTL-wJGW2OMi6p5WhmxXoA5gu6P2cScj8F7jrRgmsBEHcZTNdJsGQAIlfPpUzb4REui9GRThS3IdVbaP3sgWvZ13o0a3EB2U/s400/Tiger+Leaping+Gorge+-+Village+below.jpg" width="400" /></b></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b>The sick had dwindled throughout the night and we both woke feeling much better, though still lacking appetite and energy levels still low. After forcing down a small breakfast we were back on the trail and able to enjoy ourselves and our surroundings much more fully. The dramatic snow covered peaks were now behind us, the gorge opening up in the distance to a valley below dotted with small hamlets. We have been blessed with ideal weather every day since our arrival in China. Clear blue skies, cool autumn breeze and deceptively strong sunlight; the elevation magnifying the suns rays but the cool breeze masking its effect. The trail began to descent softly and we arrived at Tinas Guesthouse, an optional end to the trek, far earlier than we had anticipated. Instead of spending an additional night on the trail as we initially thought, we opted to take the next bus north to Shangri-La, giving us three hours to spare before the bus headed out. </b></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkE56w-HanRAtmOh1XsphUcSw7bni_i5e4Nuwldq2f9q33zv0SPoXMWkMxuPDblKRnaYAchB3e_PHfs7nk1l4IA_XmYwyoolwnXGTTdynt4WE1mwcSNfyehnI1-nqxAWPgB4bSUfC0QIYn/s1600/Tiger+Leaping+Gorge+-+Looking+down.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkE56w-HanRAtmOh1XsphUcSw7bni_i5e4Nuwldq2f9q33zv0SPoXMWkMxuPDblKRnaYAchB3e_PHfs7nk1l4IA_XmYwyoolwnXGTTdynt4WE1mwcSNfyehnI1-nqxAWPgB4bSUfC0QIYn/s400/Tiger+Leaping+Gorge+-+Looking+down.jpg" width="258" /></b></span></a><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b>The local people have built and maintained a steep trail descending into the narrowest point of the gorge offering hikers of the high trail the opportunity to get close to the river (should legs and knees be up to it) for 10RMB each. A two hour round trip down steep switchbacks and rebar ladders spiked into the rock took us the last few hundred feet down to the waters edge, passing locals eager to sell bottled beverages to the unprepared, jade jewellery, and bags of saffron and marijuana. The path itself was an impressive feat and I almost felt 10RMB was to inexpensive for their efforts, though Julian pointed out that with the sheer numbers of tourists which hike through here, particularly in the high season, the locals must be doing quite well for themselves. As Tiger Leaping Gorge gained popularity the lives of these peasant farmers must have taken quite a positive turn. Standing next to the rapids of the Jinsha and looking up at the steep granite walls of the gorge offered a fantastic, different perspective of the place. The hike back up was an exceptionally strenuous affair in our state of health and decreased food intake combined with the effects of altitude. Our American friend in her late 50s easily kept up with us. </b></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjskpTFMzzNpZaLQF8cPI5J180QPyopKB4ItroP_nw0u514YD_RrzVQJxQ2qlVg43IfLJebxnWyub6Ac71xpSJi-d_4_sohZPUKJp0H9EWHeiqIJG5MB_fbjM0qMJka0yHr6VwgHyiQJeoS/s1600/Tiger+Leaping+Gorge+-+Tiger+Leaping+Stone_edited-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b><img border="0" height="262" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjskpTFMzzNpZaLQF8cPI5J180QPyopKB4ItroP_nw0u514YD_RrzVQJxQ2qlVg43IfLJebxnWyub6Ac71xpSJi-d_4_sohZPUKJp0H9EWHeiqIJG5MB_fbjM0qMJka0yHr6VwgHyiQJeoS/s400/Tiger+Leaping+Gorge+-+Tiger+Leaping+Stone_edited-1.jpg" width="400" /></b></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b>After the intense couple of hours down to the Jinsha River and back up to Tinas Guesthouse we should have been famished but our stomachs desired no food. We knew however that sustenance was necessary and ordered a naxi flatbread sandwich before boarding our afternoon bus out of the gorge. This road alongside the river once a simple mule track, has only recently been paved, and our bus followed the snaking trail avoiding local pedestrians and oncoming traffic. A recent rock fall forced us to stop and our driver got out to clear the larger boulders out of the way. This world heritage site is considered the most dangerous gorge in the world, especially during the rainy season where regular rock slides have claimed many lives, wiping car loads of people driving the lower road into the rapids of the Jinsha and it was comforting to see our driver stop well before the litter in the road, constantly mindful of the slopes above. In 2004 the Chinese (Han) government proposed damming Tiger Leaping Gorge for hydroelectric power as part of the nations insatiable appetite, increasing the local governments tax income by some 50% at the bottom line. The proposal would have destroyed beyond recognition one of the most scenic areas in China and displaced 100,000 Naxi people to higher Tibetan land further north. Fortunately, for a change, common sense prevailed over immediate financial gains and this idea was scrapped in 2007; tourism still remains a major source of income for the local people. </b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b>We are fortunate to have been able to explore the countryside (mountainous or otherwise) in many parts of the world, and perhaps it has something to do with the romanticism of roaming the largest mountain range on the planet, but we both agree that Tiger Leaping Gorge is among the most wondrous and dramatic of landscapes we have ventured through. </b></span></div>
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ofParadiseVisionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08535511199313264230noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-501971850732172162.post-58230150757863250832012-12-26T22:55:00.001-08:002012-12-26T22:55:06.078-08:00The Ancient Town of Lijiang, Yunnan Province, China<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b>(Now back in Thailand China feels a world away and writing about China has been quite difficult. Especially with all the great climbing here, I can not be bothered to spend much time on the computer! Going to try to catch up on the blog over the next few weeks but with the super slower internet connection it may take a while). </b></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh-VyCHVyKRg1bq2zIuGc8YfjbVhEjP7BZjHkqt3SAlAeUJAF_Cf2vyrKN92nCRb0_GetyRCQGg_NpuExlFnAuUqyChejZ3tqaBqt0gaV5GZVTxq5Q2gAmpQUB1A2s2K3MJKWRdScMkvWO/s1600/Lijian+-+Streets.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh-VyCHVyKRg1bq2zIuGc8YfjbVhEjP7BZjHkqt3SAlAeUJAF_Cf2vyrKN92nCRb0_GetyRCQGg_NpuExlFnAuUqyChejZ3tqaBqt0gaV5GZVTxq5Q2gAmpQUB1A2s2K3MJKWRdScMkvWO/s320/Lijian+-+Streets.jpg" width="214" /></a><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">At the foot of snowcapped Jinhong mountain, Lijiang is one of the major stops along the Yunnan backpacking trail. One of the most visited ancient cities in China and UNESCO World Heritage site we have often heard it referred to as China's Disney Land. Old Town is similar to the example at Dali with its maze of cobbled streets and ancient rickety wooden buildings. It's much more likely for one to get lost, as Old Town, Lijiang is much larger than its neighbour to the south and unlike Dali, is not built to a grid system. Its architecture is a blend of many cultural influences reflecting the ethnic diversity and geographical position of the town within Yunnan's borders. Where Dali is home to the Bai people, Lijiang is predominantly home to the Naxi (pronounced <i>Nah-shi</i>). In 1996 when a earthquake devastated the area, it was noted how well then ancient Naxi architecture held up in comparison to modern structures and millions was subsequently spent in rebuilding the area in Naxi traditional style; cement and bricks being replaced with cobblestone and wood. </span></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiWMhGUSYh0VfYdEzxgpJqrpzmOV3Qadcd3fwD-w1qV0CdTWJoqsl4wAp9iKXYp6c1I4TpcU8c1hKrFSoVuRE3lzuCPJzNd_XTVnhjliqfJ91rWVGHtTDTuAn5biy5Cu78JJ4-FvyBBt3U/s1600/Lijian+-+Streets+III.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiWMhGUSYh0VfYdEzxgpJqrpzmOV3Qadcd3fwD-w1qV0CdTWJoqsl4wAp9iKXYp6c1I4TpcU8c1hKrFSoVuRE3lzuCPJzNd_XTVnhjliqfJ91rWVGHtTDTuAn5biy5Cu78JJ4-FvyBBt3U/s640/Lijian+-+Streets+III.jpg" width="425" /></a><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">I have used some pretty disgusting toilet facilities over here, especially in China, though never before have I refused to use one. The toilets at the bus terminal were my first exception and I opted to walk around with a full bladder after a five hour bus ride rather than risk the facilities there. As we entered the streets of old town in search of accommodation we were discouraged to find prices well above our norm'. Travelling in low season has resulted in some fantastic bargain room rates in some nice places throughout China, yet this did not seem to apply to Lijiang. We were further put off by notices everywhere insisting tourists pay 80RMB each for the privilege of walking the streets as a mandatory contribution to the restoration and preservation of the buildings (although the cynic in me wonders where the money really goes as another Maserati rolls by). We wandered narrow cobblestone alleyways with hanging red lanterns and crossed bridges arching over sedate canals, weeping willows sagging over our heads until an hour and many guest houses later we finally put our bags down in a closet of room at the Memory of March YHA Hostel just outside the old town limits. Our room was actually a converted entrance way, a locked gate acting as a wall which would have opened into the neighbouring alleyway. Two breeze block walls flanked the bunk beds and a single table inside, not offering even enough floor space for the two of us to stand at one time. Here, we were able to avoid the Old Town fee and at 80RMB a night for the room, we were able to stay within budget. Upon check-in they gave us sheets to make our own bed which, they requested, we strip upon checkout. It was evident staff here hardly raised a finger but mercifully the beds had heated mattress pads and the cost of the room included a small kitten and two playful puppies to keep us amused first thing in the mornings.</span></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhAj-1-e-urZbbNBoD0cUb0bPOEM4K3kQ_NvXYG1iJCeTVXWn774OAdx091DuIzZWNgwZm5OeX8bVCT6PwDk3YJz_mR4I2pfF-mmVmxheJesUbQHvqTPe2XSCIyBt68zjTUTEd6lDCwaDr/s1600/Lijiang+-+Artist.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhAj-1-e-urZbbNBoD0cUb0bPOEM4K3kQ_NvXYG1iJCeTVXWn774OAdx091DuIzZWNgwZm5OeX8bVCT6PwDk3YJz_mR4I2pfF-mmVmxheJesUbQHvqTPe2XSCIyBt68zjTUTEd6lDCwaDr/s400/Lijiang+-+Artist.jpg" width="266" /></a><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Once again we were a major attraction on the streets of Old Town, Chinese tourists snapping pictures and eyeing us as curiously as we eyed our surroundings. Restaurants and boutique guesthouses with prices well over our heads were intertwined with shops selling local handicraft, artwork, musical instruments, street food and a random Irish pub. Despite being low season the streets were rammed with people snaking their way up and down the cobbled thoroughfares and back alleys. Occasionally horses plodded along the cobblestones with tourists on their backs led by elaborately dressed Yunnan horsemen in animal skins and wide brimmed hats and here and there, beautiful women in traditional dress would charge to have their pictures taken. We munched on some unmemorable fried street food dripping with oil as we explored the ancient old town, eventually finding our way into the modern new town; a striking contrast with white multi story concrete buildings and where the roads were thick with rush hour traffic as we searched for a pair of socks. The temperature, noticeably cooling as we make our way further north, has us faced with the harsh reality that our attire suited for the heat of the tropics leaves us chilled to the bone as we climb in altitude and latitude and autumn marches it path through the hemisphere. In addition, my shoulder was in constant pain, worsened by the cold. The sporadic pinching sometimes turned into sharp pain, like a knife digging into my shoulder, resulting in numerous painful knots tensing my entire upper body into the base of my skull making the simple action of turning my head just about impossible. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">As we explored an open air food court in search of dinner we were approached by a Chinese man in his mid 50's sporting a angled baseball cap, inviting us to come stay in his home. Intrigued, we learned he lived in a traditional Naxi village 2.5km from Lijiang, home to 150 families who settled there about 700 years ago. He and his nephew were in the process of setting up a guest house in the village, inviting foreign tourists into the village for the first time. The guesthouse is still a work in progress and despite his warnings that there was no running water at all, and electricity only in the main house, we agreed to meet him in the central square two days later. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">The following day was spent entirely walking around Old Town, admiring the low rise architecture, the two market squares and the hill top pavilions which offer views of the city and snow capped mountain peaks beyond. The traditional curved roofed buildings stand shoulder to shoulder, open fronted to the shops on the ground floor. Artists and sales people ply their trades. Local ceramics shops with their beautifully crafted, fantastically shaped vases and plates, glazed in earthy colours depicting scenes from the town or covered with the Naxi hieroglyphics (the oldest pictorial language in the world still in use today) vie for space with the leatherworkers, the weavers, engravers and silversmiths, the wood carvers, candy factories, barbecues, bongo makers, flute sellers and clothing shops. Each junction with the two rivers that pass down through the town provides space for tables and chairs for the restaurants, cafe's and hotels that hold ground for their customers; themselves a constant writhing mass of humanity, creeping aimlessly, vocally and with much gaiety on along the narrow cobbled streets from sunrise to after dark. One can't help but wonder what happened to all the people who used to live here, and where they had been displaced in preference for all this and we later learned that they were now living very comfortably off the extortionately hight rent prices they can charge for this prime real estate. North of the old town centre, a majestic gate guards the entrance to Black Dragon Pool Park at which they requested an admittance fee of 80RMB per person. Shaking our heads we retreated, to be accosted by a couple of middle aged Chinese women (who spoke no english) offering their services as guides around the park. Not willing to pay the park entrance fee we were certainly not in the market for a guide (especially one that didn't speak english), and playing with the language barrier we invited them to join us for a stroll into the new town for a lunch of bubbling hot pots down the back streets at a fraction of the prices in Old Town. Giggling they waved us away and as we smiled in parting, noticing as we did a side street alongside a stream leading towards the park. Thinking perhaps we might be able to slip into Black Dragon Pool Park unnoticed we followed it only to find it ended abruptly, the stream marking one edge of the park. As we deliberated our options a local man bounded past, crossed the river and disappeared up the path only to return moments later. Finding us clearly debating sneaking into park grounds he encouraged us, nodding and pointing to the stepping stones and satisfied with his approval we followed his lead. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">We joined the other tourists in the walk around the edges of smaller ponds en-route to the main Black Dragon Pool, a striking white bridge spanning its width towards a pagoda. Jade Dragon Snow mountain with its snow capped glacial peaks, the source of this pool, is perfectly positioned amidst the visible landscape making this one of the most photographed scenes in south China, an obligatory snap for tourists and professionals alike. The park itself was lovely with its clear walkways and manicured flowerbeds, though we would have been disappointed had we forked over 160RMB for the experience. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">My shoulder was so bad that night I couldn't sleep and had to support my head in my hands in order to sit up the following morning. Richard was expecting to meet us but the pain was so overwhelming I couldn't bear to move and felt seeking professional advice at this point was necessary. Julian went to meet Richard, explained the situation and upon returning had in hand some herbal Chinese medicine patches Richard had suggested. On-line I found the address for a Chinese medicine and acupuncture office and we set out to the city in hopes of some relief. If this place exists I still don't know about it; we spent five hours traipsing around the city in vain. Overwhelmed with pain we gave up as evening was upon us and returned to the hostel to call Richard in hopes of getting out of the city and into the countryside. Within 30 minutes, his nephew Thomas was loading our bags into his van and we headed away from the tourists to his village. </span></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg11cUkZv3zTXQB_92C2KmclixiAp_6J9J2pQySzBbsGZuqKO2P81vUjdm6PULwN7WRWI-E3VH4ujG1UsccObH3p8TWiJjN-KUZycEFIrteQiP7Owisy-JRsisQJfdOASMms9uWnRzG-1Z-/s1600/Lijian+-+Ted+and+Oreo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg11cUkZv3zTXQB_92C2KmclixiAp_6J9J2pQySzBbsGZuqKO2P81vUjdm6PULwN7WRWI-E3VH4ujG1UsccObH3p8TWiJjN-KUZycEFIrteQiP7Owisy-JRsisQJfdOASMms9uWnRzG-1Z-/s400/Lijian+-+Ted+and+Oreo.jpg" width="400" /></a><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">At his courtyard home we were greeted by Ted and Louanne, an American couple from California who have lived together in China since 2008. Ted has been in and out of China for the past 14 years, initially invited by the Chinese government as an economics expert. Having travelled China extensively they settled temporarily in Litang based on a personal interest Ted developed in the Naxi people. Whilst researching for the first ever book on the people (<i>White Horse - Ted Erskin</i>), he and Richard; a Naxi linguistics expert (who can speak all local Tibetan and tribal dialects in addition to english and who acted as Ted's guide) formed the idea of opening up a guesthouse and guiding service. Also there to greet us was their adult guard dog, Mighty Dog (who stands an impressive 7 or 8 inches from the floor) and a tiny new puppy, Oreo. Leaving our bags in a simple room with two twin beds, no electricity and plenty of blankets, Ted showed us the upper level. Upstairs will be the male dormitory with eight wood framed beds with woven rice straw mattresses (which I found to be very comfortable having come to like the harder sleeping surfaces in Asia). The building itself had been bought and dismantled in Tibet before being transported to the village and rebuilt as a giant jigsaw puzzle on the grounds of Richards family home, forming the second of what will eventually be four buildings making a courtyard house. Upon learning about the stress my shoulder was causing Thomas went about setting up a meeting with his good friend, a master masseuse who would certainly be able to help me and arrangements were made to pay him a visit after dinner. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Ted and Luanne's bedroom was on the second floor of the neighbouring building and we would share their bathroom on the ground floor. Running water had yet to be set up; a well in the corner of the yard was the water source, bathing done by mixing boiled and cold water in a bowl. Of course, as is the same everywhere we have stayed over the last 6 months, there is no heat, and bathing is done as quickly as possible, especially in the cooler temperatures at the eastern end of the Himalayas. The women living in villages at higher altitudes in the neighbouring mountains would come down to Lijiang once a year in groups, for their annual bath. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">The main house (opposite our own building) was the only room which had electricity. Louanne was busy cooking dinner in the kitchen which has been furnished with a few creature comforts like a single gas burner and a table top combo-oven. Ted originally built an oven on the front porch and they were the first people in the village to produce baked goods. Of course this has been of great interest to the Naxi though the baking Louanne shares with them is often too sweet for their palates. Local kitchens here similar to those we have seen in rural villages throughout SE Asia where they cook over the heat of open fires or hot coals set in brasiers. As Louanne was putting on the finishing touches to dinner we went for a short stroll down the street and Ted told us about this village. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">The village does not have a name itself, indeed one of the biggest issues facing Richard and Ted in marketing the guesthouse is that they have no address. Instruction to future guests are going to be along the lines of: "Take a taxi to the big statue of the horse, then call us!" but therein of course lies part of the charm. Sitting about 3km east of the centre of Lijian, the village contains about 150 homes, each of which may well contain several generations of the family. All the men in the village are related and known by their position within the family rather than by a given name. The women are married in from the surrounding villages and must pass the scrutiny of mothers, sisters and aunts (to make sure their housekeeping skills are up to the task and their personality will be compatible with the women she will have to live with) before any wedding might be blessed. The groom will go to his prospective brides village, with all his important family members and the two families will meet. During lunch, the prospect will serve and clean up, the scrutineers will follow her around en-mass. They will check to see how the house is kept, looking for dust, how the beds are made, the organization within the house and the planning around it. If all is well, the groom and his entourage may stay for dinner too, all the while, the prospective bride (and by implication, her family) are on trial to make the very best impression under the closest of pressures.</span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">The kitchen smelled fabulous upon our return and we were soon presented with an american style home cooked dinner, a very welcome change to the oily, fried Chinese food. A chicken and yak cheese casserole topped with crunchy bread crumbs and a side of green beans which Julian went head over heels for. It was fascinating learning about their experiences and getting an inside look at local culture from a western perspective as the first and only foreigners welcomed into this village. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Soon after dinner I left Julian in front of the PC with Oreo on his lap and Thomas and I went to see the masseuse who suggested a half hour massage followed by a half hour of acupuncture. He passed me off to one of his younger apprentices for the first half hour of massage who had the best hands anyone had ever massaged me with (granted, I had only ever gone in for two professional massages in my life, one of which I walked out of five minutes into it). Then the master came up, his touch far exceeding the younger man as he massaged and contorted my body in ways which shocked me, applying chiropractic methods in with his massage. He followed this with a series of needles into my neck and shoulders, probably 30 in total, which put me into a trance like state, a tingling sensation through my limbs which was followed by a temporary sense of paralysis accompanied by gentle waves of nausea. He followed this with a intense massage and more chiropractic adjustments and by the time he was through I felt quite shaken up by the intensity of that hour. That night, my upper body pulsated with such energy that it kept me from sleeping for a few hours, but for the first time in over a month I was almost free of pain. </span></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU9fTqOUDoSOG1HqRd9wlf70eGtyXUeJaz24qDweKl0Jll2tnkIvUHK6kIaomrIJtKikhyrGbnPu1oSz0dK5CroBRkFfY8mVq1aAuQJNkr5nkcl2VrUAV51RS07ijM7oEzIJHC1aeKsMGK/s1600/Lijian+-+Oreo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU9fTqOUDoSOG1HqRd9wlf70eGtyXUeJaz24qDweKl0Jll2tnkIvUHK6kIaomrIJtKikhyrGbnPu1oSz0dK5CroBRkFfY8mVq1aAuQJNkr5nkcl2VrUAV51RS07ijM7oEzIJHC1aeKsMGK/s400/Lijian+-+Oreo.jpg" width="265" /></a><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">The following morning Ted and Louanne lent us the best maintained bikes we had used in six months and we ventured off into the countryside. The Naxi farming the land seemed exceptionally pleased to see us and when we greeted them in english they responded in kind with 'hello', followed by a good hearted laugh, pleased and amused to have used the only english word they know. The obvious pleasure they had in seeing us riding through their farmland was heartwarming as we peddled through their corn fields laced with tall marijuana plants (for their morning tea of course). In the distance atop a hill, a large golden stupa shone in the sunlight, enticing us in that direction. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Pushing our single speed bikes up the final stretch of road we found ourselves in a very large, empty car-park, easily capable of hosting a couple of hundred vehicles. Music drifted from tall whitewashed walls where two monitors showed film images of temple grounds. Parking our bikes and noticing nobody in the ticket booths we followed a few locals to the huge red doors with golden handles, swung open to revel two duelling dragons and four taoist guardians protecting the entranceway and the multiple turnstiles, taped aside allowing us entry. Staff in small open tents selling incense to the devoted hardly acknowledged us as we passed, walking the pathway towards a 5m high, golden, fat, laughing buddha, who greeted us whole heartedly. Chanting Tibetan prayers drifted over our heads from speakers set at regular intervals in the ground as we walked up the steps, spinning the golden prayer wheels and goosebumps erupted over my skin. Standing in front of a fountain alive with golden koi the stupa which had drawn us here rose in to the north at the end of a perfectly symmetrical pathway lined with green bushes and smaller white stupas. Colourful prayer flags fluttered in the wind adding to the ambience and my eyes well with tears; Julian and I were both overwhelmed with emotion with this unexpected first taste of Tibetan culture and we both felt the need for solitude as this feeling washed over us. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">The Goddess of Mercy, towering above me to the west and still under construction, eyed me watchfully as I circled the fountain towards a smaller temple to our rear, dedicated to her. We crossed a small arched bridge over more water and entered the cool building. Inside another image of the Goddess dominated the space and two life sized statues of monks sat behind to her left and right. The pillars supporting the roof were bound with silk prayer scarves left by worshippers and the scent of incense hung in the air, still burning at her feet. The walls were decorated with murals depicting the Goddess and we spent a few minutes there admiring the artistry and absorbing the feeling of the place through open hearts and bare feet.</span></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikaGSt7s22q3wug1iODRsZHXDxsrDbGjzh0CDD_EEsEOg396gQ8nhIHrAeE0mAp80gW3qCl3RDzbN92x2JH5V4RX97QiXGGI9QvBX6jwN_3PTHVj5H1dpV-5n__zZLbLkbGeURBck5NCvI/s1600/Lijian+-+Golden+Pagoda+and+the+mountain.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikaGSt7s22q3wug1iODRsZHXDxsrDbGjzh0CDD_EEsEOg396gQ8nhIHrAeE0mAp80gW3qCl3RDzbN92x2JH5V4RX97QiXGGI9QvBX6jwN_3PTHVj5H1dpV-5n__zZLbLkbGeURBck5NCvI/s400/Lijian+-+Golden+Pagoda+and+the+mountain.jpg" width="400" /></a><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Retracing our steps back towards the central fountain and slowly onwards to the main stupa three local woman in traditional Naxi dress walked towards me, their leathery skin, browned and wrinkled from years of working in the fields, and a group of middle aged Chinese men in suits smiled at me in obvious amusement and surprise. The prayer music drifted overhead as I crossed a small white bridge spanned a trickling stream encircling yet another white stupa, the constant wind playing with more dancing prayer flags providing a constant fluttering accompaniment . </span></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA0R04EzxM_AN1OlBk-T_pWkIEPDdo6akMqB7Co0MPp86s9ycIo6PksJZ9XLh6TVLIV6KCmg0a4R6rzdfuYuEadUjp3K_8K68wsjZXGLz5OIKV7m6Kvp_YZpJmd_o8GRkVOx4TFXAavZTd/s1600/Lijian+-+Golden+Pagoda.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA0R04EzxM_AN1OlBk-T_pWkIEPDdo6akMqB7Co0MPp86s9ycIo6PksJZ9XLh6TVLIV6KCmg0a4R6rzdfuYuEadUjp3K_8K68wsjZXGLz5OIKV7m6Kvp_YZpJmd_o8GRkVOx4TFXAavZTd/s640/Lijian+-+Golden+Pagoda.jpg" width="448" /></a><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">As I neared the golden stupa the hundreds of prayer flags splaying outwards from it created that sound which can only be associated with flying Tibetan prayer flags, and intertwining with the musical chanting creating an overwhelmingly atmospheric experience. I was approached by a local Naxi girl; a tour guide here who spoke excellent english. I learned that this magnificent Buddhist site was still under construction which at the moment was free for local people to experience before the grand opening in a months time when they would start charging 160RMB per person. In previous generations and for a thousand years only a stone stupa stood here, the last incarnation having been destroyed in the Cultural Revolution. The most recent renovations, the forth rebuilding on the site, had begun in 2004. Together the guide and I circled the first level balcony of the stupa discussing Tibetan Buddhism before entering the interior shrine, still under construction. The stupa and the site are now dedicated to Taoism, Buddhism (both Chinese and Tibetan) and Confucian, and within the ground level of the stupa are a collection of statues dedicated to the 81 gods of wealth and the '18 ways'. This multi denominational and money orientated dedication should if nothing else make it a popular sight for the coach loads of Han tourists that make up the majority of the four million visitors Lijiang sees every summer.</span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Thankful for her open hearted information and her humble, quiet soul I found out she felt herself fortunate to have inherited the tour guide position here, as generations of her family are buried within the grounds in their own stupa where eventually she will be laid as well. As Julian joined us he commented that a trip to the gift shop was essential (knowing full well it was not open yet), as the music was so moving he wanted a copy of the CD. My guide wandered over to her colleagues and soon produced us with a copy of the moving Tibetan chants wafting over our heads and presented it to us as a gift. We parted having exchanged e-mails and Julian and I headed back to our bikes for the ride home in the sunshine. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Our final day around Lijiang was a relaxing affair before hitting the road once more to continue our journey north. We took a couple of local busses out to the edge of the valley to hike the hills below Jade Dragon Snow Mountain and spent a slow afternoon overlooking the city and the surrounding fields. It had been a most welcome break from the cycle of moving from hostel to hostel very couple of days. Ted and Luanne had made us feel quite at home for a time, providing some relief from the pressures of language barriers, an insight into local culture from a western perspective and some wonderful, most welcome home cooking in a style familiar to us. Well fed and recuperated we were excited to continue further into the borderlands the following day towards the infamous Tiger Leaping Gorge and a two day hike through some of the most dramatic scenery in the world. True to form, and after our farewells were all said, Thomas obliged us in the morning with a lift across town to the bus station where we purchased our tickets for a ride into the wild.</span></b></div>
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ofParadiseVisionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08535511199313264230noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-501971850732172162.post-58760898801286108902012-12-11T09:39:00.000-08:002012-12-11T09:41:12.684-08:00The Valley of Shaxi, Yunnan Province, China<b><br /></b>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b>(Back in Thailand now so able to format as per usual! Have to admit, as much as I loved Shaxi I had a hard time writing about it and when I passed it on to Julian it was a pretty rubbish entry. He pretty much re wrote it and now, its brilliant! Credit goes to him for this one!)</b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b>The smooth surfaces and tunnels we had found on the major trunk roads since leaving Laos disappeared. The bus wound its way down narrow lanes more suited for traffic levels of several generations past, overtaking transport trucks, tractors and ox drawn carts carrying oversized loads of dried corn stalks. Motorbikes and men carrying barrels of hay on their shoulders or women with large bags of rice still in their husks upon their backs, the weight on their necks and shoulders supported by padded head slings, mingled with the heavy traffic passing through. Watching the fields through our bus windows was like stepping back in time. Thousands of people in woollen jumpers, home-dyed blue skirts and straw hats tended the fields with axes, hoes, sickles and machetes or ploughs powered by yaks or oxen. The chinese introduced the concept of farming crops in rows as well as iron tools and animal powered ploughing around 2500 years ago and when you have a population of 1.3 billion, labour intensive farming holds fewer problems than finding other jobs for the populous. Over a decade into the 21st century and mechanized vehicles barely make an appearance here. To be sure, the roads are clogged with vehicles going from one town to the next but 10m off the highway and nothing has changed in two and a half millennia. Vendors lined with streets offering fruits of the autumn harvest, fresh red apples and pink peaches whetting my appetite for a taste of a most refreshing season as we peered through the glass on our way north. </b></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjImr-EI65hUUflUhKwd1tObiGgF8tzBv2mJ3w0xz-DiTq5pevnPJ4BIQVY1qWJq1TAabwrVawB9IogLENF8zLZDRMyOw4yo5zg9SKyN2YcWEC_KDNXPNeJ9_ZmVaG_zlDZmKnED-S1JJFq/s1600/Shaxi+-+Threshing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b><img border="0" height="398" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjImr-EI65hUUflUhKwd1tObiGgF8tzBv2mJ3w0xz-DiTq5pevnPJ4BIQVY1qWJq1TAabwrVawB9IogLENF8zLZDRMyOw4yo5zg9SKyN2YcWEC_KDNXPNeJ9_ZmVaG_zlDZmKnED-S1JJFq/s640/Shaxi+-+Threshing.jpg" width="640" /></b></span></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b>A new road is in the process of being constructed around the flanks of the mountains and on flyovers through the valleys. This highway will soon drastically change transport here. For local farmers I am certain it will come as a welcome relief as the pace of life reverts to the seasons rather than the modern rush to be <i>somewhere</i> and it will become much faster and easier to cover these long distances for goods being transported in and out and for the tourists alike. Despite the slow and bumpy ride through the countryside we were pleased to be here before the opening of this new road. The experience will soon be drastically different; most modern in a sense. Part of the drive to be in China now is the hope of getting these glimpses of ancient traditions before influence from the west pours in, even to these far reaches and that infernal quest for greater productivity and profit margins destroys a way of life long since lost in our homelands. Chinas headlong rush into modernity, their acceptance in the last few years to the IMF and the WTO is a double edged sword and all too soon I fear these scenes will be consigned to the history books, as they take on the mantle (however it may be perceived) of Superpower.</b></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnfmZB6Ma1-bpumwigBPiV6mAOnhkxFa65GT0P41LJPFnBSAhWTpsKuJvVhiyWVwTv912CBZvNe4TPolesz59eLBi8lXdc9VqD4Y1RCm6WdF9BD0wZu1QXd-g58TtxNEjh9ZTnEJtUDQeW/s1600/Shaxi+-+New+friends.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnfmZB6Ma1-bpumwigBPiV6mAOnhkxFa65GT0P41LJPFnBSAhWTpsKuJvVhiyWVwTv912CBZvNe4TPolesz59eLBi8lXdc9VqD4Y1RCm6WdF9BD0wZu1QXd-g58TtxNEjh9ZTnEJtUDQeW/s640/Shaxi+-+New+friends.jpg" width="426" /></b></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b>As we weaved up and over a pass offering views of the farmland in the valley below my breath caught in my throat and I poked Julian in the ribs, turning his attention to the horizon. Above the rolling foothills sharp snow covered peaks contrast against the clear blue skies; our first glimpse of Himalayan mountains proper. Despite being the smallest, southernmost peaks the tallest of these stretches to nearly 7000m above sea level and my heart raced in anticipation. The love in my soul for dramatic mountain landscapes and having long since dreamed of wandering through the highest range on the planet. I felt a surge of emotion comparable to how I felt as my Mum and I first drove west out of Calgary years ago, the Rocky Mountain range drawing nearer. The energy of ancient traditional ways, the golden autumn colours of the harvest and the cool, crispy air driving off the snowcapped Himalayan peaks surged through me and I buzzed as the bus descended into the valley below to Jianchuan where we were to catch our final connection to Shaxi and the village of Sideng. </b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b>Thankfully everyone figured we were en-route to Shaxi. We were thankful that is, as every person and every sign used only Chinese dialect and characters. The people were quite obviously used to the dazed looks upon backpackers faces as they try to figure out just how to ask the usual 'Where?', 'When?' and 'How much?' questions. We were ushered to the front of the station where mini buses were waiting to fill. We loaded our luggage, secured our seats and were encouraged to enjoy a bowl of noodle soup from the stall in the mini-bus lot which turned out to be flavoured beautifully and spiced very mildly for a change. Julian gushed on to our chef in english, complimenting her on making the best noodle soup in Asia (a bold statement and exceptional compliment indeed (<i>and a warranted one … Ed)</i>); if only she could understand his words.</b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b>We turned southwest with the snow capped peaks unfortunately disappearing into the distance behind us and after a nauseating bus ride up and over two winding foothills we dropped down into a flat bottomed valley. Approximately 150km2 Shaxi is home to around 25,000 Bai people, one of the 56 minorities spread across Yunnan province. They live in small farming villages of anywhere from 30 to 150 homes dotted throughout the valley, interspaced with fertile farmland. Just a few weeks ago the fields would have rippled in a breeze; lush and green but harvest time is upon us and the colours now are gold and brown in the main. We were dropped off in the central market village of Sideng, the larger community here stretching to maybe a few thousand souls and we were left to find our own way to the guesthouse we sought. The owner of said guesthouse, a man who single handily created the tourist industry in Shaxi, deserving of two full pages in our (three year old) Lonely Planet, apparently speaks impeccable english and offers guided tours of the area. Arranging a cab to take us to his guesthouse in a neighbouring village we were disappointed upon meeting him to find that since then, he had changed the name of the property, fully renovated and doubled his prices. He no longer caters to the backpacking crowd and was unwilling to negotiate to anywhere close to our budget, despite having an empty guesthouse and it being low season. There is a brand new 4x4 truck in the driveway and this man of the hills was dressed impeccably in fine city clothes. Clearly he was doing very well for himself and had no desire to accommodate the likes of us any more, no doubt concentrating his efforts these days on the more lucrative wallets of the <i>nouveau riche</i> from Bejing and Shanghai or the more adventurous coach tours looking to leave the beaten path for a day or two between Dali and Lijiang. </b></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3Ct19gaacjD0YB7cxdGQ0HtJaT1MbsEARmjp8ki6hFXQ5LPsD9KRhVbaZSrFfIwszNbFQ-fu2fCSVvCM_7hJQTYDGKFSG5HXX2yMeoHARojhj-937Z7STh-YIfg8VIPn1ktHQHw_HhwTy/s1600/Shaxi+-+Sunrise.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b><img border="0" height="294" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3Ct19gaacjD0YB7cxdGQ0HtJaT1MbsEARmjp8ki6hFXQ5LPsD9KRhVbaZSrFfIwszNbFQ-fu2fCSVvCM_7hJQTYDGKFSG5HXX2yMeoHARojhj-937Z7STh-YIfg8VIPn1ktHQHw_HhwTy/s640/Shaxi+-+Sunrise.jpg" width="640" /></b></span></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b>Returning disheartened in the cab back to Sideng we passed over 10RMB to which our driver responded by shaking his head and holding out his hand. We realized that he expected 40RMB for the 3km drive, 10 times as much as we believed we had agreed upon for a one way trip and almost as much as we might expect to pay for a nights accommodation. We were outraged, having been cheated in one way or another by every cab driver (bar one) who we have ridden with in China and the conversation quickly heated. It was soon interrupted by a english speaking Chinese tourist who translated on our behalf. Having only 20RMB in our pocket the driver agreed and accepted every penny we had and we stormed off down the street. This interaction and the outdated information with our choice guesthouse, all tied in with the emotions of the first three days in China to slightly taint our feelings of Shaxi in that moment. </b></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi62VTQWCzk_fAcQue04uJy4PpfXTn2pQcYBuApfvQ2nk0vBPyH3JtcBmwP9rvKir7fNKOsvhyphenhyphenNrvjHtz3EOoPGCEr_bS6tJpXhK5XuGh3MiBoy-mJD59z8MaUYb1kQY7OqZcecYRMFkNhI/s1600/Shaxi+-+Dried+fish.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi62VTQWCzk_fAcQue04uJy4PpfXTn2pQcYBuApfvQ2nk0vBPyH3JtcBmwP9rvKir7fNKOsvhyphenhyphenNrvjHtz3EOoPGCEr_bS6tJpXhK5XuGh3MiBoy-mJD59z8MaUYb1kQY7OqZcecYRMFkNhI/s400/Shaxi+-+Dried+fish.jpg" width="253" /></b></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b>A guesthouse boasting room prices well within our budget caught our attention and we were offered what we think must have been the 'family suite' with three beds and large bathroom, shutters opening to allow warm sunlight to flood the room. In the courtyard below hung bunches of bright yellow corn, free of their husks and drying in the sun to be used for animal feed. Above, from the eves, there were large bunches of drying red chilli peppers and hanging from the washing line; a fish. With no need of so much space we asked to see a smaller room which no doubt would have been cheaper, however were told there were none. It was clear later having seen many empty rooms, they simply wanted to up-sell to us as much possible, but we were pleased with the large space, advertised at 130RMB yet offered at 80RMB in this late month.</b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b>Enjoying an evening walk we wandered through the market square; an area in front of a two tiered, 600 year old theatre standing opposite the Taoist temple of similar age flanked on one side by an enormous tree. The sand coloured flagstones are unevenly set, and the entire square sags towards the centre of one side with narrow alleyways and a cobbled street leading out from the four corners, two downhill and two up. The surrounding buildings are predominantly wooden and appear straight out of a Ming dynasty epic movie and indeed this square has certainly been in some. As the sun begins to set behind the hills and the new moon rises into a clear sky, we can all but hear the clatter of horses hooves as the hero (no doubt) canters in from stage left to dispatch the band of intruders single handed and free the simple farming village from bondage. </b></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil5s_cFAym_TAO1OenmWpCPI-T_0MnwnBxeRzU3pxxoMUerMkHz3WhWcTzffTFugEQb4QNBhFQ_vB5ruoCl99G1x-_kTTUkTQVMVGI08emHXOZpg42nbKkk7w3nS3YXkkS9DoQufb1YKHb/s1600/Shaxi+-+The+Harvest+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil5s_cFAym_TAO1OenmWpCPI-T_0MnwnBxeRzU3pxxoMUerMkHz3WhWcTzffTFugEQb4QNBhFQ_vB5ruoCl99G1x-_kTTUkTQVMVGI08emHXOZpg42nbKkk7w3nS3YXkkS9DoQufb1YKHb/s400/Shaxi+-+The+Harvest+3.jpg" width="266" /></b></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b>Leaving the square by a downhill alley and an arch in the old town wall, we found ourselves on the banks of a river where a group of people are working, some raking out rice to be dried, others bagging dried rice and another women who was shifting bags of rice from one pile to another. Watching her carefully place a rope around the bag, position the bag squarely on her back and resting the padded headband across her forehead she stood, marched across the pavement and rolled the bag to one side and off from the support around her head, dropping it onto the heap. With Julians encouragement I approached her, asking if I might have a go. Slightly unsure she had interpreted my request properly, I repeated my question and hand gestures until slightly bemused, she handed me the headband and helped me position the rope around the bag. It was lighter than I expected, about 25kg, and I mimicked her actions holding the headband next to my ears, taking some of the weight of the bag onto my arms. I marched it across the square much to the amusement of the woman and the work party. They nodded their approval with wide smiles as I returned across the square, handing Julian the headband to have a go. At this point, it was certainly impossible not to finished the job, and we moved all the bags from point A to point B between the three of us in less than a third of the time it would have taken her on her own. As the sun set we walked along the banks of the river and over an ancient arched bridge overlooking the residential walls of the old town. </b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b>Returning to our hotel to add on a few layers to compensate for the surprisingly cool climate we met an American man who was on a generally south bound route. We enjoyed a meal at the only obvious place in the market square serving food, sharing travel stories and eventually, he inspired us to venture future north into China's Sichuan province, north of Shangri-La (our intended turn around point) and on towards Litang. Here apparently we would find Tibetan culture is more alive than in Tibet itself. Inspired and intrigued we spend a couple of days mulling over ideas and possibilities and realized that Litang actually sits on the highway from Sichuan to Lahsa. Should Tibet be open to tourism at the moment, we might just be able to yet again alter our route heading through Tibet and Nepal and dropping down into northern India, therefore overcoming the most complicated part of our overland journey, the route between the SE Asian peninsula and India. Intrigued, we opted to speak to as many people as we could find to learn about possibilities for this route. </b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b>Temperatures dropped considerably overnight to close to freezing and I woke to an empty room, Julian having already gone out. I laid out my yoga mat, though I was unable to warm up, feeling rather distracted by the frigid temperature and further confused by a series of fire crackers being set off. Moreover, a few weeks ago in Lunag Prabang during my practice I felt something in my shoulder give pain and stiffness which has only gotten worse with time despite attempts to yoga, massage and heat the knots free. I was in a particular amount of pain this morning, feeling a constant pinching sensation in the shoulder blade and was not at all disappointed when Julian came for me, heralding a gathering at the temple in the square. I happily threw on every layer in my bag and followed him into the sun. </b></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYkCfXK0cZ9mtke5XcNSoCY7ultBw97NKrA1Fc2TQNJa353U2SojQEjHoYEjjjKrwBMLc96G5BXfXXOVQ0GVTylGwUkFiF7UahiamXX4V0UY4htSRZsEaboDQBBRTx0DpUbv1CSn2zI1PH/s1600/Shaxi+-+Funeral+V.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><b><img border="0" height="283" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYkCfXK0cZ9mtke5XcNSoCY7ultBw97NKrA1Fc2TQNJa353U2SojQEjHoYEjjjKrwBMLc96G5BXfXXOVQ0GVTylGwUkFiF7UahiamXX4V0UY4htSRZsEaboDQBBRTx0DpUbv1CSn2zI1PH/s400/Shaxi+-+Funeral+V.jpg" width="400" /></b></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYkCfXK0cZ9mtke5XcNSoCY7ultBw97NKrA1Fc2TQNJa353U2SojQEjHoYEjjjKrwBMLc96G5BXfXXOVQ0GVTylGwUkFiF7UahiamXX4V0UY4htSRZsEaboDQBBRTx0DpUbv1CSn2zI1PH/s1600/Shaxi+-+Funeral+V.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"></span></b></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b>Men held large suspended drums whists other beat upon them with leather bound sticks. A choir sang as pallbearers carried a plain, wooden, black painted casket from out from the temple, female family members dressed in white on their knees in the cobblestone courtyard, mourned their loss. Having seen a similar event in Hoi An, Vietnam we recognized this as Taoist funeral, and admired the bright colours and beautiful sounds of the choir. In Vietnam, we didn't join them to the burial site though this time our interest got the best of us and feeling comfortable with the local people, felt it acceptable to join them. We followed the procession through the narrow cobblestone lanes and eventually into corn fields, tall golden-brown stalks towering above our heads. Cocking our heads curiously at each other we followed them deep into the corn fields, being offered handfuls of roasted peanuts and cigarettes by members of the procession en-route. The group broke into two lines and we picked one, following it to small clearing in the corn stalks, to a set of six tombs. It wasn't long before Julian pointed out that I was the only female present here and I immediately felt self conscious and unsure as to whether or not my being there was acceptable. I was soon offered a bottle of water by one of the men when they were being passed around which helped melt away some uncertainty. </b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b>A group of about five of the men trampled cornstalks at the edge of the clearing and sat smoking and talking. Somebody broke out a deck of playing cards and a game got underway. The coffin was laid alongside the grave, already dug under a family tomb and the bright paper banners placed over the top of it, effectively masking it from our view. We picked a vantage point between two of the other graves, about 10m away to one side of the freshly dug earth and settled in to watch. The mood, if not quite a party, was light and there was much chatter and laughter among those present with cigarettes constantly begin passed, baked pastries and drinks of water or hot green tea too. A fire had been lit and upon it rested a much blackened kettle containing tea which too was passed freely and often. About half a dozen men centred their attention on the grave where a man (we assume, the son) of about 25 years old made preparations to the final resting place. Banners were burnt, prayers said and measurements taken (to make sure the coffin would fit) before two long bamboo poles were split with a hammer and laid to act as runners. </b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b>The chinese gravestones cover the entire length of the grave and the earth is dug out from in front and underneath for the coffin to be received down a slope and in through the 'front entrance'. The others gathered themselves from the card games (for there were by now a couple going) and a collective effort was made to slot the coffin and its contents into its final resting place as firecrackers were set off a few metres away to scare off any remaining evil spirits. The bulk of the men (including the 'son') then retired to the edges to continue the card games as a few remained to seal the grave. Two young men arrived with a shoulder pole between them upon which was slung a barrel of water. This was mixed with a bag of cement in a shallow hole quickly scraped in the ground next to the burial site and a stonemason bricked up the entrance with rocks from the field; the deceased forever entombed in the ground they worked their entire lives. The sloping hole in front of the site was then backfilled by three of the younger men. The stonemason meanwhile slotted in a new embossed gravestone in from the top and cemented that too, in place. He followed with small rocks, passed up to him from the men still in support and bucketful's of cement, tapering off the top of the tomb neatly and finally taking a tussock from the field and embedding it in the very middle to begin the growth over the grave and return the body to the land from whence it came.</b></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4Jfz71vmxeL_TJzIsP88VjhUH4kjdg_fLwGDo2f_A1IQ1MPQfnqx-qcGQTEVwaP_XfgxCNF3ZI8IQr_vBwSfPWWcwkGtp3Zg79PSnZLLYPpCmfo0fqt60vecZYu95IMgrHp5XmxSv-0zn/s1600/Shaxi+-+Funeral.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b><img border="0" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4Jfz71vmxeL_TJzIsP88VjhUH4kjdg_fLwGDo2f_A1IQ1MPQfnqx-qcGQTEVwaP_XfgxCNF3ZI8IQr_vBwSfPWWcwkGtp3Zg79PSnZLLYPpCmfo0fqt60vecZYu95IMgrHp5XmxSv-0zn/s400/Shaxi+-+Funeral.jpg" width="400" /></b></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b>When all the practicalities were concluded and as if by magic (but more likely summoned by cellular network) two women appeared bearing a tray of food. This was laid in front of the grave and various offerings, tea, cigarettes, incense and the colourful banners that remained were placed around and upon the grave. Some no doubt as gifts to the spirits, or wards against others, some I assume for the dead, a last reminder of the earthly pleasures of this life before the wheel should turn again. The grave was tidied and the others tended to by those present and then we left them. I do not know how long the vigil beside the grave would last, maybe the rest of the day, I had no way of asking, but with nods of acknowledgement we left them to their bereavement, a little wiser, a little privileged to have been allowed this cultural glimpse, but with grumbling stomachs and things to see, we could hardly stay and play a game of cards with them, for we did not know the rules.</b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b>A main attraction in this valley is the Stone Treasure Mountain Grottos in the Laojun Mountain range, a group of three temples which include some of the best Bai stone carvings in China dating back to 9th century. We were disappointed to find that not only was a guided tour of the area well beyond our budget but admittance to the trail itself was 50RMB each, which isn't exactly atrocious but counting pennies as we are, we planned instead a leisurely cycle through the valley, visiting neighbouring villages for the following day. </b></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv1wgGPLvQ00u3yb1tmxKIviyMCBUuiWHDk1E-FkdYx8G_VeTxU53GoFwsx1eDrsjKI1AFzLslHvwZv3SyOoUVVwger-ySsF3vNpaEGGhJvmHNyGclsI-ixwy8lYvJf4ZmPk_Fr6g7PM-l/s1600/Shaxi+-+Carved+in+stone.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv1wgGPLvQ00u3yb1tmxKIviyMCBUuiWHDk1E-FkdYx8G_VeTxU53GoFwsx1eDrsjKI1AFzLslHvwZv3SyOoUVVwger-ySsF3vNpaEGGhJvmHNyGclsI-ixwy8lYvJf4ZmPk_Fr6g7PM-l/s400/Shaxi+-+Carved+in+stone.jpg" width="262" /></b></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b>Julian had managed to wake before sunrise and sneak out for an early morning hike in effort to capture a picture of the Shaxi valley in the dawn light. He had left the town and headed directly for the steep hills flanking the valley where he found a packhorse route up to the ridge beyond. He looped over the top for about a kilometre or so before dropping back down into Shaxi flushed and happy for the exercise in the morning sun in time for our usual shared breakfast around 10. During his return he was inspired by something which appeared to be a temple entrance three quarters of the way up a hillside and we were soon upon poorly maintained bicycles, cycling through neighbouring villages, uphill and to the mouth of a ravine at the head of the valley. A concrete path sporadically stepped upward, gradually ascended the ravine, red sandstone outcrops bulged from the cliff faces above. A Buddha carved into the red rocks greeted us as we crossed a bridge spanning a trickling stream and Julian realized that we had by chance stumbled upon the Grottos back entrance.</b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b>He enthusiastically tackled the steps up the hill while I opted to carry my bike, not being much of a mountain biker myself, and eventually locked it and left it behind as the steps became more numerous. As I walked I admired the rock formations; the red sandstone swelled and cracked with centuries of freezing seepage, appearing like the back of a turtle shells. The ravine warmed by the heat of the afternoon sun. Finally, the sun actually felt good, unlike the intensity of the tropics. A Chinese man eyed Julian upon his bike curiously as he tackled a couple more stairs, wondering where he was planning on going with it. "Up!" Julian told him with a smile. </b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b>About 100m further on and around a rocky shoulder, we found the mans curiosity was justified as we approached a flight of steep stairs rising up towards the doors of what we assumed was a temple about 150m above us and the second bike too was abandoned. Climbing stair after stair we were soon offered fabulous views of the ravine and the valley of Shaxi beyond, the countryside rich with rice, corn and vegetables yet to be harvested and dotted with attractive villages. Julian commented that it felt like home, similar to the Whiltshire country side, similar even in age with its ancient stone buildings. I disagreed on instinct, feeling that England and China were a world apart.</b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b>We found the wooden slated gates padlocked and upon peering through the crack found it was not temple entrance but an ornate cover for three rock carvings, surely historically important and were interesting in themselves being ancient rock carvings. However to our uneducated eyes the carvings were carvings and apparently didn't make much of an impression. As I reflect writing this, neither of us can recall what the carvings depicted. We followed the path up and then along the mountain side drinking in the refreshing sunlight, admiring mountain top pagodas. We eventually came across an empty car park with a somewhat confusing map on a wooden board confirming the fact that we had indeed stumbled upon the Grottos. </b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b>Following a path weaving around a hillside The Stone Bell monastery (though at the time we had no idea what it was) sat terraced on the opposing hill. The pure remoteness and exposure, the peace of the hills in the late summer sun was absolute magic; not a soul on the trail with us nor apparently wandering the grounds opposite. </b></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh07t9rWkRRRmrrQaQECWZ0dbJWl0sYwUeRpKlQP7ppVv-_7-mZETufMQ0a8dJoOKJVYCUG2pp_8jwpaKdD01SQRxbq6SsDb0XlxTPzlTMwT6iQLAPza-BtvEkhor7kTEhdqWJsT66Ni0AC/s1600/Shaxi+-+Shibaoshan+'Stone+treasure++mountains'.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b><img border="0" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh07t9rWkRRRmrrQaQECWZ0dbJWl0sYwUeRpKlQP7ppVv-_7-mZETufMQ0a8dJoOKJVYCUG2pp_8jwpaKdD01SQRxbq6SsDb0XlxTPzlTMwT6iQLAPza-BtvEkhor7kTEhdqWJsT66Ni0AC/s400/Shaxi+-+Shibaoshan+'Stone+treasure++mountains'.jpg" width="400" /></b></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b>Expecting the entrance to this magnificent, seemingly sacred settlement to be beyond our reach, we were pleased when after just a little search we found the path leading to its doorstep. It was instinct to remove hats and sunglasses out of respect as we climbed the narrow, winding stone staircase upwards. We were greeted by three guardians who requested 80RMB to pass through the red doors into the hillside temples, home to the most important and well preserved of the carvings. Unwilling to pay $25 for an afternoon stroll through the mountains we turned around and found our own way through paths up the rear of the monastery. Julian somehow deciphered the carved maps which still didn't make much sense and which appeared to be orientated at random, founding our way back over the top of the hill and down to our bikes. As the sun set upon the valley we cycled out of the ravine and home to our courtyard guesthouse.</b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b>It wasn't until we were on the mini bus leaving Shaxi, as I watched the people working the fields and wandering through the ancient villages, that I realized how much this place did actually resemble the English countryside. Although the crops are different, the fields smaller and the tools more primitive, the farmhouses are still flanked by barns, the winter feed still collected and the hay stacked. Farming is farming and ruled by the seasons and a farmer from these remote chinese provinces in the borderlands would have more in common and more understanding with his brethren in Wiltshire than in Beijing. Sometimes it's the similarities between people and places that amazes me far more than the differences.</b></span></div>
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ofParadiseVisionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08535511199313264230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-501971850732172162.post-15778542198671464972012-12-06T07:05:00.000-08:002012-12-06T07:05:03.005-08:00The Ancient City and Rural Countryside of Dali, Yunnan, China<br />
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">We clambered through the train carriage with awkward backpacks through a narrow hallway we found our cabin and were disappointed to find our berths were in separate cabins. A moment later a Chinese women, travelling alone, was happy to switch with us. An english accent greeted us from above in the third (upper) bunk of the cabin, Alex from south London, recently graduated in economics with a first from Oxford, taking some time out before commencing work in October. There was no need to go out for a cigarette before turning in for the night as the second hand smoke hanging in the air was enough to satisfy anyone. Slipping my face mask and eye mask on under my headphones I must have been a ridiculous sight yet I slept better than I anticipated on the eight hour journey. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Julian, Alex and I were the last off the train and my breath hung in the air with every exhale. I inhaled the cold air deeply, only to find myself choked with yet more cigarette smoke (every man, woman and child smokes excessively here and my refusal at ever offer of one is met with looks of confusion). Still, the cold air is enough to satisfy and I smile as I slip on my hooded sweater. Avoiding the trough stye toilets I waited for the men outside before we refused the offer of a 50RMB cab ride into the old town, opting to take the bus instead. Turns out, 1.50RMB (US$0.20) each got us 30minutes down the road to the ancient city where Alex and we parted ways in search of different hostels. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">The beautifully named Colours of the Wind Hotel was unfortunately full and we paused our search for accommodation for a bowl of freshly prepared noodle soup with a handful of spring onions and dried beef, spiced (though Julian might disagree) to perfection. As I finished my bowl of soup Julian set off in search of a guesthouse and soon returned with a twinkle in his eye, unwilling to offer any details. Half a block away he lead me into a stunning traditional courtyard house into one of the most beautiful rooms I have stayed in for 80RMB. Once again our timing appeared impeccable and we had hit the winter season price, a huge drop from 278RMB in high season, almost had the hotel to ourselves and the weather was still warm enough for T-shirts and my Laos sarong during the day. A rooftop terrace offered views of the rolling foothills of the Himalayas and surrounding rooftops, stunning in their own right.</span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">After a refreshing hot shower and a cup of Chinese black tea we set out for a walk in the old town, passing through a park where locals engaged in thai-chi, badminton, enjoyed a game of cards or played traditional instruments. Children in their blue and white school uniforms, typical of the communist regimes as we saw in Poland, Vietnam and Cambodia, although here the boys wore Mao style, high collard over shirts, buzzed through the streets on their way home, bowl of noodles in hand. Bamboo baskets of dim sum and vats of boiling broth steamed the air, chefs needing dough and stretching noodles long. Stalls and shops line the streets tended by women in traditional tribal dress, some of their patterns recognizable to us as the H'mong or Akha as we had seen in northern Thailand and Vietnam, along with many other designs not familiar to us. Yunnan is home to more than half of Chinas 56 ethnic minorities, and here we meet the Bai people with their pinks, puffed arm white shirts and wonderful headgear. Silversmiths beat their material flat with hammers on anvil at 100 shop doorways, making me cringe with every strike, wondering how these people were not wearing earplugs while they worked. Hand weaved shawls and skirts, jade in every shape in size from necklace pendants to large intricately carved tables, jewellery and paintings. The place was busy with Chinese and Koreans in large tour groups, being led by women in yet more traditional attire. We would have to move to the side of the street to allow the big groups to pass us and we pleased that we were here in low season, wondering how packed the streets must get in high season. </span></b></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times; font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir6FWu3z4Cgzn9LABJOQHQzAoFYvOTx0MNR6_qjqk_IWII65K_3gfA01WRp-UotRU49ZI9bLzRxx8OzRn2hCYP7ILg__7YqUR1tpdVWPUsWDzz_Dt5awXZpnFdWqLiGPlfLkvlXLXewpGo/s1600/Dali+-+Tourist+attractions+II.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir6FWu3z4Cgzn9LABJOQHQzAoFYvOTx0MNR6_qjqk_IWII65K_3gfA01WRp-UotRU49ZI9bLzRxx8OzRn2hCYP7ILg__7YqUR1tpdVWPUsWDzz_Dt5awXZpnFdWqLiGPlfLkvlXLXewpGo/s320/Dali+-+Tourist+attractions+II.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="270" /></a></span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">We bumped into Alex again, and as we stood talking we drew many stares, some sneaking pictures of us from across the square, some pretending they were shooting something behind us, others raising their cameras up only paces away and some coming and putting their arms around us, posing for pictures with the white skinned foreigners, stroking the arms of Julian and Alex, as Chinese men don't grow much body hair and tend to shave with tweezers rather than razors. It was an amusing 20 minutes as we chatted and had random requests for photos, enjoying the good natured fun of it, as we were as much an attraction as the city itself. Dali is one of the biggest travel destinations for the Chinese for its traditional architecture and large percentage of minority people, and everyone; on holiday and a tourist themselves, were in good spirits and the place was buzzing with fun energy, some dressed in the finest attire, taking as many people pictures as shots of the city. The three of us agreed to meet the following morning for breakfast and and cycling tour of the countryside. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Following Alex's advice, as we approached the next gate south we turned and followed the high stone old city wall west and up a set of stairs, avoiding another fee. We followed the top of the wall hand in hand, admiring views of the city and greeting others as they passed. A couple; him in a cowboy hat and her head wrapped in a red headscarf, were a particularly attractive and flamboyant pair. A group of men sat smoking cigarettes, staring at us as we passed though refusing to greet Julians repeated greetings, some in mandarine, some in english, german, french and eventually in laos and thai, still they didn't mutter a word. As we neared the eventual end of the wall overlooking the main highway, tour groups beneath us boarding a bus raised their cameras at us. The men had continued their walk, wandering behind us and as we passed them on the way back, finally returned Julians persistent greetings with rueful grins. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">We decided to return home to freshen up and change, as our current backpackers attire and Julians unshaven face was hardly up to the regular photo-shoots. Clean shaven, showered and me in my Laos sarong we felt more up to the task and enjoyed the evening wandering the streets of old town, alongside trickling streams with stepping stones to pagodas under weeping willows, admiring handicraft we couldn't afford (though my mind wheeled over a gorgeous skirt for our entire time there), drinking Yunnan coffee and munching on street food, avoiding "Foreigners Street" with unique restaurants and high prices and instead, followed the school kids to find a meal. For US$2 we filled two bowls with the numerous dishes on a buffet, lots of veggies, spiced (as usual) hotter than Julian cared for. Dishes in this part of the region are spiced fairly hot, being meshed between India and Sichuan (Sechwan) and pretty much everything is seasoned with grated chilli as a minimum. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">We met Alex under the south gate in the Old Town and after a bowl of noodle soup for breakfast, hired out some bikes; Julian and I sharing (for the first time) a tandem. Cycling down cobbled streets towards Chinas second largest lake, Lake Erhai, the skies were a brilliant blue, the air crisp and sun warm. We shared the road with many other cycling tourists, all waving as we passed, that same infectious energy as was in Old Town the previous day. On the shores of the lake we filled a bag of unknown, sugared, sun dried fruits at a small market by the ferry dock.</span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">The once brilliant green rice paddies were now a faded gold, rich in autumn colours. Fields just recently harvested, the stubble standing at just a few centimetres where a week or two before the crop had been waist high and rippling in the breeze. We have now observed an entire rice season, starting with the newly planted fields around Paula's stone house in Pai, northern Thailand, the growth of the stalks throughout Vietnam and Cambodia, the smoke drifting south into Laos from the Chinese burning the first of the stubble in the north and finally, the cultivation of the harvest and replanting of the seeds in in Yunnan province. Dried rice stalks were being chopped down with <i>dajas; </i>scythe like tools with a handle around 50cm long and a wicked looking curved blade at the business end. The farmers wearing traditional dress, western style having influenced only a portion of population in Yunnan's countryside, stacked the stalks in sheaves after threshing or once dry piled them high upon small three wheeled trucks, handcarts and trailers pulled by oxen, bicycles, tricycles, husbands and wives. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Fishing nets were laid on the pavement, the aroma of drying fish lingering in the air. We came across whitebait farms, four or five people working each net, gathering and beating alternately to bounce the small fry together at the bottom of the net. On the lake, the occasional flat bottomed, high sided row-boat plied the shallows for a days catch. </span></b><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">All along the roadside rice, chills, corn and winter feed was laid out for drying under the late summer sun and everywhere people tended the fields with hand tools, the passing of centuries barely noticed. As the paddies were cleared from the seasons crops, in places already we saw the planting underway, digging stick in one hand punching a hole, then the seed dropped in with the other. Repeat until field is full! </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Small villages dotted the countryside; each home of traditional courtyard style with elaborate gateways, some in various stages of decay, many of the outer walls lined with painted chinese characters and <i>gong-bi</i> style landscapes. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Guarded by two stone lions, we paused in front of a small temple in the midst of one such village. On one side, a basketball court temporarily commandeered for drying rice grains whilst to the north side, several men of advancing years sat enjoying the warmth of the day and each others company, no doubt putting the world to rights with their discussion, maybe to exercise the mind a little later with a game of mahjong, Chinese chess or a few hands of cards.</span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">It was all very relaxed in the late summer afternoon until a gaggle of school kids making their way home paused where we were, their laughter and chatter breaking the peace of the place and we continued on our way. We rode through the fields, interspaced with small farming communities briefly joined by another group of (Chinese) tourists as we made our way up the lakeside before one of them succumbed to a passing motorbike which clipped him, sending him over the handlebars and forcing his friend behind to take avoiding action into the ditch. We left them to gather themselves and patch up any scrapes, our language and first aid skills of little use once we had seen the riders were conscious and cursing the motorcyclists dust. In Asia it is not the done thing to stop at an accident if you are at fault, the result can be expensive or painful and the chances of getting away great and easy, especially in rural areas, especially when motor power is pitted against pedal power.</span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">On we rode until we came to a small town and protesting stomachs persuaded sustenance sought. We found an establishment to suit our needs and were treated to a wonderful (if somewhat expensive) spread by the proprietor and his daughter before heading off for a wander around the surrounding streets. Finding a barber of which Julian was in desperate need, we stopped in for a head chop and for US$2 he managed to strike gold with a wonderfully skilled woman, cutting with absolute professionalism, fading the cut and even after a little persuasion, trimming his bushy eyebrows. Making our way back to the central square we met up with Alex who had gone in search of some socks and we sat and ate a couple of wonderful, thick pancake made from corn flour off a street vendor, obviously a local speciality, before remounting for the ride home. Mindful that it had taken us nearly three hours to get this far and our hire time for the bikes was due, we opted for a return route along the main highway, Julian setting a fast but consistent pace, encouraging me to keep up as he called into the wind at me and farmers we passed, greeting them in mandarine. Many of them well older than retirement age in the west would rest their spades just for a moment and glance up, smiles spreading across their faces, returning our greeting as we passed, pedalling with ferocious energy. We returned to the confines of Old Town in under an hour, breathless and buzzing from the strenuous blast.</span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">The following day Alex departed north for Lijian whilst we lazed around the city and enjoyed its charms for one more day whilst making our own plans to leave the next day for Shaxi. It should have been relatively straightforward to get from our hotel to the bus station; we had instructions from the hotel both in english and chinese but still managed to make a mess of things. We caught the local bus from Old Town with no problems but had already passed the north bus station and were heading into the new city before we realized and had to backtrack some two or three kilometres on the return route, passing a particularly strange sight on the way; a Walmart. We were pleased to find our favourite bus ride snack and bough a bag full of longan berries we initially fell in love with in Vietnam for our bus trip north. </span></b></div>
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ofParadiseVisionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08535511199313264230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-501971850732172162.post-90837367689748691472012-12-02T06:15:00.000-08:002012-12-02T06:15:18.193-08:00A New Day in Kunming, China<br />
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">WIth an unexpected day to explore Kunming before our overnight train north east I woke and hopefully stated to Julian that "China is going to be different today". After a lazy morning doing luxury things like shaving legs and washing hair in steamy showers we set out into the city on a brilliant, cool, cloudless day. Picking out a rough route passing through Green Lake park en-route to Yuantong Temple, I gave into an Asian bakery, another luxury (much to my distress) often enjoyed by Julian that I usually attempt to turn a blind eye to. Today though, I was quite happy to pick out my own piece of savoury, yet sweet, pastry topped with bits of spicy sausage and cheese. We neared a small lake with large floral centrepiece. The paths through the park were lined with floral arrangements on their last legs and we wondered if perhaps some sort of flower show or festival had recently occurred. In the south east Asian peninsula people would often watch and greet us with smiles, encouraging their children to do so as well as we passed. Walking around here felt different. The stares felt more intense (though still only curious) and often no other acknowledgement was initiated. Our greetings towards young children were often responded to in open mouth stares, only a few overcoming the initial shock to wave in return before looking to their parents for approval. Adults are the same, quite happy to blatantly stare but will either quickly avert their eyes when they meet ours after looking at us bottom to top, some quickly nodding in response to our greetings and a select few responding whole heartedly. This was only an initial observation as we walked through the park, admiring the autumn colours and watching a pair of exceptionally large ducks (about twice the size of the mallards in the west) preening. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Autumn. Through the intense heat of south east Asia I have been dreaming of autumn; one of my favourite times of year, especially at home in southern Ontario. When the heat ceases, leaves turn and colours flourish. Ignorantly, I wasn't expecting to come across autumn this year, yet of course as we moved north out of the tropics in October, what else should I have expected? Somehow we have managed to plan this trip perfectly, without actually planning anything at all. We have managed to avoid the high season in the most popular of places, we have followed the monsoon; only once intercepting it, experiencing the intensity of the rain for just a short while. Now, as high season is about to hit in SE Asia, we ventured north into China, missing their holiday weekend at the start of October by a fortnight and avoiding the crowds completely, dipping our toes into cooler seasons but avoiding the early snows coming off the Himalayas. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">As we wandered up the main road towards the temple complex we admired the the Chinese characters on every building, completely normal here, though so beautifully foreign to our eyes. A sign for a hospital has never been so pretty. Approaching the stunning entry gates to the temple an elderly man sat upon the steps with a long, wispy grey beard and his hair tied back in a loose ponytail. Normally shy about approaching people for a photograph, Julian was captivated enough with his look that without hesitation he ventured the question and was soon given whole hearted permission for a portrait. He was certainly one of the most distinguished men I had ever seen and it didn't take long for us to realize how many of them there are. Fact of the matter is, old Chinese men are exceptionally beautiful, smoking their pipes, long wispy silver hair and sun kissed skin so leathery it almost takes you back in time.</span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> </span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times; font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw4jj7GC6N86gBATY-1vX5X5wiV4qHi7_a5H9VbJkzKZQySB8cXePwSp2mVQwYbko4ToGXL-k7rt6CcHhkYnZmj76ozVyB8wzebxyp5VvqTGg3hNvvX0XWjot3xqrloxnpRRbGQrIXomtj/s1600/Kunming+-+Style+II.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw4jj7GC6N86gBATY-1vX5X5wiV4qHi7_a5H9VbJkzKZQySB8cXePwSp2mVQwYbko4ToGXL-k7rt6CcHhkYnZmj76ozVyB8wzebxyp5VvqTGg3hNvvX0XWjot3xqrloxnpRRbGQrIXomtj/s640/Kunming+-+Style+II.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="486" /></a></span></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Entering Yuantong Temple we followed flagstone steps under an archway and around the first of the buildings which forms the east side of a courtyard complex. Within the area that is usually an open space, there is a pond, home to hundreds of turtles and golden koi. A walkway surrounds all four sides and a pair of white arched bridges lead to the centre of the water and the pagoda there. We stood before large vats of ash with burning incense, plumes of smoke lingering in the air; offerings made by the devoted. Lingering around the outer edges of the pagoda island I watched a gorgeous woman sat on the lower steps near the water, stroke the shells of many turtles surrounding here. On the other side, a group of three blessed the contents of a bag before releasing two small turtles into the water. It was then I realized that the turtles here were actually devote offerings to the temple. We later concluded they were representative of 'good deeds', people addressing their personal karma and attempting to tilt the balance before their final judgement and placement in the next life. If one releases a captive animal it is inherently a 'good' and 'selfless' deed. Of course with a cynical and western viewpoint one might argue the animals would not be captive in the first place were it not for the market surrounding such efforts to alter the balance of ones own life; perhaps a neutral deed at best then and not accounting for those animals caught or bred and perished before they could be sold to a 'good person' for release. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">In awe we crossed the bridge and payed our respects to golden statues inside: Buddha on one side and the Goddess of Mercy on the other. We circled the pagoda and admired the workmanship. Greyscale 'Gong-Bi' paintings of mountains and temples along with some minutely detailed animals and plants adorned plaques set high in the brightly coloured, complex eves, the structure of the building left bare and the fabulous curved chinese roofline providing as much a wonderment as the complex curves and bosses that make up the ceiling of Bath Abbey in England. Julian spent maybe 45 minutes just shooting around the pagoda whilst I was busy getting told off by a groundsman for stroking the turtles by the waters edge, before we moved on.</span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Beyond the pagoda stands the main hall which unfortunately was covered in a big blue tarp but the interior shrine was one of the most stunning we had ever come across. Three statues of Buddha face outwards flanked by two dragons, one yellow, the other blue, circling up the central pillars to face each other in an apparent stand off, as if ready to defend; for the mythical beings are regarded as representations of great strength and protection among the chinese. Admiring the striking beauty, a man approached me with a baby in his arms and holding up his camera. Assuming he wanted a picture taken of him and the child I help my hand out whereupon he put the child in my arms. With a huge grin he took multiple photos of his son in the arms of a person with white skin. As the bare bottom of the child's crotchless garments rested agains my arms I wondered how parents knew it was time to hold the child outwards when nature called. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Atop stone steps carved into the hillside at the rear of the temple itself, a small pool of water reflected light onto the smooth stone above, deeply carved with ancient writings. There was something magic about this pool and we spent an extended period of time just sitting in contemplation, admiring the dancing light and a long billed bird that fished for minnows off the surrounding wall in the corner. Drips regularly seep down the lichen covered limestone rock face and drop into the pool, the bright sunlight reflecting back up the walls as the ripples chase each other and criss cross the surface providing an endless dance to captivate the eyes. We later learned that weathering the elements for centuries since being carved by monks, these are some of the most ancient inscriptions in Kunming and are one of the most important historical relics in the city.</span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">We lingered around the temple grounds for hours, pausing for a few minutes here or there to admire some detail that had caught our eyes and making friends with the temple cat, an enormous, long haired black and white, with a fine plume of a tail and only one eye. Finally we took a leisurely stroll back down the street from whence we came. Pausing for a refreshing drink, we sat and amused ourselves people watching until a middle aged women approached us, talking at us in mandarine. We responded as we usually do, in english, to whatever she may have asked. She nodded as though clearly understanding us, and continued nattering on at us. We held a full blown conversation for a good twenty minutes, each nodding as though fully comprehending the other. Finally she took off back in the direction that she came from, only to return a five minutes later to continue the absurd ramblings. Passersby stared in confusion as we continued as though making perfect sense to one another. WIth a final good hearted laugh she returned the way she came (again). She must have been the neighbourhood crazy (as opposed to a visiting one….. <i>Ed</i>) which made for an amusing half hour. She peeked out from behind a stone wall once again and we took the opportunity to smile at her before heading in the general direction of our hostel. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Following the advice of our Lonely Planet guide we made for a sub level food court of sorts where many stalls cooked up Chinese dishes, local to Kunming or stretching to reach the provinces afar. We added 100RMB to a refundable card and picked out some dishes to share; the first broccoli dish I have had since coming to Asia! Tofu, sweet potatoes, and fresh veggies were all nurturing and satisfying. The atmosphere was buzzing with families and friends sharing meals and chefs working flaming woks and bubbling hot pots, aromas of spicy peppers and tobacco smoke lingering in the air. We concluded the meal with a couple of tea concoctions two ladies were plying from a stall within the food court. When offered a menu in chinese we blindly pointed on a whim, hoping we made good choices. Julian enjoyed his milky lime beverage and I, my floral liquid, rich with roses and ginger. We later found out this was a chain of stores we would find as far afield as Lijiang and Chengdu in Sichuan.</span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">It turns out that Kunming had more to offer than we initially anticipated and perhaps being stuck there for another day wasn't the end of the world, despite it feeling desperate at the time. Pushing the first few days in China to the back of my mind (and the pages of a blog entry) this day in Kunming was a good, proper introduction to China and the Han that live here (although they themselves are a minority in Yunnan outside of Kunming). The autumn temperatures, magical temple, random ramblings and savoury delights whet my appetite and I can only anticipate with some excitement, venturing further back in time into a culture I know very little about and which has changed very little in something approaching 3000 years as we head further into the Middle Kingdom. </span></b></div>
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ofParadiseVisionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08535511199313264230noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-501971850732172162.post-5047750086912435832012-11-27T23:56:00.001-08:002012-11-28T04:26:48.769-08:00Panic, Chaos and Culture Shock: Welcome to China<br />
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">The bus heading for the chinese boarder swelled with tobacco smoke, half the passengers smoking at any one time, the other half biding their time before tagging in when the air cleared a little. I buried myself under my filtrating face mask with my window wide open, much to the distress of the smokers who insisted often that I close the window due to frigid gale force winds. Refusing to sacrifice the only source of fresh air circulating through the bus I ignored them, to which the man behind me responded to by closing my window himself. It wasn't until Julian took a stand that my request to keep the window open was respected. The bus had left three minutes prior to scheduled departure, a shock to the system when used to 'Laos time'; clearly the Chinese keep to a slightly stricter regime. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">My mind swirled with memories and emotion of profoundly enriching moments in Laos and my heart soared, yet tempered as our 20 seater local bus bumped and wound its way up and down the partially paved mountain passes in the northernmost reaches of the country. Laos had managed to get under my skin in such a way that only a few places have and I felt similarly to leaving the rockies of the Canadian west, flying out of New Zealand, or taking the bus through Glen Coe out of the Scottish Highlands for the last time. The smiling hearts and patient ways of the local people had calmed my mind after the chaos of Vietnam and Cambodia and mouth watering selections of local foods and dramatic mountain landscapes have nourished my body and mind; the simplicity of beautiful lives has left its mark on my soul. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Five hours after departure the bus pulled up in front of a large golden archway stretched across the road marking the Laos / China boarder. Upon receiving my passport the Laos boarder official asked me where I was from, slowly and carefully repeated after me, "Can-a-da, Can-a-da". I repeated it again for him, my heart warming with fondness for the laosians as he stamped me out of the country. We soon approached the square, white, very official looking building that marked the chinese border with a passport check so formal and regimented. X-ray machines and lines to stand behind, we may as well have been going through an airport security process rather than crossing a land border. The chinese official hardly said a word as he looked me up on his computer and stamped me into the country. The difference was immediate, a contrast so profound it was stimulating. The roads were seamless, a perfectly manicured flower garden down the central median and modern multi story buildings lined the road. Tunnels have been dug through every mountain, eliminating the nauseating, winding mountain passes but in turn taking away some of the magic of the journey, cutting travel time down considerably but bypassing the contours and topography of the mountains. The Roman alphabet all but disappeared, the artful chinese characters adding to this overwhelming different world leaving us in no doubt we had left SE Asia and entered one of the worlds superpowers. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">We arrived in the town of Mengla early, the bus driver waving away our questions about onward travel, unwilling to take make the effort to attempt to overcome language barriers. Our intention was to catch the next bus out towards the Yuanyang rice terraces, considered to be one of Chinas most spectacular examples of mans resourcefulness overcoming natures obstacles; terraced rice paddies scaling the mountainsides, but first and most importantly, we had to get local currency (the Chinese yuan (RMB) impossible to obtain in Laos). A newsagent, noticing our bags, asked if we would change money with him to which we quickly refused, cautious of the low exchange rate offered on the black market. Our Lonely Planet guidebook informed us that buses only left early morning, so we followed its advice by heading north behind the bus station for convenient accommodation. The women took our 100Y, wrote a receipt in mandarin and refused to give us our 50Y change. Language barriers in full effect, she raised her voice until she was almost yelling at us, repeating herself over and over again until she stormed out, refusing to take the time to make herself understood and hoping in vain that if she talked louder and slower we would understand. Her young daughter was more patient with us, using a basic on-line translator until finally she helped us to understand that 50Y would be kept as a deposit and we would receive our change upon checkout. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">The following five hours were spent stomping around the city in a desperate attempt to obtain local currency. Residents would often stop dead in the tracks to stare at us as we walked down the street and when we greeted them with smiles and the all purpose 'Ni Hao' their blatant stares turned to shock and were abruptly averted as they continued on their way, turning back every so often for another glance. None of the ATMs would accept our cards and bank upon bank turned us away, simply shaking their heads at our debit card, credit card, travellers checks and american dollars. Early evening was upon us and and we had not eaten since 7am and our water supply had run out hours ago. No attempt was made to explain why they would not change any money for us until finally, after an emotional outburst from me towards a clerk behind the plexiglass (in a room full of onlookers) a security guard took us aside and using numbers, we learned that no foreign exchange was available at weekends. Outraged, hungry and overwhelmed we gave in to the newsagents awful exchange rate and changed over US$50, loosing about US$13 for his commission. Defeated and drained we found a shop off the street with pictures on the wall, the only place with a menu we could decipher. I pointed at a dish which appeared lush with green veggies and Julian selected his own. Our chef was soon stretching freshly rolled dough into long noodles, dropping them into a vat of boiling water and we were shortly presented with our noodle delights. A disappointing lack of actually containing meat of vegetables but with a satisfyingly lush broth which I spiced to taste using the dark mixture of crushed sun dried chill peppers swimming in oil. We were in bed by 2100, though woken often throughout the night by the large german shepherd which was caged in the car-park outside in a space just large enough for him to turn around in. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">At the bus station the following morning we were staggered at the high bus prices and somewhat overwhelmed as we began to realize that our $30 per day budget wouldn't even cover the costs of transport around the province. Only cash is an acceptable means of payment and to purchase bus tickets today (being Sunday) would mean exchanging more of our US dollars at the awful exchange rate, increasing the cost considerably. We opted to forgo the rice terraces of Yuanyang, having had an exceptional experience in northern Vietnam, and make our way towards the provincial capital of Kunming in an attempt to conserve funds. At this rate, we would be in and out of China in a quick two weeks! As we went to visit the newsagent to trade more dollars we were stopped by a man who asked "Kunming? 200Y?". A good 105Y ($15US) cheaper than the prices at the terminal. We stopped short and counted our money in hand. We had just enough to cover the cost with about 20Y left over. Knowing we would be able to obtain local currency in Kunming, we decided to go for it, with just enough left over for a bowl of rice with spicy meat and veggies for breakfast before our departure. Our saviour joined us, picked out our meal and treated us to a glass of very carbonated, white chinese beer. As we ate, he sat beside us and lit a cigarette, tearing off the filter and sticking the tobacco into the bowl of a large bamboo water bong. About four minutes and four bong hits later the tobacco had been consumed and we sat in a haze of smoke. I remember the first time I smoked a cigarette, the intense head rush which absolutely floored me and wondered how he could possibly still be in a conscious state. In awe, I watched wide eyes as he insisted Julian try. Initially refusing, our friend was persuasive and soon Julian attempted to get his mouth around the large opening in vain, unable with his thin face to create the seal necessary to smoke from this bong. I wasn't too disappointed. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">After our meal we sat on the street with him, engaging in conversation barely understood by either yet which was had in good humour. Passers by would stop on the street and natter at us in mandarin. We would respond with something comical to which they would reply and this sort of interaction went on for a good hour with random characters on the street. eventually one particularly encouragable man was more than enough for our host to take and he escorted us away from the scene into the comfort of his wife's pharmacy, where she and her five year old daughter tended shop. Soon, the young girl had a notepad out and was teaching us mandarin pronunciations. Going to use the squat toilet out back I found a room with five beds in it, three of which contained people hooked up to IV's and I realized that this was not only a pharmacist but also small hospital of sorts. At 1400 we were taken on the back of a motorbike to the side of a highway to await a bus coming up from Vientiane and were soon squashed on the back five seats with six people and broken air conditioning. The seats were in fact fully reclined beds upon which we were suitably uncomfortable for the first nine hours of the journey. When we stopped for dinner our empty wallet forced us to forgo a plate of food and instead, we went to use the conveniences which provided our first experience of 'open concept' squat trough style toilets; two foot high walls providing 'privacy'. As we waited, those with full stomachs came out, smoking cigarettes and hocking phlegm up from deep within their throats and nasal cavities, repeatedly. Babies are dressed in clothing without fabric covering their genitals and whenever nature calls, they are held out to do their business on the streets, diapers non existent here. We were surrounded by about 60 people doing this and I found myself disgusted with this side of Chinese culture. The spitting doesn't even stop whilst on the bus, the woman beside me regularly clearing her throat and spitting into a plastic bag. The four we were sharing the seats with got off at a stop three hours short of Kunming and we were left with a king size bed to sprawl out upon for the rest of the journey. Mercifully, the left a bag of six packaged cream cakes and two sealed bottles of water. Dinner. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">As the lights turned on at midnight and the bus came to a halt, a good majority of the passengers got off. Asking the driver "Kunming?" he confirmed and shooed us off the bus. We were met by taxi drivers and hotel owners who offered us a bed for the night. Turning down a hopeful rate of 100Y per night we quickly bargained down 50Y and were soon whisked away in the back of a very plastic, very chinese MPV. With no city in sight, he drove down the dark alleys, an impression of space on either side until, negotiating his way around piles of bricks left at the roadside we wound into a very quiet section of concrete buildings. A man wheeling a cart of pink roses was the only person in the streets as we checked into our room. It appeared we were in the outskirts of the city, and with no definite idea as to where we were and still with no money in our pockets or food in our stomachs, we slept. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Julian left before dawn in search of the nearest ATM. I woke some hours later; outside, transport trucks noisily ground in and out of a factory complex and I concluded that we must be in the industrial part of Kunming. Exceptionally hungry and thirsty I did yoga to try to calm my mind, showered, and still Julian had not returned. Anxious and concerned that he may have gotten lost he finally returned six hours after he had left, still with no money in hand. His wanderings had taken him around modern retail complexes, housing estates, shopping streets and the grounds of a huge athletics stadium. The Bank of China (the only bank in China where our debit cards will work) was prominently represented with a 25 story building and broken ATM's. Eventually he had found a swish hotel with an english speaking concierge who advised him he was still several kilometres off our Lonely Planet map, to the south west of Kunming, our abrupt bus driver had apparently let us off a stop (or two or three) early. Having not eaten in 24 hours now we were both at our wits end as we walked to a bank he had noticed down the street in the hope we might be able to exchange more of our limited US$. To our dismay it had closed 20 minutes prior to our arrival. Tears welled in my eyes and we approached the hoteliers hoping they might take US cash as payment; our final resource. Our proprietor sensing our situation motioned to us to pack our things and took us to the nearest Bank of China. Finally with cash in hand, we handed him 100Y, expecting 50Y change and the situation quickly heated as he demanded 200Y for the room and the transport he provided. Shocked, we spent a good half hour drawing pictures in an attempt to communicate. Our 50Y hotel room had now tripled in price and we were unwilling to give in. Finally, we both compromised and he drove away with 100Y, leaving us at the local bus station. Distressed and exceptionally hungry we found the first buffet style meal we could and finally ate, some 29 hours after our last meal. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Certain that the nearby bus station would provide means of getting us into the city centre of Kunming we were unable to decipher the Chinese writings on the wall. Several local people refused to help us, shaking their heads and turning us away, refusing to attempt to understand what we were asking. Finally, we gave up and got into a taxi and realized on the ride in that we were not even in Kunming to start with. 20km later our driver took a roundabout route into the city. Despite our protests, with our map and compass in evidence and knowing full well he screwed these lost, unknowing tourists, he dropped us off, an hour later, in the centre of Kunming. Our heads clouded with stress from the previous few days all we could do was give in to the nearest Starbucks, a homely comfort we had not seen in months, and use the internet to form our next plan of attack. The prices in Kunming were a shock to the system and upon learning that two beds in a eight bed dorm room would cost us double what we had been used to paying for private, en-suit we decided to catch the overnight train out of Kunming to Dali. The walk towards the train station to buy tickets included my first taste of Chinese architecture in China. Whilst the majority of the city is a modern bustling metropolis we found one road, flanked at either end by the East and West Pagodas. Between these centuries old structures lay a building the purpose for which we never did establish (maybe a hotel) that looked like a medieval Chinese castle and to either side rows of shops with beautiful traditional style curved roofs. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">At the railway station we were surprised when we were asked for our passports, which until this point we had never carried around with us. Unable to purchase tickets without them were told it would be no problem to return that evening, buy tickets and board the train. We enjoyed a few hours exploring the city and later that night, loaded with our bags, we hiked the 45 minutes to the station. To our extreme discouragement were told tickets had been sold out. Out of my mind I insisted we give up on China and demanded that Julian book the next train south to Bangkok which he appeared to consider, yet refused, unwilling to give up one of the most anticipated parts of his journey. Exhausted I succumbed to my emotions and tears flowed freely. The first few days in China had been so absolutely overwhelming. In the seven years since I left home I have never been so run down and overwhelmed in a foreign land. It wasn't until the next day that I admitted to having been consumed with culture shock so completely and that it clouded my head so intensely that I felt a similar mental state comparable to that of going through a crumbling relationship. Not only had the situations been overwhelming but the treatment of the local people and their refusal to take a moment to understand us, especially after the relaxed generosity of the laos, was so baffling and discouraging. We considered laying out sleep mats in the station and spending the night with the other waifs and strays on the street but finally gave in to the high prices of a dorm room and I slipped into restless dreams. </span></b></div>
ofParadiseVisionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08535511199313264230noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-501971850732172162.post-63155985709436942222012-11-27T22:09:00.000-08:002012-11-27T22:09:04.306-08:00FInal Days of Rest and Tranquility; Nong Khiaw, Laos<br />
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Our local mini bus weaved away from Luang Prabang and north, up the familiar winding broken asphalt surface we were becoming accustomed to. When we arrived in Nong Khiaw the magic of the place was immediate and infectious as we looked up at steep limestone karst, considerably larger and more dramatic than that of Vang Vieng. Our lonely planet guide suggested heading west of the bridge spanning the (??) river, where the majority of guesthouses and restaurants catered for the tourists. It wasn't far down the road before a man greeted us, offering us riverside accommodation for a price which suited our budget. We stood in our second floor spacious en-suite room with large bed and beautiful, even wooden floorboards; a beautiful yoga space, which opened up onto a shared balcony overlooking the river. Long boats were being paddled down the river, people fishing for an evening meal. Music played from the neighbouring school where laughing children played in a courtyard, enjoying a two day party in honour of their teachers. It was here that Julian decided this place had potential to be a new favourite. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">We pushed aside the gate with bunches of bananas growing overhead and followed the narrow lane way alongside the school yard, greeting the children along the way and headed towards the bridge spanning the river. A woman sat at a loom in a small room, open to the the street, working on a sarong or table runner as other families tended to shops out of homes. A ridge line swept beautiful overhead to the highest of the surrounding karst, some 300 meters overhead as the sun dipped behind them, relieving us of the afternoon heat and dropping temperatures into a comfortable, warm evening. Crossing the bridge we admired the dramatic karst and watched the locals in the process of building vegetable gardens along the banks. Using pieces of bamboo they dug holes, erecting fences to surround the produce in the process of being planted. This was clearly a new project in the making, each of the many gardens being in the same stages of development and we later learnt the banks of the river had only very recently been divided between the village and each family allocated a plot to use as they saw best fit. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">We followed a dirt road alongside the river in hopes of coming across a path which may lead us up one of the mighty karst and offer potential for a hike. We knew it was possible to climb the peak adjacent to the village, having been offered a (paid) guide or few during our meander down from the hotel, but the only paths we found lead up into vegetable gardens, and we realized we would have to seek local advice for the hiking trails. The clouds glowed a brilliant pink, the sun set and we retuned to the main road for dinner, passing guesthouse accommodation from the bargain basement to the ridiculously expensive along the way. The feel on this 'other side of the bridge' was considerably different than where we were residing; clearly here was developed to suit the needs of people travelling through, whereas the other side was exclusively residential. The place was all but void of tourists though, the majority of restaurants tended by bored proprietors. We chose between two places, the deciding factor being the Wi-Fi which was offered in the Indian restaurant. We were greeted by a Tamil man who spoke exceptional english and I was shocked when Julian went for the Indian menu once again. He picked between two of my suggested dishes and was soon served a sweet curry with nine vegetables, lush with sultanas and bananas accompanied by a garlic roti. I watched his every move as he inspected and tasted, his eyes widening in content surprise. Our new Indian friend has just successfully served Julian the first Indian dish he has ever sincerely enjoyed.</span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">The following day we were eager to find some hiking trails but the tour agents in town refused to tell us where to go, insisting that we must have a guide, a full day excursion costing us 180,000 kip (US$24) each person. Unable to justify the cost of the guided trek on our $30 budget, we simply enjoyed walking around town, resting in our riverside guesthouse doing yoga or reading. We joined others at our guesthouse for a meal with our same Indian chef; our table ended up being a lively group of ten, the majority of whom were regular holiday-makers but our number included a Swiss couple currently in the process of riding recumbent tricycles from their home to Malaysia and about to tackle some of Laos steeper terrain as they headed south. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Hiring a pair of single speed city bikes (which were in pretty rough shape) the following morning we ventured west out of Nong Khiaw, up and down a considerably steep road. I found myself pushing my bicycle (though Julian was far more determined and persistent with his) uphill more often than riding it and found myself feeling ill multiple times from the intense heat of the sun. We passed a couple of villages where local children would run after our bikes with smiles and waves as as passed. It was clear that these villages had been functioning the same way for centuries and was the least developed of any villages we had seen in Laos. There was no evidence of running water and there was certainly no electricity. A man dug out a bowl by hand from a section of tree trunk some 20cm in diameter and perhaps 30cm deep, already there was another lying beside him, the outside just requiring some shaping and finishing before being put to use. For what purpose the bowls / vases were for I cannot say, but the work must have taken days to complete with the simple hand tools he used, sat upon the ground in the shade of a tree, the piece gripped between his knees.</span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">As we paused on a bridge a couple of local youths pulled up beside us and sat upon the railings. They spoke to us in the little english they knew, "Good morning teacher, 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 6 - 8- 10", repeating this a couple times before time before taking off up a mountain track. A path on the opposite side of the road and some 2km further on led towards a river far to inviting to ignore and as Julian sought out angles and compositions with his camera, I was drawn towards it. Easing myself into the river (fully clothed) by some large unearthed tree roots the cool water was a refreshing shock to my pores, the karst rising steeply above me into clear blue skies. Julian soon joined me and we swam against the current before allowing it to carry us downstream. As we retuned to the bikes a trio of young girls approached us asking us for the three main items foreigners give children here; pens, candy and money. Often reading advice discouraging tourists to give such things to the local children as it encourages a begging culture, we refused. We had no pens or candy on us and we are unwilling to part with our money as always. As we left the river path, we happened upon the children's guardian sitting out of sight, just four or five metres from where the girls had approached us, the lesson obviously having been learnt even in this quiet backwater, that innocent faces and small hands are more likely to receive gifts from 'farang' than a woman of advancing years.</span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">We cycled the rest of the way home to find women had emerged from the woodlands that lined the majority of our route , their sarongs, blouses and headscarves filthy with dust, long knives hanging by their sides and bundles of firewood across their backs, as they walked home to the next village, chattering to each other or calling greetings to ourselves as we passed. They refused our offer of a lift on the back of our bikes and we continued back to Nong Khiaw for a shower and dinner at our favourite Indian restaurant. Three evenings in a row Julian ordered Indian dishes, thoroughly enjoying one and realizing the other two were tolerable; not as awful as his preconceptions had given him to think. As we sat eating, during the quiet, warm evenings, we watched the eldest son of the house opposite spend every spare hour he had to weave himself a cast net for fishing in the river shallows. Whilst we never saw his task completed, we admired others and their usage, the peace and the pace of Nong Khiaw and the surrounding villages made a deep impression upon our hearts and it is reassuring to think amidst the hustle and bustle of the modern world with its jet planes and hyper-markets; fast food, fast internet and fast pace, such a place as Nong Khiaw exists towards the end of the line. Our host at the restaurant sincerely eased Julians trepidation about travelling through India, especially the northern part of the country where the food is apparently quite mild and we plan on spending the majority of our time. He turned out to be an exceptional chef, with exquisite and subtle taste and our time with him was invaluable, easing Julians fears of starving in his homeland and allowing us to look forward to that leg of the trip even more.</span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">We stood on the balcony on the last evening watching the fisherman with large lights wade through the river seeking, what we assumed was a nocturnal species, and listened to the chatter of our neighbours in the houses that surrounded our digs. In the morning we packed after four idyllic, restful days on 'Laos time' and returned once more to the world, via bus.</span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Our final two days in Laos was spent in transit, heading north en-route to the Chinese boarder at Mohab. We broke the journey up in Odoudomxsy, a decidedly typical, dusty boarder town void of any real point of interest. We checked into a musky room with squat toilet and hose coming out of the wall into a bucket acting as both a shower and sink, along with the most uncomfortable bed thus far. We wandered the city in quiet reflection of our time in Laos, one of the most serene places I have ever been. Any and all preconceptions I had of this country has been discarded. As one of the most impoverished countries on the planet what I found in Laos turned to be the most beautiful examples of simple living I have ever seen. Void of mass consumerism and the constant desire to have more, bigger, better, faster things. Where flaunting material items as a show of social status is far from anyones mind. Where basic needs are met, even if it means an entire village having no running water and venturing down to the river to bathe or wash clothing. The most peaceful moments of my life were those spent trekking through the New Zealand backcountry with my home on my back, living in just this way. This is a place where family is of upmost importance and entire communities work together to ensure a successful crop. The physical beauty of the country with its patient, open hearted people have captured my soul, this month passing so quickly and despite very much looking forward to China, I sincerely didn't want to leave Laos.</span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">My thoughts were interrupted on our way back from dinner by two youths on bicycles who pulled over for a chat, asking us where we were heading. Upon learning we were aimlessly wandering their streets, they asked if we would like to come practice english with them. Of course, we were happy to join them and were soon lead down an alleyway and through a set of doors where we found about 50 students waiting. We were greeted with curious smiles from everyone and moments later led into a classroom and invited to find a space to sit. We were soon surrounded by youths eager to practice their conversational skills. Soon, their teacher came to stand at the front of the room to begin the evening lesson and upon completion called upon us, asking us where were from then relating to the class both in english and laos that we were native english speakers and to come forward with any questions they may have. He then asked if we would come to the board to go over todays lesson so the students could hear our pronunciation. I urged Julian to go first, and as he looked out onto the 50 onlookers he stated, "Oh, Im all nervous now, I've not stood in front of a classroom in over 20 years" which the teacher translated and got a good giggle out of. As he read over the writings on the wall the class repeated after him. The teacher had made a few grammatical mistakes and was happy to have Julian correct him. I thought I was off the hook but as Julian sat down I was called to the front of the board to repeat the procedure. They looked up at me with their almond shaped eyes expectantly as I looked back at them, a varied group of individuals ranging from 13 to 17 years old, male and female, some dressed in casual western clothing, others in lovely sarongs and blouses and another group of practicing monks in long orange robes. It was satisfying, standing before them, having them repeat after me and making sure they knew the differences in meanings between two very similar spellings. When the hour class had ended a small group of them walked us out gradually dwindling to a couple who walked us all the way home, eager for every and any opportunity to practice their language with a native speaker, knowing full well the opportunities the skills they learn today may present them with further down the years and aware also I think of their compatriots in Vientiane that have many more opportunities for both practice and employment: their competition in a changing world as much as anybody.</span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">The rest of the evening I was buzzing with the energy from the experience. I can't think of a more perfect conclusion to our time in Laos, considering the opportunity we have been offered to return to do exactly that (which, I have just realized, I completely forgot to conclude with in the Vang Vieng entry. That cliff hanger ending was not exactly intentional, have to admit! I guess thats the problem with not being able to upload for so long.). The man with big ideas for the future was someone who comes from a very poor family in a village one hour south of Vang Vieng. As a child, he went through the coldest months of the year with no shoes, sweater or jacket, attending class in just a T-shirt. His family was looked down upon through the eyes his peers which today, seems to inspired him. He has opened a successful restaurant in Vang Vieng and has changed the path which his family has followed for generations. Next, he aspires to bring tourism to his village, but in order to do so, the villagers must know at least a little english. He offered us a piece of land to build our own bamboo hut, in return we would become a part of opening an english school and teaching the residents (particularly the children) english. In Laos, tourism is an important source of income and to be able to get a job in the tourism industry changes lives. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">To have a little taste of what it feels like to stand before a class was like a little push, or reminder, of the future that could await us here. The intimidating thing about it though is that village has had no prior experience with the language, where as the class this evening had a base understanding. How do you introduce and language to someone for the first time? There are classes offered in southern Thailand we could take which would introduce us to the concept of teaching english as a foreign language, which would be invaluable should we choose to do this, and ideal since we intend on spending some time there climbing. I have never really felt like I can make a difference in the world but on that evening, thinking about bringing english to a village which has never seen westerners before in hopes of creating a future with opportunities opened up to the inhabitants should they choose to embrace them: perhaps we could have an impact on a small part of it.</span></b></div>
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ofParadiseVisionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08535511199313264230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-501971850732172162.post-22330842318845187122012-11-22T17:13:00.000-08:002012-11-22T17:14:45.935-08:00Second Impression of Luang Prabang, Laos<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">(Makes me crazy that I can not put as many pictures in and position them as I would like using this VPN connection!!)</span><br />
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">At first glance, when we passed through Luang Prabang a few months back en route to Vietnam, our expectations differed drastically from the reality. Knowing Laos to be the poorest of the SE Asian peninsula, coming into Luang Prabang felt very surreal with its french colonial architecture, beautifully lit high street (by the shops and restaurants rather than street lighting), vibrant night market and considerably higher prices for meals than we had been used to in Thailand. Having now travelled the length of Laos from south to north we were looking forward to returning to a city we both knew our way around and we were wondering how our perspectives may have changed since our last visit.</span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">We arrived late (which we expected, now being well accustomed to 'Laos time') and after getting suitably ripped off by the tuk tuk drivers from the bus station we returned to Sok Dee Residences where we were offered the same room we had last time. As we unpacked, we heard familiar dutch voices from above and were pleased to find our two friends, Simone and Dieuwka had taken our recommendation and were residing in the room above us. We spent the evening with them and an American traveller engaged in fabulous conversation over dinner and Beer Laos (which is cheaper than a cup of tea) at a roadside restaurant on the Mekong. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">The following morning as we walked around old town with a new sense of perspective we realized that Luang Prabang is indeed an accurate part of Laos identity, or at least the side effected by the French. Laos falls into two distinct halves; that that the French built on and that where they did not. Apart from the introduction of the coffee plantations that litter the Bolaven plateau, the influence of the colonists (read <i>protectors</i>) has to our eyes been minimal. What architecture there was, was flattened by the US carpet bombing of the region during the 'secret war' (where the Ho Chi Minh trail never ran through Laos and which America never bombed) and as with other rural areas we visited, in the villages the houses are still of traditional stilted design and bamboo construction. Within the larger towns, especially the important centres of Pakse, Vientiane and Luang Prabang, the buildings of course reflect the presence of the westerners in ornate, multi-story construction with balconies and rooflines in keeping with the period and a decidedly more delicate appearance than the contemporary work of the British elsewhere upon the peninsula. Despite the lovely vibe I still felt impartial and not overly fond of the place. These days Luang Prabang feels entirely devoted to tourism with not much 'local feel' in the Old Quarter and not much advertised to see outside of that. The only people seen eating in the restaurants or shopping at the night market were the tourists; local residents were hardly around other than the shop keepers and market vendors. Of course it's the high prices which keep them away and it took delving a little deeper to get a better sense of the place. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">We climbed up a set of stairs to a hill top temple offering a panoramic view, where a golden stupa overlooks the city. From this birds eye view I found the city was much larger than I expected, residential areas stretching for miles nestled in amongst the trees in a basin that stretches for some distance to the north and east of the Old Town before steep, towering, green slopes reach up to ridge lines and mountain tops in the middle distance. From here we picked a route over a bridge spanning the muddy waters of the Nam Kahn river. It is at Luang Prabang that the Nam Kahn joins the mighty Mekong and the junction in the waterways the purpose behind the towns presence, wealth and strategic importance as junctions in trade routes tend to be. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Leaving the Old Town we found the local families going about their lives and were greeted with the usual smiles. As we wandered, enjoying the local feel of Luang Prabang 'proper' and finding much lower prices for necessary toiletries (tampons were a shocking US$10 for eight in the old town!) my heart warmed towards this place. Local fruit and vegetable markets were swarming and live music pulsated through the air from a wedding ceremony in full swing. The stunning, formal silk sarongs the women wore took my breath away and I couldn't help but wonder how I could pursued Julian into agreeing that adding a few more to my collection was a good idea. Simone and Dieuwka passed by at the perfect moment, breathless from cycling in the heat. They had just returned from a ride out to a neighbouring village, home to the local weavers. They were all smiles with satisfying purchases at considerably lower prices than those offered at the Old Town night market and Julian and I were soon convinced to hire out bicycles the next day. </span></b></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">The heat was suffocating as we pushed our rickety, single speed city touring bikes across the hilly terrain. 6km down the road we came to the village and it took some careful examination of the buildings to find the weavers market in a whitewashed concrete block resembling a community hall. About 25 women were sprawled out across tables snoozing away the afternoon heat but our arrival in the otherwise empty hall quickly brought them to life as they began arranging their handicraft for our perusal or sewing works in progress, all the while calling to us in turn to come and admire their wares, to buy a scarf, sarong or shirt. Julian sat down and purloined himself a cup of tea from the ladies and left me to it for a while as I wandered from stall to stall, admiring their work and pleased with their prices, starting at less than half those quoted in the night market back in town. Looms were set up in the back room with a few women working on exquisite silk pieces with intricate patterns they seemed to know by memory. Luckily for me, Julian found all this just as interesting as I and was happy to spend a few dollars. He pointed out some particularly beautiful cotton sarongs though much to his amusement he did nothing to help me with the bargaining (Her purchase: Her problem…… <i>Ed</i>) I find it rather uncomfortable, haggling with women who have far less than I, over just a few dollars, but its all part of the game and in the end, I ended up with two beautiful cotton sarongs for US$17. The Laos sarongs are absolutely my favourite articles of clothing that I have come across in my travels and am pleased with my varied collection of four. One particularly stunning green silk one (at US$50), two comfortable cotton ones (at US$8.50 each) and one exceptionally cheap polyester one (at US$1.75) which have been sent home to be properly cared for and await our return to Canada. </span></b></span></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Our final evening was spent with Simone and Dieuwka at a restaurant of their choice, a nearby Indian place, before they caught they night bus to Vientiane. Julian was less than eager but I was impressed when he went for an Indian dish over the Laos selection, knowing full well that India is in our near future and exploring their culinary delights perhaps a wise call. We have become quite fond of the dutch girls by now and sincerely enjoyed their company one last time over a meal which the three of us enjoyed throughly and Julian survived. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">After a few weeks back on the main tourist track, spending time in Vientiane, Vang Vieng and Luang Prabang, we were more than eager to get away from it and into more remote reaches of the country once again. A slight deviation from our northward course would take us to to small village of Nong Khiaw where we would relax a while and enjoy all the finest we find in Laos before entering the cultural chaos of China and testing everything we have learnt over the last few years to our very limits and beyond.</span></b></div>
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ofParadiseVisionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08535511199313264230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-501971850732172162.post-13518080859128401422012-11-20T23:30:00.000-08:002012-11-20T23:36:59.083-08:00The 'Once' Party Capital of Laos: Vang Vieng<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 12px;"></span></span>(Formatting going to be an issue for each entry we post using VPN unfortunately. Not going to be a pretty as the others but at least its less time consuming for me! Enjoy!)</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">A tuk tuk picked us up from our guesthouse in Vientiane, drove around the city for an hour picking up another ten others before dropping us of an easy walking distance away from where we had started. A 16 seater mini bus was waiting and we left promptly on (Laos) time 45 minutes after scheduled departure. We have come to understand that generally two hours can be added to predicted journey times and can fluctuate between 1-6 hours in difference (though we have heard stories from others which added an additional 12 hours). One thing we do have though is time and arriving any time before dark gets a thumbs up from us. I enjoyed the views to be seen on the road as we drove out of the city; women dressed in beautiful colourful sarongs with jet back hair hanging at the lower back. School children in uniform; girls in traditional blue and white sarongs with white blouses and boys in grey trousers, white collared button down shirt and red neckerchiefs, either walking, or cycling with younger siblings sat on a padded rear seat. Various means of transport teetering full of fresh produce, people or chickens; massively overloaded as par for the course, mopeds carrying as many as 6 or huge oversize loads, the little 110cc engines groaning under the strain. All this activity kicked up a thick cloud of dust, people drove motorbikes wearing face masks covering their nose and mouth (which I have taken to using` myself while on motorbike). </span></b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">As the city dropped away behind us the air cleared as we headed into small hills, the unpaved rocky road winding up and over a pass offering views of the valley below; limestone karst rising and growing in height into the valleys beyond. We drove through villages where all the women wear stunning, intricately woven sarongs, with bamboo baskets on their backs full of leafy green vegetables and young children care for babies securely wrapped against their bodies in colourful cloths. A communal tap is their only source of running water; children wash their own clothing, women bathe under the privacy of a tube sarong and men, women and children carry plastic containers full, home for cooking. A clean river flows closely, a nice change from the murky brown waters of the Mekong. My eyes grow as much as the karst in the countryside and I am at a loss for words as a serenity engulfed me, in awe at their humble, simple lives. </span></b></span></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">A few karst in the distance are noticeably larger than all the rest and I can only hope the bus is heading in that direction. It is not long before we are deposited at a village directly in front of these majestic, mystical peaks. I shake my head in attempt to take in the experience of one of the most beautiful yet most bumpy and nauseating ride bus rides I have ever been on and am already sure that this is one of the most visually striking places on the planet. The climbing possibilities alone on the fractured faces of the karst are limitless, even at first glance. We are soon lead across a questionable, rickety bamboo bridge of worrying structural support to a small island to check into a basic riverside bungalow with en-suit wet room for 80,000 kip (US$10) per night. We explored the main streets of the village, baffled to see that each restaurant and guest house were playing old episodes of either Friends or Family Guy. Normally such a thing on our travels would be avoided (despite both enjoying Friends) but having not seen a television in months and Friends in far longer than that we settled down and enjoyed a few episodes over dinner. The sound of bass pumping in a nearby pub kept me awake (which of course Julian easily fell asleep to) until the law enforced shut down time of 2330. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">We woke up at the same time as each other for a change and instead of my usual morning yoga I opted to join him on a walk before breakfast. We wandered through our tropical surroundings where banana trees hung heavy with fruit and a bright purple banana flower dripped with early morning dew. Red, yellow and purple flowers in bloom gave off a sweet scent as we warily clambered over a gap in the fence owned by an army of large red ants, marching confidently and with good reason; their sting just as bad as that of a wasp (which we found out the hard way back in Penang). Clouds sat low around the base of the karst as we approached the shallow river, flowing swiftly. The air was cool in comparison to much of the peninsula but the promise of a refreshing dip in the river was too much to resist and when I noticed we were alone at this small island I stripped to my underwear for a quick dip. The water is cooler here than anywhere else I have swam and I decided my feelings and instincts from yesterday were confirmed. I loved this place. I stay submerged when a tour group in motorized longboats roar past, breaking the silence of the morning. When the coast was clear, I dressed quickly and we returned to the hotel for our inclusive meal of two eggs and a french baguette. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Vang Vieng is famous amongst tourists for its tubing down the Nam Song river which used to be lined with bars, rope swings, jumping planks and human catapults. This has resulted in a history of excess drinking and drug use which unfortunately has been linked to the cause of six deaths last season. Prior to arriving in Vang Vieng I was more than happy to bypass this part of the backpacking trail but by the time we got there we were quite ready for a bit of socializing with other tourists where no language barrier exists and conversations are easy. We explored the villages that day, getting a feel for the place and exploring options and prices. What had our attention right from the start far more than tubing was getting into or on these limestone formations. Once again cursing the fact that we had left all our climbing gear in Bangkok we looked around for rental gear and debated over the high cost of US$35 per day, considerable expense for us on such a tight budget and we spend two days deciding whether to splurge or not. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">That evening, as we ate a great meal from a quiet vegetarian restaurant, the establishment next door was in full swing. On the menu they offered pizza, tea of brownies laced with your choice of marijuana, mushrooms or opium. Combined with cheap beer Laos (US$1 per 750ml bottle) the westerners were in rowdy form; a young blond girl in short shorts and tube top danced suggestively on the table while singing I Like Big Butts and I Can Not Lie while guys cheered her on. I shook my head at her misconduct and clear ignorance to Lao culture. The local woman operating the restaurant next door shook her head in distaste and I felt ashamed to be associated with this side of western culture. Is this the only side of the west that these local people see? These people who often are unable to travel 50km away from their home? The drinking, the consumption, the distasteful social conduct and spending more money than these people earn in a week doing it? Using my Cambodian shawl to cover my shoulders wearing a long Laos sarong I shake my head and look apologetically into her eyes despite having nothing to do with the scene, and we returned to our bungalow to rock back and forth on our hammocks as a baseline penetrated the air. Julian managed to fall asleep and he looked so peaceful and happy I could not bear to disturb him. I draped a light blanket across him to which he stirred and murmered 'thats a big butterfly' before drifting off to sleep once again.</span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">I was woken the next morning at 0700 by loud music pulsating strongly enough I could feel it through my mattress. Exceptionally distraught from having been kept awake the previous two nights and now once again woken by an even louder beat at such a ridiculous time in the morning I went for a walk out to the river on my own wondering if the bass beats were going to wake me every morning. A team of about 12 Laos rowers paddled a dragon boat with ferocious energy down the swift flowing stream and I remembered what it felt like to have a strong rowing team, when each and every person rows in sync to conjure the feeling of soaring above the water like a sea eagle stalking its prey. The morning air was heavy, smoke carried on the wind from southern China where they are now burning rice stalks leftover from the harvest. The sun penetrated through the smog and it felt unusually warm for this time in the morning as I headed back to our hut to await Julian, unable to commence my morning yoga practice as the heavy bass prevented me from reaching the necessary state of peace. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">It turns out a local festival for honouring ancestors was upon us and the Laos had attended dawn services at the numerous temples around Vang Vieng and then promptly commenced partying on the island in anticipation of the dragon boat races. We joined them on the island where people were fighting for space in the shade on the riverside drinking Beer Laos and enjoying freshly caught BBQ river fish or chicken, dried squid and roasted grasshoppers. It was hard for me to believe that we were two of the only four westerners in sight. Vang Vieng is known as the party capital of SE Asia yet most tourists seem to have found other things to do. For me, this kind of stuff is exactly why I travel, to participate in local life and these types of celebrations are always a welcome surprise (despite the rude awakening). We mingled with the Laos, some of which were in a rather inebriated state come early afternoon. It was a pleasant shock to see the Laosians partying it up for a change, getting just as rowdy as the tourists do on a nightly basis. Walking along the banks of the river we found our two Dutch friends whom we had shared the bus ride with, Simone and Dieuwka. We enjoyed the energy of the dragon boat races as young children chased each other around our feet, and soon agreed to meet up for dinner that evening after a siesta. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">I was able to fall asleep by using ear plugs covered with noise cancelling headphones and was at least able to choose which beat I listened to. At 1800 we met the Dutch at the bridge slightly late and went in search of a place which would serve us the group meal we kept seeing the locals eating. Unable to find it on any of the menus we inquired with a hostess who had just served the winners of the dragon boat races the exact meal we were looking for. Apparently they don't offer this on the farang menus and we were pleased when they agrees to serve it, at what I assume must have been local price at 50, 000 kip (US$6) between the four of us. They set up our table with a charcoal fire burning within it. A convex steel grill was placed upon it with chunks of pork fat used to grease the surface. Pouring water from a kettle into the circular 'moat' around the bottom we spiced it ourselves with fresh coriander, basil, mint, garlic, ginger and lime (with some hot peppers on the side). Carrots, cabbage and thin rice noodles soon followed, the fire cooking it into a broth as we placed thinly sliced lean beef along the grill, the fat from the pork dripping down into the broth. A fabulous dish to share which satisfied both myself and Dieuwka but Julian and Simone, found it a satisfying appetizer and were ready for a main course at a different restaurant. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">The next morning, after falling asleep to the beating of drums in the distance (which had persisted for 17 straight hours), I mercifully woke on my own accord without the assistance of a break beat in the distance. Relieved, I endured an interesting yoga session on the slanting and uneven floorboards of our hut before breaking fast, followed by a hesitant decision to spend a small fortune on renting out climbing equipment for the day. Our renters discouraged us from visiting the crag of our choice due to wet rock but an online guide suggested the rock was almost always dry, so we took a motorbike out of town, north through small villages to see for ourselves. Our PDF file guided us through vibrantly green rice paddies (the harvest time not yet having reached here) and across a overgrown jungle trail. Finding a locked gate which we expected may at one point have been the point of entry our nose suggested why climbers were discouraged from coming to this crag at this time of year, the scent of marijuana coming in waves in a heat strong enough to see. We found an alternative route, and Julian valiantly crossed two leech infested rivers before finally arriving at the foot of the crag, leaving me behind to 'protect the bag'. The rock was indeed dry, if perhaps a little overgrown, and he was inspired to see the bolts in the rock, confirming at last we had found the right crag. We aspired to visit here the following day. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">We rode our dog of a bike (no back brake, dodgy 2nd gear and metal-on-metal front brake) back in the direction of 'home', passing by Vang Vieng and continuing onwards towards the Blue Lagoon. School children were heading home on foot or bicycles as we drove through the local residential areas of Vang Vieng, our area on prime waterfront and town centre locations clearly reserved for guesthouses and restaurants. The bumpy, rocky, dusty road lead us all the way to the end where we paid 10,000 kip each (US$1.25) for the privilege of hiking up to the cave and swimming in the stunning 'lagoon blue' waters, heavy with silt from the limestone, deep enough to jump from the upper branches of a mature tree 9 meters above. Local men stood on the bridge opposite, eyeing the silly western tourists dressed in skimpy bikinis and once again I found myself shaking my head in disapproval. We climbed the steep path up to the mouth of the cave, hired out a head lamp between us and ventured inside. Uncertain that the headlamp was necessary in the big open mouth of the cave we were soon proved wrong as the caverns lead deeper and deeper into the womb of the earth and daylight all but disappeared. The cave had been left entirely natural, no cement pathway or flood lighting was used as we had in Ha Long Bay. The rock was wet and slippery with moisture dripping from stalactites which dropped from the roof of the cave and it turned out to be a profoundly humbling experience, venturing into the depths in a lightless solitude. The only other sign of life here were the dark shadows of bats glimpsed in the reflection of our head torch. We both agree that caves are not a personal major interest, having been in a few over the years, yet this was perhaps the largest we had explored, and to be inside in complete darkness and silence, and to have it completely to ourselves, was overwhelmingly beautiful. Back at the mouth of the cave we paid our respects to the Golden Buddha before heading back down towards the blue lagoon, eager to jump in and rinse the sweat of this exceptionally hot day from our pores. Late afternoon had given away to evening and all the tourists had fled from the pool, allowing us the opportunity to enjoy it to ourselves. The water was a brilliant blue, so very rare in this part of the world, and almost cold. It was the coldest stream I had submerged in since leaving Canada and it was so profoundly refreshing, and so overwhelmingly beautiful; the water, the rice paddies, and the towering limestone karats in the distance, that I decided in that moment I could definitely spend an extended period of time here. I feel in love with Laos all over again. We were soon joined by four Chinese who had gone up to explore the cave after we had emerged from it, and they watched, declining to join us. The water is far too cold for them. Finally, the middle aged women took advantage of the rubber tubes and eased herself in. The slow yet steady current took hold of her and she drifted downstream as we dried and dressed to leave. It was soon clear that she was unable to swim and in a slight panic, drifting further and further downstream. I got ready to jump in after her but one of the young men staffing the place, jumped in and saved the day. Her 10,000 kip was well spent. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">The following day we collected our climbing equipment and opted for checking out the local crag instead of venturing north to the spot we had spied the previous day, in hopes of a easier and more direct approach and less time on the bike. We parked the moto' at the side of the road just as three women climbed out of a deep, overgrown irrigation ditch, their sarongs drenched with muddy water and checkered headscarves with sweat. They carried sharp digging tools and mesh bags which may have been filled with snails, grasshoppers or fronts and I soon realized that this is how these women source lunch. As we followed a dry, narrow dirt path through the brilliant green rice paddies I pictured them, wading through muddy, stinking hot irrigation ditches running parallel with our path and was once again thankful for the life I lead.</span></b></div>
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<i><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Quick explanation of climbing terms used in the following paragraph: </span></b></i></div>
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<i><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Sport climbing is the main style of climbing in SE Asia, where the route is bolted, and the climber clips into the set bolts using quick draws top protect the climb. The climbing can be more strenuous than the traditional (style) climbing I got used to in Scottish Highlands, where there are no bolts in the rock and placing wire and titanium nuts into cracks, then attaching to it with a quick draw, protects a fall.</span></b></i></div>
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<i><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Top rope climbing is often used in the beginning stages of teaching one to climb, where the rope is attached at the top of a climb and comes from overhead into the harness. Should someone fall, the rope from above catches immediately and the distance to fall is very little. </span></b></i></div>
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<i><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Lead climbing is when a climber is being belayed from the ground, and in the instance of sport climbing, clips into the set bolts on their way up. Should they fall, they could fall a considerable distance, double the distance to the last bolt they clipped into. </span></b></i></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">The karst rose steeply before us and I was thankful that Julian had the heavy equipment on him as we clambered up a very steep, rocky path towards a crag developed with sport routes. The heat was unbearable to me, sweat running into my eyes I wondered how I was going to manage on the rock. A couple groups with guides were already at the crag and we found ourselves what was apparently a nice easy warm up route. After refreshing my memory on how to rig up the rope when reaching the top of the climb I opted to lead it, got onto the rock and immediately the sharp rock pierced my skin. Getting up to the first bolt was torture on my hands and upon clipping into it my raw hands let go and I swung, already defeated. The soft skin of my hands nowhere near as tough as they used to be, my body no where near as strong and the additional body fat I have accumulated not doing me any favours, I opted to belay Julian as he lead the climb. It was a nice lead up the sharp, juggy(big) holds and I was happy to give the route another go on top rope rather than leading it. The rock tore at my hands so badly took me a good 45 minutes and still I couldn't bring myself to get up to the second bolt. Frustrated, discouraged and uninspired I insisted we have a go at another route further along the wall which Julian picked out without being able to check the graded difficulty. He followed a crack up the rock face and along a beautiful seam in the rock before getting to the first crux up and over a awkward bulge. Clipping into the bolts set into the rock he continued up, facing another two crux's of increasing difficulty, cursing through his strain. It was an impressive accomplishment I must say, in our current state of fitness. Reaching and clipping into the last bolt, I was certain that he was about to have his first proper fall on lead but alas the bugger held on with little more than grit and bloody mindedness and I lowered him back to terra firma on the belay. I then attempted the route on top rope and was pleased to find the rock was considerably smoother than the previous route, and much more fun! Still, I was unable to get over the first bulging crux, in fit of giggles as I swung back to the ground. I did not get to the top of a single route that day which taught me two things. Falling is one of the funnest parts of sport climbing and I learn by failing! Evening upon us we unfortunately had to return the bike by 5pm, just as the heat of the day subsided. I was both discouraged and inspired. The amount of strength I have lost is absurd and I want nothing more than to get back onto the rock to get it back. That's going to have to wait a few months though, until we get to Ton Sai. At this point, all I want to do is get fit again; apparently daily yoga is not enough to counteract being forced to eat out for every meal, sometimes having only the option of rice or noodle soup when in remote places off the tourist track.</span></b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 12px;">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 12px;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Upon arriving back at out hut that evening Julian went into the folder where we keep our money, passports and other important documents. Anticipating travel through Myanmar in the near future, where they accept only crisp, uncreased US hundred dollar bills, we had withdrawn US$500 in Vientiane before we left. The folder is always kept out of sight in the pockets of his backpack and we were appalled to find US$300 missing. Quickly mulling over the possibilities, we concluded that it had certainly been taken out of the room and could only have been done by someone with a key as the room had been locked up and to all appearances, left exactly as we had left it each day. We concluded that US$200 had been left, in hopes that we wouldn't notice until after we were many kilometres away. Julian growing increasingly enraged, we went up to confront our hostess and were soon speaking with the young man left in charge. Naturally they denied responsibility and pointed us in the direction of the tourist police office which would re-open the next morning. At 0800 Julian went in a wrote a statement, leaving with an appointment to return at 1400 that afternoon, along with the manager of the hotel. That afternoon, we sat in an office where I read over Julians statement and took a moment flip back through the book at other statements left by tourists. I was discouraged to read about many similar situations of guests accusing staff of stealing valuables from locked rooms, along with other accounts of local people stealing phones, iPods, or computers from restaurant tables when left unsupervised. Once the young man from our guesthouse arrived, we went over the situation with everyone involved and still, understandably, denied responsibility. We never expected to get the money back. We just hope that perhaps going through the motions with the police would prevent them from doing it again. Or perhaps, should it happen again, there would be a report which would help give evidence of the guilty culprits. The owner of the hotel was conveniently away for a undetermined period of time and as Julian insisted he was unwilling to pay them for the duration of our stay, the young man in charge got the owner on the phone as the police wanted nothing more to do with the issues. Now an internal matter, and after a discussion with the owner, he finally agreed to let us check out immediately and leave without paying another penny. At least in that agreement we got US$50 back in our pocket. </span></b></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 12px;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Later that evening, I left reviews for Champa Laos Bungalows on booking sites and found that we were not the only ones to have something stolen from a room.</span></b></span></span></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">We were both unsure of how to feel about the situation. After many unsettling situations in Cambodia leaving us with a tainted view of the country I dearly hoped this would not change the love I feel for Laos. We were both on the verge of leaving the following day until we had a few Beer Lao too many and were convinced to stay another night to finally get on the river and participate in what this village is best known for.</span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">The following morning after a full english breakfast to ward off the hint of a hangover we rented out tubes and were soon in a tuk tuk with three frenchmen who had 18 large Beer Lao in plastic bags. Tubing down the river is supposed to be a social occasion but we couldn't get away from their loud and boisterous nature fast enough. We pushed out into the water on our inner tubes and drifted away from them into the silence of the meandering river, admiring the stunning landscape surrounding us. Bars closed down, rope swings and jumping boards dismantled and even a half destroyed human catapult were evidence of the decision to dissuade dangerous behaviour based on the deaths the years before. Our gentle float was accompanied by the sounds of sledgehammers breaking up re-enforced concrete as the party in Vang Vieng comes to an end no doubt to spring up in the islands of Cambodia or Vietnam. Pai is little more than a memory, Phuket now way too overpriced for the backpacking crowd, Vang Vieng is being reclaimed by the inhabitants but the party will continue, no doubt. Quite frankly, I much prefer the peace and quiet of being with nature to the loud, drunken shenanigans of almost naked tourists that I can find at home. We enjoyed the relaxing drift down the river but Vang Vieng is so much more than the reputations it holds. The striking beauty of the place, in our eyes, exceeded that of Ha Long Bay, with the fabulous climbing potential it is somewhere we have already discussed coming back to in the future. It was a conversation we had on our last evening where we were further inspired by a local, ambitious man with big ideas for the future.</span></b></div>
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</span></span>ofParadiseVisionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08535511199313264230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-501971850732172162.post-57292701398667511922012-11-18T22:07:00.002-08:002012-11-18T22:12:24.152-08:00Administration and Bureaucrats in Vientiane, Laos<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><br /></span>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">After months of not being able to access our blog whilst travelling through China we are many weeks behind in posting. We have generally kept up with writing though!</span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">This VPN makes adding photos very difficult and I have to take more time to figure out if I can actually format it properly. Not much time at the moment though so you will just have to deal with the awkward layout. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Here is another entry written by Julian with my editorial and additions. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">(Dates still to be determined when we have an hour or so to spend online).</span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Vientiane was a necessary administrative stop as well as a visit to the Laos capital. It was interesting to find out about this mellow city but first of all we had to get our visa applications in for China and visit the Myanmar embassy with questions for our planned visit there. </span></b></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b>We settled upon a bartered rate for a hotel, knowing by now this was going to be an expensive city. Vientiane has big plans for its future and construction is already underway. The first high-rise is complete (a hotel of course) in what will be a modern vibrant 'downtown</b><b>' area that will irrecoverably change the skyline along the banks of the Mekong, eclipsing the fairground that punctuates the heavily populated Thai border on the opposing bank in a blaze of concrete, steel and glass. How the Laos have found the investment for such an enterprise would no doubt be an interesting sidetrack and I wonder if they might be trying to generate an economy from the seed of the capital and if it will be enough to entice the people (money) to flow in from across the water. </b></span></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">We made our way to the Chinese embassy to collect visa applications and confirm the information they required. The embassy is only open to the public for 2 hours each weekday morning and we might have saved a day by printing off the internet, but I always find it easier to get answers to my questions in person rather than trawling through web publications that often advise this or include that which you might not need and may have been out of date the day after they went up. </span></b></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b>We carried on around the block to the Myanmar embas</b><b>sy who were more accommod</b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px;"><b>ating in hours but less in answers. The Vientiane Myanmar embassy staff may only issue visas valid for 30 days from the time of stamping which is done on the spot. The only way one may enter Myanmar from Laos is to fly to Bangkok then from Bangkok to Yangoon. They were insistent that this is only way we may be permitted to enter Myanmar. The woman we spoke with (who's english was impeccable) also told us that if we applied for our Myanmar visa in China, the only place we might do it would be Peking as there is no embassy in Kunming. Unfort</b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px;"><b>unately this is a little inconvenient for our plan and a contradiction to the advice the government sponsored tour agency sent us back in July. It seems we have to wait a while to find out just how and where we are coming south out of China. Maybe from Kunming the visa will allow us to enter from there but because Laos has no border with Myanmar, the restriction is imposed upon the embassy in Vientiane. </b></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b>With the weekend upon us, the paperwork was completed for the Chinese and ready for deposit on Monday morning, collection Thursday, giving us a whol</b><b>e week in Vientiane. </b></span></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">That afternoon we hunted around the neighbourhood without the cursed luggage in hand and found a cheap, clean hostel named the Youth Inn just a block away from our current digs. We promptly booked a room for the following days; halving our accommodation costs for the next week in the process. Just the one night we had paid up for so would be free of obligation the following day and free to move. </span></b></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b>Vientiane is a city with few historical sites outside</b><b>of the inevitable buddhist temples. The 'Victory Arch', a copy of the L'Arc De Triumph in Paris, is an imposing structure at one end of a boulevard that culminates at the Presidential Palace on the Mekong shores. The seven story high arch provides a birds eye view of the low rise city and is worth the climb for that alone, but most of the following days were spent just meandering through the city, exploring and getting a feel for the atmosphere of the place. LP is quite correct in its description of a 'laid back' city. Compared to other capitals Vientiane is almost horizontal in its attitude, f</b><b>eeling more like a busy provincial town than the centre of power and money of a nation, although of course that is a perfect reflection of sleepy Laos as a whole.</b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: Times; font-size: small; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px;"><b>Our second room was located on the third floor of the hotel, away from the street wh</b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px;"><b>ere therewas a communal balcony from which overlooked th</b></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px;"><b>e </b></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px;"><b>neighbourhood for far too many hours, just watching folks go about their daily lives whilst we waited for the bureaucratic wheels to turn. The street was just off the two main thoroughfares that run through the city centre but the three and four story buildings are high enough and the corners sharp enough that very little additional noise filtered in from the rest of the city. It reminded me very much of the NYC neighbourhood of Hells Kitchen as depicted in the Martin Scorcese film where everybody knows each other and lives revolve around two or three streets. The music floating up to me from the store down the road, mingling with children's calls from the school opposite, set in the grounds of the temple we overlooked. Uniquely Asian, the lives of city folk continuing in a similar vein to millions of others across the planet. I find the similarities in humans as interesting as the differences and the more I travel the more I find that from the arctic to the equator, cultural differences aside, people are people wherever you are and there but for the luck of geography and time, go I.</b></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: Times; font-size: small; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px;"><b><br /></b></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: Times; font-size: small; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px;"><b><br /></b></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: Times; font-size: small; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px;"><b><br /></b></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: Times; font-size: small; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px;"><b><br /></b></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: Times; font-size: small; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px;"><b><br /></b></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: Times; font-size: small; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px;"><b><br /></b></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times; font-size: small;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_va24yaXACJP0-AIFGcMDqiGJwlmkqqtF9BWFXjPgJMIt8YLLLHWq_ub4AVlhyphenhyphenn1tcFGAuK3v00-8E-8TXd9eHa4g56fyId9WEkpeFVIhGufLtAU8ygg7ri1n2eA_DkmfU6lZx3tNPhsu/s400/Vientiane+-+The+hat.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="258" /></span><b> In the evenings different parts of the city come to life compared to the early mornings. Day and night markets operate in different places and wandering the streets always remains fresh and new as we sought out the soul of the capital and the photos to remind us of our stay. One block from the mighty Mekong and just 50m from one of the main arterial roads we found a fairly well-to-do neighbourhood. The road was dusty and unsurfaced but the houses were large individual properties, often ringed in steel with one or more cars in the driveways. People milled around, chatting to friends, playing badminton or getting the evening meal ready, generally winding down after a day at work. The interest was in the atmosphere here though. The sounds of the city masked and melted away behind rooftops the conversations were held in subdued tones interspaced with laughter and the cries of those playing games or sharing in a story. Here, just 400m from the heart of the Laos capitals centre, the community was so similar to the villages we have frequented over the past weeks it was almost shocking. Even in these unlit, unsurfaced back streets of the inner city, smiles and calls of 'Sabaidee' greeted us as we walked and I found myself with an affection developing for Vientiane and its inhabitants despite not being a fan of cities in general. The Laos have not yet adopted the closed face that most big cities seem to have and a smile might still be shared with a stranger in passing without the suspicion or surprise we see elsewhere, especially in our home countries.</b></span></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">In sharp contrast to the relaxed atmosphere of the nationals however there was a pretty intense impression of being 'watched'. At the same time we were in the city, the Asian / European finance ministers were in for a huge conference. If memory serves I read in a newspaper the Laos government has invested just under half a billion kip in the conference, much of the money coming from loose loans from its neighbours but a significant percentage from the national coffers as well. What I found incredible here was on the facing page of the same newspaper; the costs for a new road connecting an outlying region of Laos to the rest of the country was being built at a cost of two million kip. Of the half-billion the conference was costing, nearly half that amount was for purchasing new Mercedes Benz cars to ferry the delegates from hotels to conference. I am sure the (important) people attending the conference might have forgiven SE Asia's poorest nation for providing them with Toyotas instead and the powers that be could have saved 100,000,000kip or so, but then I'm just a backpacker. What would I know?</span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">On our second day in Vientiane we were sitting in a cafe on 'our' block when I noticed a 4x4 parking across the street. From the rear of the car came a muscular man of military bearing, his driver carrying his small bag and doing all the talking when they approached the hotel desk by our seats to check into the hotel on the floors above. The two of them disappeared upstairs for about 20 minutes, only to reappear, washed and changed and to leave in the car once again. I never saw the batman again, but the following day the other man was joined by two women, one I assumed to be his wife and the other his daughter. The change for us however was the security presence. 24 hours a day there was a car with tinted windows parked at each end of the street, various people doing absolutely nothing for hours on end but watching, in addition to the armed guard posted along with the police at the street corner. I have no idea who the man was, but I guess there were 10 - 15 security personal assigned to him alone. In the streets parallel to ours were the delegates from Thailand, Malaysia and Cambodia who in turn had their own security details, but nothing on the scale that I saw in our block. The groups of delegates and their aides could be seen morning and evening wandering the streets and in the cafes surrounding our patch. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">As well as the security services it was eye-opening to witness at the same time, the gangsters operating. We had heard right through our travels about the corruption throughout the peninsula but to watch a pair of brand new, brightly painted pickups cruise slowly through the block, split at a junction then reappear a few minutes later was interesting. To watch the blue one pause at the street corner and exchange a paper bag with a small package by the police post was eye-opening, especially considering it was broad daylight and across the junction was the blacked out Range Rover of the security staff. It made for an interesting soap opera for a few days whilst our visas were processed. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">I think the 'General' left on the Wednesday as there was a lightening I felt in the atmosphere, although nothing I could put my finger on in particular and on Thursday we returned to the Chinese embassy to collect our passports, now duly weighted with an 'L' visa each, granting us entry to the Middle Kingdom for 30 days. A place of romantic ideas for me. The magic and mystery of the orient and a civilization with 3000 years of written history, developed entirely in isolation from the philosophies of the west. Different ideas of etiquette, spirit, religion and health. Ancient architecture and business practices combining western commercialism with eastern depth. A part of the world where gunpowder was discovered long before it was in the west and used for fireworks rather than arms and where subsistence farming is still a reality for many and the fields are full of workers as they have not been for 100 years in my own country. I have long wanted to see China before it becomes truly 'westernized'; to see life as it has been and still remains, almost unchanged in 800 years and to meet some of the 1.3 billion people spread across one of the largest countries in the world. Our entry was going to be through Yunnan Provence, home to 56 minorities and gateway to the Tibetan Plateau (although we would be unlikely to actually cross the border to that fabled region). China: A place that throughout my childhood was effectively closed to me, even if I had had the ability to get there. The films I have watched, the legends I have heard; all came rushing at me in a wave of anticipation and excitement and we began laying plans for the journey north.</span></b></div>
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ofParadiseVisionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08535511199313264230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-501971850732172162.post-82950636650839327432012-10-11T05:34:00.002-07:002019-11-20T20:05:51.489-08:00From Sunstroke to Hypothermia on the Bolaven Plateau, Laos<div style="text-align: right;">
<b>(Still have to take time to review dates, urgh!!)</b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv4XwPQW0HOO4_pVjpWkyj9t4DxsuORk2fN5jgjXyjBDXkYTkrO6fHAaSLF0k5d09ytcl6-1zx7XU3vIMDJCd675QdMvFdppDdokjc_ZyKZ1NGezAeTy-oeHFsbZi6B_0MnRCm7npkBCzB/s1600/Banlung.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv4XwPQW0HOO4_pVjpWkyj9t4DxsuORk2fN5jgjXyjBDXkYTkrO6fHAaSLF0k5d09ytcl6-1zx7XU3vIMDJCd675QdMvFdppDdokjc_ZyKZ1NGezAeTy-oeHFsbZi6B_0MnRCm7npkBCzB/s400/Banlung.jpg" width="400" /></a><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">After the chaos of Vietnam and the corruption in Cambodia we both felt a needling desire to make our way north through Laos rather quickly and to enter China, which we have heard is drastically different from the SE Asian peninsula. Both of us are excited by the possibilities there and the blend of Chinese traditions and architecture, Himalayan hill tribes and developing politics have appeals that right now seem far removed from the desperation of the Cambodians. With every interaction, every purchase, every conversation we have had, we felt it necessary to be in 'defence mode' for the past few weeks and even then, corruption, rip offs and scams around every corner were inevitable and unavoidable. Singapore and Malaysia felt a world away. Places we had been able to mingle comfortably and where local residents had taken us into their home as family. There is something enjoyable and openly honest about the Thai's earn off you. Their game is fun and you can learn it and play along with them, it's all done in good spirit and every evening we headed home in Bangkok, we went with a smile. The grumpy demeanour of the Vietnamese in the north lessened as we travelled south through the country to a point where strangers would strike up a conversation for the sake of conversing in Saigon, but the pressing aims for our foreign dollars remained with most transactions. The rules the Cambodians play by (in the popular tourist zones of the country) appear twisted, underhanded and dishonest in comparison to the rest of the peninsula. From our couch surfing experience to bike rentals, from purchasing at the market to buying bus tickets or even trying to leave the country with our own passport in hand, blackmailed by the border guards. It felt impossible to walk out of our room in a relaxed manner; a constant wall of defence and expectation surrounded me to the point where I felt I didn't want to roam the street without Julian, and felt constantly targeted. I hope, and I expect, that others who have walked the path I have around SE Asia have been left with different impressions of Cambodia from the ones we have gained, but these interactions have been enough to taint the way we feel; enough even, to plough through Laos quickly for a taste of a radically different culture in China.</span></b><br />
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">We got off the bus in Pakse just outside city limits and trekked into town, baffled at the lack of accommodation options and eventually got out the trusty Lonely Planet which guided us to one of the few guesthouses. Relieved and drenched in sweat we dropped out bags and immediately set back out in search of some food at 2130; as we learned in Luang Prabang things in Laos shut down early and we were relieved to find (just) one street restaurant open until 2300 where we succumbed to cheap, wholesome fare. The streets were quiet and almost empty of traffic; no tuk tuks inquired or shop tenders called out with cheap prices for us. As we enjoyed a plate of veggies and tofu our eyes roamed the whitewashed french colonial walls which lined the 'wider than usual' streets and Julian declared that he already felt a drastic change of vibe here. </span></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxv2MQCR66HeHOzuwwm26GEompOfxqrZLgJehl-doNTkuPVJfyJLzYgGMtze34ZikH4vJ_tWviKjLkCuIu30cX3szRQi77BLtMDBhalELztqMv5s6sXZhqHU4E_HqqOa94WGi-0VYpYTYv/s1600/Pakse+-+Sarong.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxv2MQCR66HeHOzuwwm26GEompOfxqrZLgJehl-doNTkuPVJfyJLzYgGMtze34ZikH4vJ_tWviKjLkCuIu30cX3szRQi77BLtMDBhalELztqMv5s6sXZhqHU4E_HqqOa94WGi-0VYpYTYv/s400/Pakse+-+Sarong.jpg" width="176" /></a><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Slender women with long, jet black hair glistening with fragrant coconut oil were dressed in colourful silk or cotton sarongs stitched with various traditional Laos patterns accompanied with a single tone, collared blouse. When my admiring glances were noticed and my wide chocolate eyes met their almost black almond eyes I greeted them in their native language and was offered shy half smiles as they returned my greeting "Sabaidee". Tall white columns supported large, open entranceways to shops at street level and curvaceous art deco apartments lined the second and third floors. Freshly baked baguettes and croissants are sold along the street and coffee shops serving some of the most beautiful espresso I have ever tasted is a constant reminder of the french influence in Laos and I find myself not only quickly growing very fond of this place but also slightly confused. From what I have read Laos is supposedly the least developed country in south east Asia, and labeled as one of the poorest nations on the planet, yet from my few days up north in Luang Prabang and now here in Pakse, I struggle to find evidence of this. As acquaintances who were with us from Cambodia decided to get on the next bus to Laos capital we decided we wanted to spend more time getting to know the surrounding areas in one of the more remote corners of Laos. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">With only a reusable shopping bags worth of clothing and toiletries we hired out a motorbike and with a hand drawn map set of on a two day tour around the Bolevan Plateau which offers many large waterfalls acting as points of interest, breaking up the loop of the countryside. </span></b><br />
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">A slightly late start with a few uncertain decisions to find the road we were after was further delayed by a flat tire which was easily repaired at a roadside stop where three men worked under a blue tarp. Finally, confident of our route we set off into the rolling hills cruising past and through many villages. Huts of all shapes, sizes and quality were constructed from bamboo and wood as is similar with much of rural areas of SE Asia we have explored but one thing struck as different. Contrary to the many piles of rubbish which littered the grounds in neighbouring countries, this part of Laos seemed much cleaner, possibly due to less plastic packaging being used. The first waterfall attraction we visited offers tourists various styles of waterfront 'traditional' accommodation and a nine year old example of a minority village gives a taste for the coach parties, of tribal life. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Back on the main road we pulled over at an empty cafe where we communicated our desire to satisfy hungry stomachs and were soon presented with a bowl of beef noodle soup. Leaving the broth unseasoned, it is common to be served a plate of various fresh herbs like basil, coriander, mint, lime and tiny, blazing hot yellow and green peppers. As my palate enjoys the spice and Julians prefers neutral flavours we love this option to season to our hearts content. Our chef enthusiastically engaged us in conversation, speaking at us in laos as we nod and respond in english. Clearly, nothing is being understood by anyone but good natured interactions left us feeling light hearted and content as we thanked her for her hospitality with large grin, "Kop chai le li"</span></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlc9jX65Ah2Ro8lRx9bVyrzeJwkiE5QImUUOJSQ5sg8tzekDtTosvss78Rco7Ulg_jUmSzFfKCRt2EI9MN6wm7b8nLtdc9skNvlvrwRZRBnSrpUr4xld5pUVOXg3A-250wp437PAApuOqo/s1600/Pakse+-+Kids.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="131" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlc9jX65Ah2Ro8lRx9bVyrzeJwkiE5QImUUOJSQ5sg8tzekDtTosvss78Rco7Ulg_jUmSzFfKCRt2EI9MN6wm7b8nLtdc9skNvlvrwRZRBnSrpUr4xld5pUVOXg3A-250wp437PAApuOqo/s400/Pakse+-+Kids.jpg" width="400" /></a><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">As we road deeper into the plateau people would stop to watch us and greet us and it was nice to see adults as well as children partaking in the exchange. Often, parents will encourage children to interact with us but out here the adults, just as much as children, offered waves and smiles of greeting. I found I was unable to wipe the smile from my face as we passed villages and it was then that I decided that Laos is indeed much, much different than its neighbours. The change is dramatic and we felt more refreshed the first couple days in Laos than we did during weeks of rest in Cambodia. Finally, we can relax into Laos culture. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Following the sign for another waterfall we paid our small entry free and followed one of two paths down a steep slope throughout the jungle. Narrow, slippery wet clay was interwoven with large tree roots and rocks. Massive, thick leaves dripped with moisture and glowed a vibrant green as they were illuminated by rays of sun, I was grateful for their protection it. The going got steeper and we used tree trunks, alive with pillows of moss, to lower ourselves down long drops in the trail and across a small stream fed by a waterfall which trickles over large boulders. The path traversed a narrow ledge underneath large overhanging boulders and out, onto a clearing, offering views of twin falls cascading over a long drop, maybe 150m, into a deep green pool below. A river carved its way through a valley beyond littered with hundreds of huge, pocketed sandstone boulders. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">No obvious path was available so I carefully scrambled down onto one of the boulders and continued to rock hop and down-climb the beautiful rock formations while Julian awaited me on the plateau so he might photograph me in the pool beyond. Finally, I got stuck on a boulder, unsure of the best route and not confident enough to climb down without a spotter. Julian found his way around and down below me and guided me over a steep overhanding drop and finally, after much consideration, we found ourselves almost at the edge of the pool. As Julian clambered over the boulders to the opposite end of the pool I decided I had had enough, slipped off my clothing and slithered down in between the crevasses to the cool waters. Avoiding a few sharp rocks before finding they quickly dropped away, the pool was so deep I was unable to find the bottom. The twin falls fed the pool from above, plummeting down the sandstone cliff before me and into the best swimming hole anybody could imagine. After Julian took his pictures he joined me in the pool and we were both overwhelmed with the exceptional beauty, though conscious of how quickly the sun sets so close to the equator the moment was short lived. The last thing we wanted was to be caught in the steep gorge in the dark. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">As I rung out my underwear from atop one of the boulders I noticed some young boys in the riverbed beyond who had squatted down, looking towards the falls. Women are very conservative here; they will bathe and swim fully clothed, never bare their shoulders and rarely offer views above the knee and and I began to wonder if the boys perhaps had caught a glimpse of their first white bum. A moment later they had disappeared and I consciously began to dress quickly, anticipating their arrival. Julian came around the corner, immediately followed by three young boys who had caught up to us with astonishing speed. Perhaps aware of the fact that they knew their way around these boulders better than we did they began to guide use back to the trail. They were like monkeys, these boys, as even without a useful tail, they jumped large gaps onto the steep faced boulders beyond us following, feeling cumbersome until finally I hesitated, unwilling to subject my knees to the brutality of the landing. They rejoined us effortlessly and guided us a different way, easily halving the time we would have spent clambering around looking for the best route back to the trail. We thanked them and parted ways, the refreshing cleanse in the pool only moments ago was short lived and we were just as drenched in sweat getting back on the bike after our scramble as we were when we got off. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Another 60km or so down the road we re-fuelled our bike at a roadside village store before venturing off down a side path, following signs pointing to overnight accommodation. A concierge was soon leading us down a dark jungle path in candle light, up a set of wooden steps and into a single room private bungalow. Immediately satisfied we agreed to the $8 per night but decided to head back into the village for food, as prices on their restaurant patio overlooking an illuminated waterfall would triple our usual expenditure. We soon sat upon stools under an awning, sharing a Beer Lao whist a gorgeous Laos woman dressed in pyjamas prepared steaming bowls of beef noodle soup (our second one of the day), which was soon served to us by her 6 year old daughter. Neighbours casually walked back and forth, eyeing us curiously, some of them quite obviously just coming for a look, as our host spoke on the phone telling someone about the 'fa-rangs' she was serving. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">The following morning I stepped outside the door and for the first time had a good look our surroundings. Vines wound up the trunks of large, mature trees. Exotic pink and purple flowers in full bloom provided a sweet taste for an army of ants and termites marched along the stone walkway. Blue and yellow birds welcomed this fine morning as I admired the power of Tad Lo (waterfall) gushing downstream where children swam as a local man fished with a cast net above the falls. We decided on tackling the big loop of the plateau rather than the shorter one and with a long day in the saddle ahead of us we set off, back through the village and continued east, again to be greeted by all and sundry with waves and calls of "Sabaidee". All that is apart from a group of three young children watching a jet trail streaming across the sky. I wonder what they were thinking. Would they know it was an airplane? Would they have any concept of a metal tube carrying 400 people (more than the population of their village) at 1000kph, thousands of kilometres across the planet? Language barriers permitting, how would you even begin to explain beyond the abstract? It was a fleeting moment, a glimpse of life where horizons are measured in walking distance, or at most a bus ride away. Other children reached their arms out and we connecting our hands with theirs in enthusiastic high fives.</span></b><br />
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Our turning towards Paksong guided us onto a well levelled dirt road which we followed without passing any villages for many kilometres; the only people down this road appeared to be construction workers and their families set up in camps along a work in progress. Remembered almost as a flash; a clearing opened up on our flank and two women appeared walking in front of a few modest, stilted huts. We had stumbled upon a tribal village which prior to this road under construction, was accessible only by foot. We did not stop out of respect for intrusion and the village was gone almost before it had time to register. This new road will undoubtably change their world for ever and I would rather let them keep their ways for a little longer before they find out just how deep the rabbit hole goes; if we stopped the benefit would be ours alone. The road steepened and conditions deteriorated until finally I was again periodically demoted to foot power as Julian dealt with the bike. With grave determination he pressed the bike forward as I trekked through deepening mud, irritated and frustrated that we had found ourselves on yet another road of this 'sort'. A sign for a waterfall gave us reason to pull over for a short moment. On the opposing side of a canyon and slightly below us, a powerful roaring source poured over the edge of a cliff perhaps 100m or more into the rocky pools below, the fully grown trees on the rivers banks looking like tiny models against the vast plumes of spray buffeting back up the cliff face. The cacophony of noise echoes around the canyon as the river continues its inevitable journey to the sea. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">I remounted the saddle and the road promptly melted away before us into pools of thick, knee high mud. Our small bag of personal items plummeted from the basket as Julian roared the bike forward through the ruts and over rocks, forcing me to backtrack to collect our soggy, filthy clothing then trudged through the impassible section of road. Finally Julian turned the bike around stating that this section of road was surely only bulldozed yesterday, is not yet a road and never has been a road; the workmen who pointed us in this direction must be having a giggle. </span></b><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1XFQjKF3FvRpPTeBa5BTUaFnUhYce50mtSXmTPpUN23iN3YiKhse2TyW5QAmad_lEN1HbEGCHc5Iel3rEzquSi_gODwY_dp4rRAIE8NFhvN4hMIZHSsNdVvH44olWpGhUk9gNBH58BO_J/s1600/Pakse+-+Mud+plugging.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="264" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1XFQjKF3FvRpPTeBa5BTUaFnUhYce50mtSXmTPpUN23iN3YiKhse2TyW5QAmad_lEN1HbEGCHc5Iel3rEzquSi_gODwY_dp4rRAIE8NFhvN4hMIZHSsNdVvH44olWpGhUk9gNBH58BO_J/s400/Pakse+-+Mud+plugging.jpg" width="400" /></a><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"></span></b><br />
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"></span></b></span></b><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">We backtracked to a turning we had previously contemplated only to find the main base for the construction and were, once again, pointed back in the same direction, once again assured it was the route to Paksong. Shaking our heads in disbelief and wondering how this road could warrant a line on our map (offered to tourists coming out into the backcountry) we pushed back on up the hill. Taking the entire contents of the basket this time Julian pushed the bike through pool of mud, rounded the curve in the road to find that we had only been 50 metres away from the relief of a smoothy levelled dirt road surface beyond. The heat was so intense and trekking through that mud with all our belongings in my arms was enough to cause me to collapse on the other side, debating between guzzling the last few drops of water or saving it should the situation get any more interesting. </span></b></div>
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It was smooth sailing from them (at least smooth for Laos standards), and we rode through the hills and over the highest passes to find a beautiful village where we were again the subject of curious stares. </span></b><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitqjnPxOsegiHs3qyacR6u3YYzLvKiPKfDT8DVTuQv5wkhTadhhfMit6R87CeLnkkHGjYl2qt1yVUgrGHe_qI74dS2U_wFDm2gAlDnS-kozQmblxr0zGk3aKeJDNDXY3HxugLYkXwARrhv/s1600/Pakse+-+Fuel+stop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="233" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitqjnPxOsegiHs3qyacR6u3YYzLvKiPKfDT8DVTuQv5wkhTadhhfMit6R87CeLnkkHGjYl2qt1yVUgrGHe_qI74dS2U_wFDm2gAlDnS-kozQmblxr0zGk3aKeJDNDXY3HxugLYkXwARrhv/s400/Pakse+-+Fuel+stop.jpg" width="400" /></a><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Relieved to refuel the bike and to fill up our water bottle the only thing more we could have asked for was a cold shower, but even then we would have had no clean clothing to change into. The mud was quickly drying to our clothing and shoes, most uncomfortable must have been Julians closed toe sandals which were filled, moulding to his feet like fast drying cement. The bike was in rougher shape than we were, but still, the beauty of the back and beyond of Laos still brought smiles to both our faces and we waved enthusiastically to the children playing beneath their stilted homes, to the women washing their clothing in the river and to the young men playing in the strong current further upstream. This last sight was far to appealing to pass up and we road the motorbike to the waters edge, cleaned off clothing, shoes and toes and even pushed the motorbike into the stream, washing it so that it might be presentable and accepted upon our return; mindful of the baht we had been charged the first time we returned a dirty bike. Finally, with me fully dressed as the local women do, we joined them to play in the current. Hanging off tree branches until they were torn from our grasp and we were carried downriver roaring with laughter, eyes wild. Hugely refreshed we climbed back onto the bike, clothing dripping wet, and continued along the road, regularly asking people along the way to ensure we were correctly en-route to Paksong. The land here is covered with coffee and rubber plantations; the coffee, we later found, is some of the best in the world. </span></b><br />
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">The rubber plantations are owned by Vietnamese who have apparently operated the Laos land with impunity. The coffee plantations that carpet the western plateau grow low quality Robusta bean coffee as quickly as possible with imported Vietnamese labour, for the likes of Nescafe and other instant brands who guarantee payment before the harvest, pandering to the farmers short term needs in return for low prices. The farmers are paid a pittance and moves are underway to change the current status quo to Fair Trade, organic farming co-operatives, producing high grade coffee </span></b><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">as originally envisaged and introduced by the French during their tenure here. The conditions are perfect and high yielding Arabica plants have been brought in over the last 20 years or so. The</span></b><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> greater financial rewards, education on organic farming and after two years of study on the co-operative farm, land of their own and inclusion as an owner within the co-op is heavy incentive for the scheme but old dogs are hard to teach new tricks and the farmers may be finding the financial outlay above their means. Set in the ways of the past they are slow in coming on board to take control of their own destiny, uncertain and untrusting apparently of credit schemes designed to empower them.</span></b><br />
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">The villages grew larger and roads improved as we rode amongst and around the school children cycling home, until we were threatened by a darkening horizon, clouds billowing and rolling under a strengthening breeze. We realized with some trepidation that the monsoon was upon us once again. With no more than a few warning drops the clouds opened up and threw their load upon us, immediately drenching every inch of skin as it came down in unforgiving sheets. </span></b><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpK2i-oaSPTNokl0xC9TxDcCzI6HdLySgFQoR62_bfllQSZBHwFOog6dVogvCSB_7EYawBYwAR0GpqPwQPmKyvWuccwl0eLEt7VUMTgjy50L7SgXAKUhuuhHABH4VE99An9skiBQ-qpkoI/s1600/Pakse+-+Houses.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="202" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpK2i-oaSPTNokl0xC9TxDcCzI6HdLySgFQoR62_bfllQSZBHwFOog6dVogvCSB_7EYawBYwAR0GpqPwQPmKyvWuccwl0eLEt7VUMTgjy50L7SgXAKUhuuhHABH4VE99An9skiBQ-qpkoI/s400/Pakse+-+Houses.jpg" width="400" /></a><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">The once swaying leaves of coconut palms now hung heavy with the weight of the rain and families took advantage of the natural shower, women loosing wrapping colourful sarongs around their bodies to maintain decency, shampooing their hair and lathering soap on their skin, lifting the faces to the sky. Their dirt driveways, dry until a few moments before; now alive with running streams draining into hand dug canals alongside the road. I love the rain; it washes away the heat of the day, settles the dusty road and the towns and cites come to a standstill. Construction pauses, horns cease as motorbikes pull over and the people seek shelter as the deafening sound of the monsoon pounds atop tin roves. I find peace in the rain, quiet in the fury of it. On this evening however, as cool rains whisk against our skin, drenched on the back of that motorbike, the cold penetrated my bones, reminding me of the cold of an english winter. I cowered behind Julian, wrapping my arms around myself until evening became night and it grew impossible to see more than a few metres in the downpour. We were both shivering as our hostess at a roadside cafe offered us a bowl of steaming hot soup, cooked so quickly that the rice noodles were still stiff. Still, that bowl of soup heated us from the inside out and when the skies calmed we continued on, only to ride back into the downpour as we followed it towards Pakse, forcing us to pause three times before reaching our destination. We ordered hot Ovaltine at our final rest, which they made in small coffee cups, 50% water and 50% condensed milk, fuelling us for the final stretch home. </span></b></div>
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ofParadiseVisionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08535511199313264230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-501971850732172162.post-21222769545190435302012-10-06T07:37:00.001-07:002012-10-06T07:52:26.521-07:00The Far Reaches of Northern Cambodia<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b>A small, rattly bus similar to the yellow ones I went to elementary school in, was packed full and we were the only foreigners on the bus. Our next destination, in the most remote reaches of Cambodia, doesn't warrant those large, comfortable coaches and we found ourselves sitting on a lightly padded wooden bench above the raised wheel arch on our way to Kampong Cham where we would break up a two day journey en-route to Banlung in the northeast corner of the country. Even the route was similar to that of a school bus as it followed dusty, bumpy backroads, dropping people off directly in front of their bamboo huts in the countryside. The predicted eight hour journey turned into ten; nowhere near our longest bus ride, but we got off in Kampong Cham feeling exhausted and drained. </b></span></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">We found a $4 room without windows which shielded us from the noise of the town. Having a quick read of the sights in our invaluable Lonely Planet we decided to walk down alongside the Mekong to a bamboo bridge which connected an island to the west bank. Each year, this bridge gets washed away with the floods of the monsoon and is then rebuilt for the dry season. We strolled along the shores as the evening sun headed for the horizon the locals calling greetings as we passed. Children and adults alike offered smiles and enthusiastic waves. Not once are we accosted by a tuk tuk driver, no shopkeepers called out to make a sale and nobody offered a massage. A group of four muslim girls studying english in the local school rode their bikes alongside us, eager for a chance to practice their learnings and we chatted with them for a while. I don't know what it is about muslims but across the entire peninsula they have, without fail, always been the most welcoming, accepting and selfless people; always eager for a conversation and wanting nothing more than to help us in any way they can. Here, on the banks of the Mekong in a small Cambodian town, even these teenage girls just wanted to talk and to offer us a lift on the backs of their bicycles. It's just an observation, no more, and we excused ourselves of their offer having spent 10 hours sat on bus and eager for a walk, but their openness is refreshingly optimistic amongst both the current climate of news bulletins as well as the (mostly) closed faces of the westerners we see on the street.</span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">As the sun began to set, my eyes were attracted to a large, golden frame of Buddha inside the whitewashed walls surrounding a Buddhist Temple. Deviating from our intended destination we were drawn inside the compound. An emaciated 4m high golden Buddha greeting us and beyond lay one of the largest on site cemeteries we have come across. Tall, colourful stupas reaching skyward, each with many faces carved into their spires. The muslim call to prayer sang out on loudspeakers from a mosque up the road and goosebumps ran up and down my soul as the darkness fell around us; one of those exceptionally special emotional moments. We never got to the bamboo bridge. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">The 12 hours that we spent in Kampong Cham was a refreshing change to the tourist dominated areas of the capital and the west. Located at the western end of the only bridge in Cambodia to span the Mekong it is an unpretentious town with the charm of a village. It was a blessing to feel the release from Seam Reap.</span></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ5Lp3mTxKj_derTK0BZt96wmwTruodUqPQnFpFw2jlb5gJ-cLrqySxxVLq2xMMep0FCHvgb-UqyseKRjML9jrX6E7iVI99ngVkHEnOIIh-hh8CZ9aUF_159xoFYFQ_dQH03IHfHf4A79c/s1600/Banlung+-+$7+room.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ5Lp3mTxKj_derTK0BZt96wmwTruodUqPQnFpFw2jlb5gJ-cLrqySxxVLq2xMMep0FCHvgb-UqyseKRjML9jrX6E7iVI99ngVkHEnOIIh-hh8CZ9aUF_159xoFYFQ_dQH03IHfHf4A79c/s400/Banlung+-+$7+room.jpg" width="400" /></a><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">The following morning we caught the bus for the second leg up into the mountains of NE Cambodia to Banlung, arriving once more in the evening light. The countryside was unremarkable throughout the journey and we were both feeling weary from the attitudes we had encountered over the weeks prior. The mountains themselves are in reality no more than hills but the cooler climate was a relief and after an hour of trawling by tuk tuk from one hotel to another we settled on the LP's recommendation of Tree Top Lodge. A collection of wooden bungalows and buildings set on a ridge across from the town centre. Wooden panelling and a bathroom enclosed in beautiful stone walls with the added touch of a private balcony for US$7 per night. US$12 would have gotten us a large, beautiful, private bungalow but counting pennies as we are, we opted for the cheaper room. </span></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUVBSX8YYqjHItnK10F9FyzfI0bYLdydB0QQVWWUmJCT5FTi-uiMzkJQaE0PLRGJjo38-5ABeMfE81eGpIhGIbGG0QFVSRWVN9PxkuR169JZUH84_3HeUsLW-y6XjjHQdD2ckyIvn5gixT/s1600/Banlung+-+Crater+lake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUVBSX8YYqjHItnK10F9FyzfI0bYLdydB0QQVWWUmJCT5FTi-uiMzkJQaE0PLRGJjo38-5ABeMfE81eGpIhGIbGG0QFVSRWVN9PxkuR169JZUH84_3HeUsLW-y6XjjHQdD2ckyIvn5gixT/s400/Banlung+-+Crater+lake.jpg" width="400" /></a><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">The nice thing about having the time we do, is that of course we don't need to worry about the pressures of travel unless we choose to. Banlung once again provided a short stopping point and we did very little there beyond exploring the charms of the market town and the surrounding area for a few days and relaxing on the common area balcony with low tables and pillows overlooking the valley. Apart from the inevitable waterfalls and rivers, the only feature we found of particular note was a lake set in the perfectly circular crater of an extinct volcano and we spent an enjoyable afternoon in the sun swimming in the cool, clear water and wandering the path around its circumference accompanied by the delighted screams of the local kids playing elsewhere along the shores. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">After four days (and after having a interesting run in with a huge centipede in our room), we boarded a mini bus early in the morning to continue on to Stung Treng, anticipating a four hour layover before the bus arrived from Phnom Phen to take us back into Laos. We wandered the afternoon market and decided it was a typical dusty border town; there wasn't much more to see here. Four hours turned into six and six into eight before the proprietor of the hotel informed us that the bus had broken down and we would have to spend the night.</span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Whist I did yoga the next morning, Julian went out in search of a couple bicycles so we might do a 9km circuit of the local temples before our bus that afternoon. 2.5 hours had passed and I had almost given up hope until finally he walked in with a cheeky, apologetic smile, drenched in sweat and radiating an awful stench. Having visited a Buddhist temple up on the hill he had met a group of underprivileged children who lived on the grounds and had spent the entire time acting as a climbing frame, providing airplane rides, giving them biro tattoos to match his and playing with their pet monkeys whist taking occasional breaks to cool down, receiving massages from the children (why they wanted to touch his sweaty skin I don't know; I certainly wouldn't have). He had already decided that he wanted to purchase a few toys to bring to them that afternoon and after packing up, with a rattan ball and a couple of 'footminton' birdies we made our way to the temple on top of the hill. </span></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWlI2EXTZZ8Hj4-YaiFfjYg-Nrs9UTkg2NkTnm4mEURhVtoXfWPG07twdg45gXqsGJLY23RMzqxwOWRUr-odRCgDlsnDukXb5YDTYNZ5hfwGLh9PDBtOfS0_ZfM-bcVvzWITe2vCvGR-TU/s1600/Banlung+-+Full+flood.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="254" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWlI2EXTZZ8Hj4-YaiFfjYg-Nrs9UTkg2NkTnm4mEURhVtoXfWPG07twdg45gXqsGJLY23RMzqxwOWRUr-odRCgDlsnDukXb5YDTYNZ5hfwGLh9PDBtOfS0_ZfM-bcVvzWITe2vCvGR-TU/s400/Banlung+-+Full+flood.jpg" width="400" /></a><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">He was greeted enthusiastically by the children who came running, offered hugs and took his hand as we walked toward the temple. </span></b><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">inside and out, c</span></b><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">olourful paintings of Buddhas life covered the walls and ceilings and before the golden shrines, percussion instruments were laid out for all to use. There were 10-15 huts on the ground used by underprivileged families and here they appear to live a happy, enriching life. Certainly one thing I love about the Buddhist temples in Cambodia is their charity and their obvious contribution back to the community. The children introduced me to their pet monkeys which were harnessed to trees and by then about a dozen children had joined us, ranging from 6-13 years old. They kicked the ball around, played their instruments for us and climbed trees to retrieve pod like strings of vegetables which they fed to us. The first was a lush and sweet green seeds from a tough, bean like pod. Shoving a different kind in our mouths a bitter, pungent taste took over which Julian promptly spit over the side, much to the amusement of the kids. We soon shared fond farewell's and when our bus came to pick us up (only two hours late this time) we left feeling fondly of our experience of the town despite a little needle in the back of our minds which suggested perhaps we were lied to about the broken down bus yesterday as a ruse to have guests in an otherwise empty hotel. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">The border crossing into Laos cemented our impressions of the past weeks. The staff on the coach offered to complete everyones paperwork at the border and quietly inflated the price of each visa by a dollar and then added in another dollar for their efforts. Further to these charges, the Cambodian border officials wanted $2 'stamping' fee, and the Lao officials the same amount for 'overtime' which they start charging after 1600. To his disappointment we declined the coach staff assistance and proposed to do the legwork ourselves having been through Lao once already and knowing the visa costs. Lonely Planet suggests that the Cambodian stamp charge depends on 'how rich you look' and we accepted it as a given that we must pay, but the 'overtime' bribe on the Lao side is not mentioned and Julian spent 20 minutes arguing with the young guard, trying at least to halve the costs. Accosted by a westerner twice his age, using words like 'bribe' and 'blackmail' the border official would look anywhere but in Julians eyes and obviously embarrassed by the accusations he was eventually moved aside by a more senior officer who after 20+ years of dealing with unhappy tourists simply demanded the money without conscience or argument. When it came to the point of the coach throwing off our luggage, we of course paid, some satisfaction gained in knowing it took a good deal less time to earn the money than it did for them to extort it (before they divided it between the three guards there). It's a good scam though. Approximately 40 people on the coach, the charges only levied at foreigners: Seven days a week, US$2 per passenger for the Cambodians, US$2 for the Laos and another US$2 for the coach staff and the only thing we could do is withhold from the coach. A Japanese passenger had accompanied us in our fruitless crusade and requested a receipt, but you know that's never going to get him anywhere. It is worth noting however for those readers looking to make this border crossing, the Lao side may be paid in kip, 10,000 kip instead of US$2 will save about 35% in real terms. The border guards exchange rate is as criminal as the corruption that demands the bribe. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">It has overall been a disappointing experience of Cambodia. We were eager to visit the country but are left with an impression of a mercenary people and every conversation was punctuated with the thought of corrupt undertones. Despite the rare interaction with genuine openness and kindness from those outside of the tourist areas it was a great relief to be leaving. We had read in Lonely Planet that Cambodia's greatest asset is its people but in our experience, in comparison to the other countries we have passed through; especially those servicing the main tourist spots, have a lot yet to learn about interaction with outsiders. Angkor Wat is impressive beyond words and for the temple park alone the visit to Cambodia has been warranted, but the desperation and the constant bombardment from those looking to make a buck in any way possible was more marked here than anywhere else. By the time we crossed into Laos my head was swimming with suspicions: Do the buses conveniently run late each evening to encourage the overtime charge? DId the hotel owner lie to us the previous day in order to fill a room the night before? Surely the bike we were accused of stealing remains at the shop in Siem Reap. I can only hope our couch surfing host comes to understand the spirit of couch surfing or switches to AirB&B.com or a similar web site. I understand and appreciate that everyone needs to make a living but the stress of being a constant target, a victim in these underhanded games, has taken its toll and has negatively influenced my perspective of this part of the world. At the end of our first loop around the peninsula, we found ourselves locked away behind the walls of our hotels just to gain a little peace. </span></b></div>
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ofParadiseVisionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08535511199313264230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-501971850732172162.post-72219685407873528082012-09-23T05:08:00.001-07:002012-09-23T05:18:20.689-07:00Angkor What?! - Siem Reap, Cambodia <br />
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Aug 27, 2012 - September 12th, 2012</span></b></span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b>The road from Phnom Phen to Siem Reap is relatively new, cutting a scything slash through the Cambodian countryside. The hamlets and villages that punctuate the plains, a causeway built up in places over the flooded paddies, still yet to be surfaced for some kilometres of its duration. During the six hour bus ride from Phnom Penh to Siem Reap I was overwhelmed by the beauty of the countryside. Families swam and bathed in ponds and pools, young boys and men ploughed flooded rice paddies whilst others reclined in hammocks or ate bowls of noodle soup beneath their stilted homes. This is some of SE Asia's most impoverished areas, notable in the use still of water buffalo as tractor units for plough or cart rather than the mechanization that has been brought to almost every other area we have seen, but to me these people seem have everything they need to live. The irrigated land is so rich and fertile, alive with crops and an abundance of livestock roam their yards. Being able to live off the land and with roofs over their heads I saw nothing but happiness in the smiling faces of tight knit families and communities. I had high hopes that Cambodia would offer a slightly different feel than the rest of the peninsula. At this point, we are both near exhaustion after four months of travel and Vietnam had certainly managed to drain every last inch of my energy and patience. I felt like I wanted to jump off the bus right there to experience their seemingly peaceful existence and felt disappointed to know I was en-route to yet another city. </b></span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Our couch surfing host, Sokham, met us off the bus and lead our tuk tuk 4km out of town, into the rural outskirts. Upon arrival at his home we were greeted by eight members of his extended family and were offered a beer before we could even put our bags down. Next, they handed us the carcass of a roasted animal. A bat, cooked whole. Not willing to turn down their hospitality and curious enough we accepted a taste of this meat, flavoured with pepper which had a stronger taste than liver. Not an awful flavour but bat hunting is certainly not about to be added to my list of necessary life skills. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Six were living in this three bedroom, single level brick home and they had cleared out the master bedroom for our use. An en-suite bathroom included a toilet and a well of water with a bucket used for bathing. The rest of the family; Sokham, his wife, her sister and three children including a 28 day old baby, a 6 year old daughter and a 8 year old daughter who is deaf. Having never left their countryside home the children had never seen white skin before. We were their first couch surfing guests. Pleased to be away from the city we bathed and enjoyed some of their leftover supper as Sokham, who has studied Angkor Archaeological Park for years through school and afterwards, outlined how our next three days touring the complex would be. He would be joining us provided we covered all expenses. Concerned with his suggestion of touring by tuk tuk for US$20 per day we attempted to explain to him that despite being white skinned, we have a tight budget and must opt for far cheaper option of hiring out bicycles instead. The following day was spent arranging the bikes and purchasing our three-day tickets from town. Thankfully locals were granted free access to the site but we passed over US$80 as the entry fee for ourselves. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">He took us on an evening cycle ride through small villages in the countryside. Single room huts with no electricity or running water housed entire families, cooking fires outside their homes and stagnant, filthy pools of water littered with rubbish sat underneath the stilts of their homes. Women wrapped in colourful sarongs cooking dinner in large pots waved acknowledgement and encouraged their children to greet us in english as we passed; a group of young men playing volleyball; the entire community pausing just for a moment to welcome us. The young deaf girl, who's name I was never able to pronounce and therefore has unfortunately slipped my mind, stood on a luggage rack behind Sokham as we peddled into the courtyard of the local school. Run solely on foreign donations, the benefactors names were recorded on plaques and in the building names. Young, curious eyes peered around corners and were soon joined by a group of children who followed us around the courtyard. The ones who could get over their shyness eagerly practiced the english phrases they are taught here and we sat and chatted with the seven year olds for about 20 minutes. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Meals at Sokhams' home turned out to be something of a delight. His sister-in-law was a former chef and it wasn't long before Julian invited her to tag along with us for the rest of our journey. Her 'fish amok' is worthy of a mention; a traditional Cambodian dish similar to curryin style thick with coconut milk, but without curry as an actual ingredient. As a side dish; spicy pork with caramelized leaf vegetables. Never before have I seen Julian enjoying such strong, spicy flavours and I was both pleased and disappointed when he eagerly devoured his half, not leaving me any of his leftovers. Of course, each meal they provided for us we paid for in advance. Every day, prices for these meals escalated until finally we were paying more for meals at his home than we normally would for our usual street fare. We were happy to see, however, that our US$10 contribution fed the entire family and we all dined exceptionally well during our time there. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">We were woken hours before our alarm by stray dogs and roosters who insisted it was morning every half hour after 0230. Between the animals outside and the newborn regularly waking the household with screams, we crawled out of bed at 0400 and soon thereafter the three of us were mounted upon our steeds and cycling into the dwindling night, eager to catch the suns first rays over one of the most famous sunrise spots in the world. Its been a long time since I noticed the stars and the ride through the countryside was exceptionally quiet and beautiful. We parked our bikes, presented out tickets and took the back gate into the grounds of Angkor Wat, following a large, carved stone wall. A bridge spanned the width of the 90m, moat, dug of course by hand those many centuries past. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">The resonating sound of deep, monotone chanting drew me away from the path to a small temple in the forest. Monks in orange robes sat before a golden Buddha illuminated with candle light, chanting a mantra as the eastern horizon came to life in the pre dawn light. </span></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwJlLlQKMu-1DtLdQC6ceY97al8R1d1DJqTFYQan7gCX7EAd9t8CAC4btyb40RHTXoYSElpeu4uAHertHffUiUTKH24zWMRAI2jdNR44dy4akz7uQ4QAQNWLl6VTrlMK3c2e6bAewbCu0V/s1600/Angkor+Wat+-+The+Library.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwJlLlQKMu-1DtLdQC6ceY97al8R1d1DJqTFYQan7gCX7EAd9t8CAC4btyb40RHTXoYSElpeu4uAHertHffUiUTKH24zWMRAI2jdNR44dy4akz7uQ4QAQNWLl6VTrlMK3c2e6bAewbCu0V/s400/Angkor+Wat+-+The+Library.jpg" width="400" /></a><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">I was shocked when we came upon the west side of Ankor Wat, to find hundreds of people already gathered on the banks of a pond staring up at the dark silhouette of the prangs against an indigo-blue sky. Sokham had brought us in by the road far less travelled and we had our first circuit of the temples extremities alone, having no notion of the gathering taking place a few hundred metres away. Photographers were preparing tripods and expensive camera equipment alongside tourists with compact point and shoots and i-Phones whilst a row at the front received instruction on a pro's photo-tour. Locals went about selling sarongs, books, postcards, coffee and coconuts and I found myself refusing the offers of many as the stars disappeared and gave way to an illuminating sky. All gathered together for one reason: The sunrise over Angkor Wat. Usually, when we put the effort into waking before dawn, we are presented with the gift of solitude, even at exceptional places, but this is one of the most famous buildings in the world and apparently word has gotten out. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Julian has aspired to stand in this spot for some 20 years and I left him, camera in hand, in rapture with sunrise and the mirrored reflection as the largest Hindu temple in the world blessed him with pink, lightly clouded skies, developing to pure gold as the day dawned. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">When the sun rose and tourists buzzed back to life on a rapidly warming day, Sokham guided us into the temple pointing out stunning carvings and explaining the ever present symbolism. Designed to represent Mount Meru (home to the Hindu gods and centre of the known universe), Angkor Wat was dedicated to Lord Shiva, breaking tradition of pervious Kings who built temples dedicated to Vishnu.</span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Wondering how we had managed to find ourselves a quiet, empty space we slowly strolled through the outer gallery admiring the exquisite craftsmanship of bas-relief carvings, stone as smooth as marble, covering the inner walls telling the stories from the Ramayana and Mahabharata; the two major Sanskrit epic poems of ancient India. Important battles on a couple of the walls followed by depictions of the 32 hells and 37 heavens of Hindu mythology. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">The eastern gallery represents the Churning of the Sea of Milk; a large serpent slithers through a sea carrying hundreds of warriors, a battle between 92 asuras and 88 devas (deities). The interior courtyards were impossibly empty of people despite the hundreds I stood with at sunrise, they had dissipated across the huge area the park covers. Virtually every surface, every wall, column and roof shingle of the massive temple are carved with characters and scenes Hindu mythology; dragons, unicorns, chariots, elephants and women with elaborate hairstyles. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Sokham stood with his back against a wall in a small, almost claustrophobic space forming a doorway between two walls, and beat his hand against his chest, rhythmically, like the beating of a heart. The sound resonated deeply throughout the chambers' freakish acoustics and I felt the pulsations within myself. My soul felt shrouded with mystique, surrounded by beauty and overwhelmed with the splendour of it all and I struggled to understand how its possible for this place to have been forgotten about and lost until the French rediscovered it 400 years after it was abandoned in preference for Phnom Phen. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">The Angkor Archaeological Park itself stretches some 400 square km (including forested areas) and contains several more magnificent remains of the Khmer empire and over 100 temples and ruins in total. Angkor Wat is the largest and most important of these followed closely by Angkor Thom, the royal citadel with the Bayon Temple at its centre. After consuming a large, fresh coconut whist Julian devoured his morning coffee we climbed back onto our bikes for a ride around the major sites of the 'little circuit'; the most popular of two routes within the complex. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Crowds gathered on a bridge lined with many larger than life carvings of devilish warriors before crossing under one of the four main entrance gates to Angkor Thom. The gates are a major sight in themselves and each is topped with the many faces of Buddha. Although the temples are dedicated to the Hindu god, there is a heavy Buddhist influence throughout the park. On the other side of the gate monkeys play on fabulously twisted vines hanging from some of the largest and most beautiful trees I have ever seen. One primate breaks apart a discarded coconut (humans having done the difficult initial entry) and with the mighty strength of his jaws, he tears off great chunks of husk for the white flesh inside.</span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b>Bayon: the Royal temple and one of the most widely recognized of the lot came into view at the end of the road and my eyes began to pick out some of the giant stone faces carved into its 54 towers. We wandered through the galleries, by now well and truly cluttered with other tourists, as the 216 faces (to whom they belong is still debated, as are the amount of faces) looked down upon us with half smiles, secure in their knowledge of the centuries past.</b></span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Cycling past the Elephant Terrace our bikes carried us along paved roads under the canopy of mature trees and out a second of the gates. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Once through this, we approach the oldest site of the complex. A crumbling bridge upon which sit white barked trees who's root systems have defiantly engulfed and taken over places one would have not thought likely for such specimens. No longer spanning the dried up river we clamber over and around the structure admiring it with mounting curiosity and affection, excited and teased for the temple to come.</span></b></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b>We approached Ta Phrom made most famous in the west after its dramatic supporting role as a location in the Tomb Raider film. We entered beneath a stone doorway and followed hallways which opened up into a magnificent courtyards of grey stone; textured, coloured; eventually taken over and perfected by the course of time and seed.</b></span></div>
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<b>Trees grow atop stone walls, their roots wrapped around columns, coaxing their grip off the smallest crevice; utilizing the stone as if it were a part of its own skin. The roots fish for moisture seeped and suspended in the porous stone, some of them not reaching the ground at all. </b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Twisted filigree of root and vine having taken dominant command of the architecture now stretch their branches skyward; mature, towering trees reaching for the sun. From one courtyard to the next examples of nature perfecting mans work humbled the hundreds of tourists to a quiet; interrupted periodically by the sounds of reconstruction coming from a restricted area of the temple or muffled excitement as another gem was uncovered at each turn. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">The heat caused me to pause under a tree a short while. Sokham whisked his fingers along the tops of some foliage which sat alongside a rock and immediately they weathered and wilted to the ground. Within a few moments they sprung back to life, faking their demise. Called the 'sleeping sponge' this kept Julian busy long enough for me to regain my strength and after some sweet, cold tea we were off again. Sokham had a particular place in mind for lunch, next to the kings private swimming pool where we might pause for a dip. This swimming pool turned out to be a large, rectangular lake; easily 100m along each side! We pulled up to his choice of restaurant and I immediately sensed it was not within our budget which was confirmed by the $5-15 dollar per dish price range. We declined apologetically but Sokham insisted. Despite watching us repeatedly make choices based on our meagre budget he just didn't understand the concept of white man not being able to continuously withdraw money from the hole in the wall. Not only would Julian and I not have been able to eat here but paying for a third person makes choices even more slim. We cycled back the way we came with a slightly stressed air between us but which we were able to shake off easily enough. The afternoon monsoon hit hard; we sought refuge at someones roadside home, a single room with a bed platform. A seven year old child was selling rice wine to those who approached as we lounged in hammocks and the ground was quickly flooded. By the time it ceased the afternoon had fallen into evening and since our (already paid for) dinner at his home was only two hours away we opted to skip lunch altogether and enjoyed a fabulous evening with his family. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Our pre-agreed three night stay as up so we packed our bags and moved into town; a guesthouse of Sokhams' recommendation seemed appropriate, quiet and cheap and we were left on our own the the evening; plans laid to meet the following afternoon as not to force Sokham out of bed at 0400 again. At 2100 the base began to pump, emanating from the hip-hop club next door to the hotel and rebounding off the painted walls which persisted until 0400. We were out of bed at 0430, somewhat exhausted and slightly irritated, for our ride to Big Tree Temple. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b>As we approached Ta Phrom for the second time and entered through the familiar archway I imagined what it would have been like for those who had rediscovered it. Not even the staff were yet on duty and we had the overgrown temple entirely to ourselves. The energy was overwhelming; my emotions soared as I attempted to capture it. To be blessed with silence and solitude here allowed for such a magnificently different feel and we are most definitely the most fortunate two people on the planet in that moment. Of course, it made for some fabulous photos as well. As the masses began to roll in promptly 0700 after their crowded sunrise at Ankor Wat, we walked on clouds out of there.</b></span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">We explored a site of lesser importance on our way back home for a siesta. We climbed the exceptionally steep steps of the three tiered mountain influenced Baphuon. Along the back wall the cut stone tittered as if terribly misplaced. We soon learned that the entire back wall of the temple was a very large representation of a laying down Buddha. We returned home for a siesta when the heat of the day became draining. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b>Arriving at Sokhams late that afternoon we were disheartened to hear his wife had been in hospital that morning and he would be unable to join us that evening. We stayed to chat for a bit; they offered some fresh fruits from the garden and chilled green tea. As we went to leave, Sokham asked if we might pay them more money for "electricity" and hesitated before asking for an addition US$15. Stunned and unsure how to react we dishearteningly nodded in agreement before cycling out of there with a unpleasant feeling in our stomachs. Suddenly, it felt as though this couch surfing experience was not about the cultural exchange and time spent together but instead, it was about the money. If we paid this additional US$15 it would amount to the most expensive three days in SE Asia so far, despite missing lunch the previous day and despite Cambodia reputed to be one of the cheapest to travel through in SE Asia.</b></span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">We headed past Angkor Wat once more for the sunset and were accosted by local people trying to make a buck as soon as we were dismounted. Further frustrated to find that they had "closed the hill" we intended to hike up which offered beautiful views at sunset. Confused by how they could 'close a hill' (as the Vietnamese 'close the ocean') we returned to our bikes surrounded by inveiglers. Our situation with Sokham had caused us to have a diminished view of the Cambodian ways in that moment and we couldn't help but ignore them all without a word and pedal hastily home. This newfound energy brewing between us made for a brisk, energetic battle with the traffic as we cycled home as quickly as our legs and single speed bikes could take us in hopes of meeting Sokham back at the hotel in 15 minutes, all the while a pending conversation brewing in my mind. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE5YTDrK1YF99nXxwRPN2U7RiV-i9oJ6NLgs7X4L0JsVyZqYKhro-6SIt9f8GZ6fElk7CcpX5Am0GepToTk1b3rzlvvbMcixGI_vggYdQEqbr_x0O4tsTpM6UiVFAe0132Zx0xc-mkPBy1/s1600/Angkor+Wat+-+Ta+Phrom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE5YTDrK1YF99nXxwRPN2U7RiV-i9oJ6NLgs7X4L0JsVyZqYKhro-6SIt9f8GZ6fElk7CcpX5Am0GepToTk1b3rzlvvbMcixGI_vggYdQEqbr_x0O4tsTpM6UiVFAe0132Zx0xc-mkPBy1/s640/Angkor+Wat+-+Ta+Phrom.jpg" width="422" /></a><b>Invigorated and drenched in sweat we arrived back at the hotel to find the lobby empty. Upstairs, I took advantage of this energy and unrolled my yoga mat but 15 minutes into my practice Julian came up to tell me Sokham had arrived. Thankfully, he brought the situation up and it wasn't long before we were engaged in a heated conversation; trying to help him understand that we always pay our way when Couch Surfing but the community is not about trying to make money out of guests (there are other web sites for that), that we are on a tight budget which we were well over and that western people did not all come with an unlimited bank account and finally admitting that we felt taken advantage of. He rebutted by insisting he and his family ought to be compensated for the time spent with us playing 'tour guide'. Hugely disappointed with his views we tried further to explain that couch surfing is about enjoying the time spent together, making new friends and teaching each other new things for the enjoyment of it, not for monetary compensation. Moreover, we had paid for his bike, all this food and drinks whilst touring the temple and paid not only our way with each meal at his home but knew that the price they were charging covered feeding his entire family as well. He continued to press his point, offering suggested rates of pay for his services each day at which point Julian presented him with a bill we had conjured up earlier to use as a last resort which included a tally of the money we had spent for him to join us at Angkor, a per person price for each meal we shared as well as babysitting costs. If he wanted to charge us for 'his time' then we can certainly account for hours they had left us alone with the children whist they took a nap or went out to market. It made me significantly uncomfortable to tally up his 'bill' at over US$100 but all we were doing is playing his game by his rules, trying to make him see things from our point of view. In the end, he walked out the back door of the hotel and we were never to hear from him again. Regrettably, this soured my first less-than-great Couch Surfing experience in five years.</b></span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">The following morning, our final day touring the complex, we returned to Angkor Wat for sunrise. As Julian fought for his place amongst the masses, I hydrated with a young coconut then made my way into a quiet internal courtyard of the temple and up steep stairs to an ancient building. The chanting of monks can be heard as I unroll my yoga mat in the pre-dawn light. Upon the plateau of a thousand year old library I flow through the sun salutations; a gong resonates in the distance. I am bathed in the suns first rays as it rises above the prangs of Angkor Wat. Never before has my yoga practice been such spectacle. People paused, took photos and some even sat watching for an extended period of time. After the spectacle at the front of the Wat, Julian quietly made his way to a corner capturing one of the most empowering moments of my life. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b>We cycled the less popular 'big circuit' visiting some of the minor sites within the complex including some of the oldest of the temples in the park. The ride through the rice paddies and orchards of the countryside was beautiful as we paused periodically along the way for the various sites. Every temple presented persistent young children selling postcards, penny whistles, bamboo mouth harps, fans, leather wallets and wristbands; suggesting a game of tic tac toe drawn into the sands with sticks. After a few games showing their mastery they pressed their packages of ten postcards towards us, singing the numbers from one to ten in three, four or five different languages, reciting the statistics and previous leaders of your home country. More convincing than the usual "Sir, Lay-dee, buy something from me?" they are altogether far too disarming. Some of you will soon be the proud owners of their efforts.</b></span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Upon the expiry of our tickets we embarked on a bike ride into the countryside in search of a "Land-mine Museum". A former Khmer Rouge child cadet giving back to his country by searching the countryside for unexploded bombs (see our last entry with reference to the bombings). He created a museum out of his home from the remnants of his past some 30km from Siem Reap. Leaving the city and venturing out into the countryside always brings a refreshing change to the mentality of city people. Every child from every home enthusiastically running to the side of the road, waving and shouting Hello! over and over again as we passed. I think its these necessary, humbling moments in the country that allow me realize that not everyone is after our wallets. In the heat we press on and on, with no indication of a Land-mine museum in sight. In the end, we cycled about 85km that day in our search. As we pressed on back to the city the the monsoon clouds opened up on us, drenching us in seconds yet we welcomed it, washing the buckets of sweat from our heated bodies.</span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">A young man with his three siblings on a motorbike and trailer combination slowed and offered to give us a lift. Gratefully accepting in the fierce heat of the late afternoon sun, we piled our bikes on the back and climbed in next to the children allowing him, with relief, to cut our journey shorter by about 5km before dropping us off again. Offing him a couple of US$ for his help he looked almost offend and stuck his palms up to decline. This contact was definitely needed to restore our faith in the local people and we were grateful for his unselfish gesture. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Having personally returned Sokhams' bike the day we parted and after getting hit off my bike by a passing motorbike in rush hour traffic, grazing my forearm and bashing my hip painfully, we went to return the remaining two bikes after nine days of use. We were shocked when they accused us of having not returned the first bike, insisting that we had stolen it. The accusation was ridiculous of course but they insisted, demanding to see a written receipt as proof that we had returned the bike. Having foolishly never demanded a receipt, the man we had returned through not being present and the bike conveniently nowhere to be found they demanded we pay an additional US$50 on top of rental feels. Refusing to give in so easily to something we were sure was a clever scam it wasn't long before the authorities were involved. Blood dripping down the raw flesh of my arm Julian sent me home to clean up, taking the valuable camera gear off the scene leaving him with only some cash in his pocket. After about 30 minutes at home I couldn't stand waiting any longer and quickly returned to the shop. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Three branches of Cambodian officials were on scene now; Cambodian police, tourist police and immigration officers. The shop owner continued to press for Julian to pay the compensation for the so called lost bike or be taken to the station. Julian shrugged, agreeing to be taken back to the police station as he had all the time in the world but not much money as he emptied his pockets displaying the US$52 he had in anticipation of the rental bill. Surprised and discouraged it was clear that none of the police wanted the responsibility of the extensive paperwork that would be involved in making this an official matter and it wasn't long before the negotiations started and the shopkeepers accepted the proffered notes (which was only about US$6 more than the cost of rental fees for the bikes anyway). </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b>It is situations like this that cause our Lonely Planet guidebook to warn their readers of scams in Cambodia. I am so certain we were set up and were reasonably lucky to get out of it better off then we might have been. Again and again the people here proved that money is their sole objective, that they feel entitled to it in a sense, by whatever means and they will do anything to get as much as possible from us. This is only the beginning of such experiences with the Khmers. I had been looking forward so much to experiencing Cambodia and the last thing I wanted was to walk away with a negative perspective. Sitting here in reflection some weeks later in Laos, thinking about Angkor Wat, the pressures we felt there don't linger in our minds but it had been intense and unrelenting since our first day in Phnom Phen and the strain was telling.</b></span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Angkor Wat has been an exceptional highlight of our trip in SE Asia, despite the persistent, demanding, mercenary nature of the Khmir people we have experienced so far. Phnom Phen itself was a struggle to walk around as we were persistently called to from every shop, every tuk tuk, every restaurant and every massage parlour, by the motorbike taxis and the guys selling DVDs, by the street kids, the market traders, the hookers, the dealers and the destitute single mothers, by the same people, many times per day, every day, every time we stepped foot into the streets and on one memorable occasion before we had even set foot outside the door. We often couldn't even sit at a meal without being approached by beggars and sellers. And the same rang true of Siem Reap </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">We moved from our noisy guesthouse (nightclub included) and finally found an exceptionally comfortable, quiet guesthouse down a back alley called The Red Lodge, duly noted in Lonely Planet. No traffic, no tuk tuk drivers and well priced. We would breathe here for a while. We hid behind the safety of the walls, writing and editing, reading and just taking some time out. We managed to find a very cheap restaurant where we were eating for US$1-2 per meal with fruit shakes for US$0.50 and ended up staying in the town for an unexpected 15 days, often not leaving the guesthouse at all except to eat. An absolute necessity for us at this point in our journey. We recharged our exhausted selves and spent very little money in an effort to compensate for the expenses of Angkor Wat. Changing our plans and about to turn away from the Thai border, heading north into Laos, we began at this time mentally and physically preparing for a second loop around the peninsular. We were almost ready. Almost. </span></b></div>
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ofParadiseVisionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08535511199313264230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-501971850732172162.post-90505433013077063782012-09-13T20:31:00.000-07:002019-11-17T19:38:14.184-08:00Mekong and Murder, Beauty and Brutality in Phnom Phen, Cambodia<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 14px;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">With my general understanding and unexpected interest in Vietnams history gained over the previous few weeks, I arrived in Cambodias' capital eager to learn about a recent history apparently even more shocking than that of its neighbour. Sitting on the banks where the Tonlé Sap, Mekong and Bassac rivers meet, Phnom Phen offers sights of extreme contrast. From the striking Khmer architecture of the Royal Palace and multiple spiritual places of worship along the shores of the Mekong to the now peaceful grounds of the Killing Fields which are still littered with fragments of human bones; a humbling reminder of the terrors of genocide which occurred here less than 40 years ago. The Khmers have been through hell and back and its only within the last 30 years that this country has become once again known as Cambodia. </span></b></span><br />
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">At dawns first light we step out into the streets and are immediately offered tuk tuk services. Eager drivers line the street and upon refusal of one we are immediately offering another, and another. Every five to ten meters we are called to despite them having seen us turn down previous offers. I find it difficult to turn away and ignore them as most other tourists do and I find myself smiling and politely declining each and every one, with Julians comical remark thrown in here and there for good measure. It is certain that at this time of year tuk tuks' outnumber the tourists and securing a job becomes a far more urgent and pressing matter for them which I quickly found overwhelming. </span></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZYFJhcMwdfLs_0LSTd2DiroB7-eZ5vi5a49he6K5smjUhu9xq7h2HFAcKc0_d4M5RLOKAvhrC7ZWq56iKmI2XmTVEAXu3lE6-16o0N9aVTFD2HFgJlpAxkX28I_z4JA9gxbgFamzwo2Ln/s1600/Phnom+Phen+-+The+Royal+Palace.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZYFJhcMwdfLs_0LSTd2DiroB7-eZ5vi5a49he6K5smjUhu9xq7h2HFAcKc0_d4M5RLOKAvhrC7ZWq56iKmI2XmTVEAXu3lE6-16o0N9aVTFD2HFgJlpAxkX28I_z4JA9gxbgFamzwo2Ln/s400/Phnom+Phen+-+The+Royal+Palace.jpg" width="400" /></a><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">The Royal Palace (formally known as Preah Barum Reachea Veang Nei Preah Reacheanachak Kampuchea) was our first stop that day. Admiring the palace the King occupied prior to the turmoil of the Khmer Rouge regime from the banks where the Tonlé Sap River and the Mekong River meet a tuk tuk driver used our period of stillness to ask if he could drive us to our next destination. "How much to the Royal Palace?" Julian asks with a cheeky smile. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">"For you, Sir? Free!" he declares, hunching over. Immediately taking advantage of the humour this man returned Julian quickly jumped on his back for the ride, piggyback, across the street. Once on the other side he informed us that the palace was not yet due to open for another hour, perhaps we would like a city tour? Very cheap! </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">All smiles, we declined his offer and went to visit a neighbouring Wat to pass time. He was quickly at our heels. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Inside the gates of Wat Ounalom he took a good half hour talking to us about his life in Cambodia and his family. Similar to neighbouring countries, he seemed to have no concept of 'middle classes' and he viewed himself as a very poor man. Still, he had a roof over his head, food on the table, wore a watch, had a cellphone in his pocket and was able to keep his three children attending school regularly. To me, his poor life sounds nothing like the many families I see sleeping in heavily littered streets, resting upon bamboo mats with their babies beside them shielded with a small mosquito net often used in the west to cover food left outdoors. In Cambodia we were exposed to the most heart wrenching situations of poverty in our travels so far and this man here appeared a class or two above that.</span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">We entered the quiet, empty temple and a monk quickly rose to greet us. Standing before a statue of Buddha he told us a bit about the different branches of Buddhism and happily answered our questions. In turn, we told him about the Buddhist temples and traditions we had seen in his neighbouring country, Thailand, which he knows nothing about and looks forward to taking a pilgrimage to at some point; I sincerely hope he gets there. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">We noticed that the compound appeared to be housing families and there were young children playing within the grounds, seemingly unattended. It's always a strange to me seeing such young children roaming the street unsupervised and we came to learn from the monk that the Wat is home to many orphaned children and people in desperate homeless situations. Here they are offered food, shelter and the option to change their life by joining the monastery as a practicing monk should they wish. This is the first place in the peninsular we have noticed offerings of these types of services to its people; the extensive grounds here in the heart of the city were filled with buildings housing goodness knows how many families, perhaps 200 or more. It was refreshing to see the donations collected by the temple going to a humanity project rather than the typical uses of adding more gold to the already ornate facades or commissioning yet another golden buddha image to line up against a wall. All in all we found the monks in Cambodia generally to be a lot less aloof (perhaps that is not the right word) maybe more <i>approachable</i>, than their counterparts in Thailand. Cambodian monks all would greet us with eye contact and a 'hello' when we passed them in the streets and if we initiated. In fact, it was here in Wat Ounalom that the monk approached <i>us, </i>the first time this has happened in the peninsula.</span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">At the entrance of the Royal Palace we were disheartened to see the entry prices were more than double what our outdated Lonely Planet suggest. At $8 a head for a foreigner that was more than our daily budget could handle and were unfortunately forced to walk away. The cheerful tuk tuk driver had apparently kept a close eye on us and sensing a weakening resolve (maybe) he soon found us again, offering his services for the following day to take us out to the Killing Fields. Upon our insistence at leaving for the dawn light and the peace and quiet we find in it, he was discouraged; but not haggling his suggested rate ($5 more then we might have paid) brought him around and he was waiting outside our hotel at 6AM the next morning. </span></b><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMGbhwve34R-k7WeHCQyv0bVxLEZimjCwxGdQ5O5LFDYojO6mVA-ecBp1kj7_r67tDkWTieb3ZU3lWLZDG7yMSIv-nxalTAuyg6tjibWCe2RZ6qcC0b39x4ELzypTdONthC08DEBMFgZwD/s1600/Phnom+Phen+-+III.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMGbhwve34R-k7WeHCQyv0bVxLEZimjCwxGdQ5O5LFDYojO6mVA-ecBp1kj7_r67tDkWTieb3ZU3lWLZDG7yMSIv-nxalTAuyg6tjibWCe2RZ6qcC0b39x4ELzypTdONthC08DEBMFgZwD/s400/Phnom+Phen+-+III.jpg" width="400" /></a><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">He drove us through the dusty suburbs of the waking city, swerving to avoid traffic and the constant pot holes which riddled the unpaved roads. Road etiquette in Cambodia seems much the same as Vietnam with only a slight lessening in the constant blaring of horns but people still using whichever side of the road they find appropriate no matter what the direction of travel. We arrived at the gates of the Killing Fields half an hour prior to opening and chatted with out driver whist eating the sweet egg pastries we had paused to purchase on the way. His parents had both died during the four years of Khmer Rouge rule, a solemn look clouded his eyes as we spent the time hearing his stories and memories from that sorry time as well as talking of his hopes and dreams for his children. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Upon entering the grounds a memorial stupa reached skyward. Glass sided, displaying platforms of human skulls, bones and clothing which had been found at this site as the mass graves were excavated and the ground has eroded away with the rains in the intervening years. We were asked to make a donation to receive an offering of flowers and incense in memory of the souls lost here. I felt it to be a strange way to enter the site at the moment. I had little idea of the horrors that occurred here and felt it would be much more appropriate to be approached with this upon parting. Still, incense and fresh cut flowers in hand we stood before the piles of bones in silence and payed our dutiful respects. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Our audio guide showed us our way around the site filling our ears with information on how the compound had appeared during the brutal regime along with testimonials from some of the survivors. Immediately after the end of the Cambodian Civil War in 1975 the Cambodian people embraced their new leaders, the Khmer Rouge, looking forward to a new life free of a civil war that had lasted five years. Instead, mass evacuations drove the people from their homes, emptying the cities into the countryside. Here they were forced to start their lives anew by building huts in the jungle and forced into labour camps where they worked 12 - 14 hours per day on one or two bowls of watery rice soup per day, all for the benefit of Angka - The Organization. The Khmer Rouge arrested anyone suspected of connections with the former government as well as professionals, intellects and those wearing glasses. They were driven to more than 350 "Killing Fields" across Cambodia for mass executions. Families in work camps died of starvation, exhaustion and disease whilst dealing with the daily terrors of brutal beatings and rape. The leader of the Khmer Rouge, Pol Pot has been described as 'the Hitler of Cambodia'. Killing Fields such as the this one are found all over the country amounting to approximately 20,000 mass graves sites where an estimated 1.7 million people (almost 30% of the population) lost their lives. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">If it was not for the chilling audio guide this would have felt more like a walk in the park as we meandered around a small pond, the banks lush with trees, butterflies and birds skirting the vegetation. The buildings which stood here are long gone, pilfered for materials as people started returning to their homes after the regime was toppled by the Vietnamese. Rice paddies flourish in the distance, fishermen hauled in a catch just outside the boundaries of the site, a farmer watched over a pair of oxen as they grazed the scrubland on the banks in the rapidly warming sun. Perhaps the fragments of bones and scraps of clothing not yet fully unearthed in the pathway under our very feet would have gone unnoticed had it not been for the stories of the prisoners horrors, told by those few that survived, bringing new meaning to the mass gravesite. Specific points in the audio guide brought to attention by fencing and disturbing tales most notable for the barbarism here. A single tree. Here, by guards own admission, babies were torn from mothers arms and swung by their ankles into the trunk; smashing they tiny heads and extinguishing the young lives before the corpses were tossed into the pit alongside. The bark was impregnated with blood, brain and skull fragments from those innocents who were killed, purely to prevent revenge attacks for the wrongs inflicted upon their families, should they be left to reach maturity. I felt myself consumed with their heartache and the loss inflicted upon a nation by its own. </span></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmtrSK1xkx-ixAv6mZVhcJrKwODIcJOoE6BVF8z4PeZHzobHD1-K3SErIPIDKE1SBkn6ga8DdQzqYCHiuYdSsgbhBatN5Xe2crxQWqMwTaBXVno_dFB3drPu26ydc09KVAMyPtqxbj3oTB/s1600/Phnom+Phen+-+S-21+entrance.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmtrSK1xkx-ixAv6mZVhcJrKwODIcJOoE6BVF8z4PeZHzobHD1-K3SErIPIDKE1SBkn6ga8DdQzqYCHiuYdSsgbhBatN5Xe2crxQWqMwTaBXVno_dFB3drPu26ydc09KVAMyPtqxbj3oTB/s400/Phnom+Phen+-+S-21+entrance.jpg" width="400" /></a><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">In case this day was not heavy enough, the final stop on this tour was the notorious Security Prison 21 (S-21), now the Tuol Sleng (meaning Hill of the Poisonous Tree) Genocide Museum. We were greeted by disfigured beggars holding out their hats; severe scars from burns blinding one man, another with limbs missing, presumably from UXO (unexploded ordinance) since he was far too young to have been involved in the conflicts directly. Cambodia is still suffering the legacies of both the Vietnam war, civil war and the Khmer Rouge regime. During the war with America, to avoid American troops and infiltrate large numbers of Viet Cong into southern Vietnam, the Ho Chi Minh trail ran through parts of both Laos and Cambodia. America, never officially at war with these two nations, then conducted the 'Secret War' carpet bombing regions of both countries dropping hundreds of thousands of tons of ordinance on both nations in an effort to halt the Viet Cong forces. Some reports I have read suggest that up to 30% of the ordinance failed to explode over the years of bombing. In the late 1960's and early 70's over 2.7 million tons of bombs were dropped on Cambodia alone. More in fact, than the two million tons of bombs dropped in the whole of WWII and not bad going for a country that was never at war. In addition to this, in the west of the country lies an area known as the K5 belt where in a 12 year period from 1979 to 1991 the Vietnamese and Cambodian governments, and the surviving forces of the Khmer Rouge laid approximately 10 million anti-tank and antipersonnel mines in fear of each other. The location of these minefields were never recorded by either side but the area stretches some 700km along the Thai border and even today the effects are being felt all to often by the (average) 800 victims per year.</span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">The Khmer Rouge converted the five building high school into a prison and interrogation centre known as S-21. Inside they crudely erected tiny cells and torture chambers and enclosed it in electrified barbed wire. Some 17, 000 people were imprisoned, tortured and killed here. Much like the Nazis did during the holocaust, extensive records were kept of each prisoner and on display now are thousands of the photos and detailed autobiographies recorded by the Khmer Rouge. Some faces are empty of emotion, others portray furious anger, others still were not photographed until after their demise but perhaps the oddest of expressions to behold were the smiles. Each room is full of plaques and thousands of photographs on huge boards fill the rooms but I left that place feeling rather detached from the experience and I could not help thinking the Cambodians may benefit from seeing how such places are presented in Europe; the effect that Aushwitz concentration camp had on us was deeply personal when we visited in 2011 but here I was left as if from a school lesson. The facts are there, but there is no personalization, no atmosphere recreation; just row upon row of photographs, all in the same aspect, all the same B&W, face on, mugshot style. Although the dehumanization and torture of the poor souls that were incarcerated here was every bit as methodical and horrific as the Nazis treatment of their victims, the efforts to preserve the memory as a lesson have resulted in a three dimensional text book and is just as emotive as one. As we left books were laid out for sale on tables along the pathway. Behind one such table an elderly man sat, patiently. We learned that he was a survivor of this prison and it was seeing him sitting there, the emotion of the place finally hit home in my heart. </span></b><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtT954Oppl312oN-VTJpKcG8hPv1Z4xCmSiuV2m_29UNgWd12SzQ8g4d92zVFdGSjTjIQH-Sa-a1-59KTzSTuQ-w8NyiSm657PcIZhFTHzzAb-WsHJXaia_VAdahqfHxxv_wS2QazWRrNN/s1600/Phnon+Phen+-+Wine+warehouse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="248" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtT954Oppl312oN-VTJpKcG8hPv1Z4xCmSiuV2m_29UNgWd12SzQ8g4d92zVFdGSjTjIQH-Sa-a1-59KTzSTuQ-w8NyiSm657PcIZhFTHzzAb-WsHJXaia_VAdahqfHxxv_wS2QazWRrNN/s400/Phnon+Phen+-+Wine+warehouse.jpg" width="400" /></a><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">As we walked 'home' that afternoon a "free wine tasting" sign caught my attention and I couldn't help but drag Julian inside. I have not had wine for about four month at this point; decent wine is usually far to expensive for our budget and local wine not worth drinking. It was strange to see prices were cheaper than similar bottles I have purchased in countries where the wine is produced and I couldn't understand how they did it. After three generous samples of nice Bordeaux wine it was only then that I realized how much I missed a nice glass and it wasn't long before I had convinced the proprietor (and Julian) to allow us to sit at the back of his shop with a bottle of South African pinotage.</span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">We would have left Phnom Penh the following day however were contacted by a host on Couch Surfing who offered his home to us for three nights and it seemed too good an opportunity to pass up the chance of spending time with somebody who actually lives here. Meeting him outside a bakery on the main street alongside the Mekong he lead us towards the back and up three flights of stairs. A striking set of carved double wood doors led us into a spacious Japanese style, open concept living room and kitchen. He lead us up another flight us stairs to our room which felt more like a five star hotel suite; a huge bathroom with multiple shower heads and glass walls looked upon a large room with king size bed which in turn opened up onto a large balcony (one of three) overlooking the Mekong. I hope he didn't notice my jaw drop when we dropped out bags and joined him downstairs for a cup of tea. We learned that this three story, seven bedroom and eight bathroom overshot apartment (complete with personal elevator) was frequented by he and his wife alone. His Japanese wife, working as as tax adviser for the Cambodian government, had this place entirely paid for and this English ex-pat, retired investment banker could could bask in the beauty of his surroundings at the expense of the Japanese government. </span></b><br />
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Evenings were spent with cans of beer or glasses of wine and nice food on his balcony. It was a strange perspective and very difficult for me to get my head around. The disparity between the beggars and street vendors was so marked there was a certain amount of guilt in accepting his offer. Only one night ago we were in a tiny closet hotel room. The widow of our neighbours were so close we could have passed them a cup of sugar and we couldn't help but notice their bare, board floors whilst they lay upon tables to sleep. Outside, two men shared a tuk tuk as a home, hammocks strung up over the passenger compartment. Beside them a mans bed was the seat of his motorbike and half a block away the trishaw drivers too, slept in their vehicles, grouped together for security and company. Families slept on the streets struggling to feed their children. Now, here was I, sitting on a balcony, glass of wine in hand overlooking 90 people participating in a nightly two hour aerobics class on the shores of the Mekong, music blaring from large speakers (which occurs twice daily, 5am and 5pm, right outside the bedroom window waking us without fail every morning). It was an enjoyable, entertaining way to spend the evenings yet such a bizarre contrast to much of the rest of our experience and surroundings.</span></b></div>
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ofParadiseVisionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08535511199313264230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-501971850732172162.post-73166203564412851132012-09-11T07:30:00.000-07:002012-09-11T18:57:23.461-07:00Senses of Saigon, Vietnam<br />
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">(Roles reversed for a change, Julian jumped to writing this entry before I had a chance! Saigon is therefore from his perspective with my editorial and additions.)</span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Our last stop in Vietnam was Ho Chi Minh city, formally known as Saigon. It was bizarre coming into the city and being surrounded by towering english billboards advertising western products such a Coke-a-Cola and Oreo. We realize that its been about 6 weeks since we have been subjected to adverts or frequent roman alphabet and it was a bit of a shock. We arrived late in the evening and sought a tuk tuk to take us into the city centre to find digs. The often repeated traipsing from door to door down an alleyway containing half a dozen hostels and budget hotels started at shocking $24 a night and eventually secured us a room for our usual $10. Whilst we were leaving the first establishment stating $20 was "far more than we usually pay" I was amused to hear a girl who had overheard our discussion in the reception area, chastise her partner telling him "You see! I told you we were always getting ripped off". It's sometimes gratifying to hear we're not the only ones paying "white man" prices. I hope they bargained a little harder for the remainder of their trip; $5-10 a night goes a long way when you're travelling for six months or more.</span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Shortly after securing accommodation we went out in search for food and were surprised to see the street stalls and restaurants in the process of packing in for the night at 10pm. With only one obvious establishment still serving within a stones throw from our hotel we found a seat and each ordered a mushroom hotpot. We were expecting a clay pot of noodles, mushrooms and veggies in a broth to be pulled from the oven and places directly before us and were surprised when they began an elaborate setup of our table. We were soon presented with large pots of broth set upon a miniature gel burner, alongside which were placed uncooked noodles and raw beef, wild mushrooms and cabbage. Eyes wide we were thankful when they demonstrated noodles and cabbage to be cooked first followed some of the most beautiful mushrooms I have ever seen and the beef thereafter. The result was one of the most incredible dishes I have ever eaten and it was in the three days that we spend in Saigon that we understood, finally, why Vietnam was renowned for its food. Had our visas permited I would have spent a couple weeks here simply exploring the culinary delights with no care at all to the effects of my waistline! </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">HCMC (easy to write, but Saigon still falls to the tongue instinctively both for us as well as the city residents) feels a little less frantic than Hanoi despite the larger population. Vietnam's second city is a bustling metropolis to be sure, but with the more frequent smiles of the south and the more recent change in political leadership, the atmosphere of the city definitely feels more relaxed. Let there be no mistake; the traffic is the same horn blowing chaos that the Vietnamese appear to have embraced, yet the narrow streets of Hanoi seem to have opened up here, allowing much more space for the masses in Saigon although the same road etiquette applies. Every time you cross the street you put your life in the hands of those riding around you, but the shoulders bumping on the sidewalks are a little less firm and several times we were stopped by locals just to find out what we thought of their country or as an opportunity for them to practice their English. Saigon residents appear to be very proud of their home and desperately want to show it off as an international, cosmopolitan, modern city showing, at least on the face of things, that socialism can work alongside commercial interests (although I am still flummoxed at the blend). One particularly telling conversation I had was with a local businessman; he stopped in the street to ask if I was OK as I paused for a drink from my backpack. His english was excellent having worked in Australia for some years and we walked together with his wife for several blocks. His daughter was heading for university in Reading, England; just a few miles away from where I grew up and although he said he was happy with the idea, apparently his mother had concerns and he asked me back to his home to see if I might go some way to allay them. I only had a couple of hours before Brianne was due to wake from her siesta and didn't want to disappear without her knowing where I might be so felt I had to decline however one comment from him struck me as ironically important. When I mentioned on how proud the residents appeared to be of their city, he said "We want to show the Americans, we can get on just fine without their help". I don't think they understand the irony: The drive here for western dollars is as strong in the south of the country as anywhere else in Vietnam. Perhaps that wasn't the "help" he was thinking of.</span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b>The one sight that interested me more than any other in Saigon was the Independence Palace. Former residence of the governing body of the south before reunification, it is infamous for the scene of the tank busting through the gates effectively signalling the end of the war in '75. We headed for the palace early on the first morning, anxious as ever to avoid the crowds and have the place to ourselves. Wandering through Tao Dan park we strolled amongst the hundreds of locals in their morning exercise routines. Games of badminton were going on and I was asked to join when we paused to watch three young men playing the current craze; a development of the hacky-sac, with six sprung plastic discs about 3cm across stacked together with a feather sticking out of the top. The ensemble is kicked with a surprising variety of athletic moves between the players, sometimes over a badminton net. I declined with a rueful smile, my footballing skills (I am well aware) are far from up to the task and we continued on to the palace. </b></span></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg70DRsAj54T2RM4PdbnE1B7TyZWKFFCTZtuEvVDYEGy76B1fF2cAWmBKf0LnWtxvBPwBin489EpVfgxTEKbE7rmmon91mE4xLuHYX-AU75XaUDL1O_tyu_z2Ol-mrL5-aSpprJUfXp7F9E/s1600/Saigon+-+Independence+Palace.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg70DRsAj54T2RM4PdbnE1B7TyZWKFFCTZtuEvVDYEGy76B1fF2cAWmBKf0LnWtxvBPwBin489EpVfgxTEKbE7rmmon91mE4xLuHYX-AU75XaUDL1O_tyu_z2Ol-mrL5-aSpprJUfXp7F9E/s400/Saigon+-+Independence+Palace.jpg" width="278" /></a><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Seeing the Palace for the first time evoked excited emotions in me like those of a schoolboy. This is an iconic, award winning building, built to feng shui design with hidden Chinese characters within the architecture (as illustrated in the guide), but for me, this is where the Vietnam war ended. Over the preceding weeks we had followed the birth of a country out of 100 years of war and occupation and this very spot effectively ended our journey. From Ho Chi Minh's seat and his embalmed body lying in the Hanoi mausoleum, through the DMZ and to Saigon. We'd seen the bomb damage in the ancient city of My Son and the craters left behind in the fields, now used as fishing ponds by the farmers. The infamous tunnels, the bullet holes in Hue and parts of the legendary Ho Chi Minh trail. One man's desire to unify an independent Vietnam brought an entire nation to civil war and back again, holding off the Chinese, removing the French and US occupations and finally to a precarious birth of a nation. He is immortalized in the name of a city and on the currency he appears on every note. His bust and his image still adorn prominent places in every town in Vietnam, north and south. I had been almost regretting our first foray into the communist world until this point. The people generally came across as less happy, the noise of traffic and the horns of vehicles unrelenting, the temples degraded to shops in Hanoi and even in the hill town of Dalat the image of Buddha scratched away from existence. But here, coming out of the palace it all made some kind of sense. Tank #390 sits in the gardens forever reminding the people of the struggle for what is still a very young country and although the socialist overtones and anti American propaganda get a little wearing from time to time, the history is written for all to see. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666; font-size: small;">On our way 'home' one evening the voices of angels lured us before the feet of a statue of Mary at the Chuch of Notre Dame where candles were lit and a choir sang out into the night. Couples conversed and children in pyjamas played quietly and despite the chaos of Vietnamese traffic surrounding us it was a most peaceful moment.</span></b><br />
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Vietnam is moving forward into a modern world. Businesses are allowed by private ownership and a new age is slowly dawning. The ruling bodies allegedly keep a close eye on proceedings, enough to be 'felt' by ourselves on occasion and corruption is as rife (if not more so) here, as within the rest of the peninsula. Government sponsored jobs such as the police force or sought after positions within the ministries are purchased as are (we are told) promotions. "The one problem with a corrupt system of government, is that it works so well". Those at the bottom of the pile, the poorest of the cities are as desperate here as anywhere but I see fewer beggars in the streets and more smiles from the pedi-cab drivers and street pedlars here than from their equivalents in London or Buffalo, NY; perhaps because they are an accepted social class and therefore considered as part of society rather than ostracized and excluded from it as a minority, as we do with the poor in the west. I am not saying I believe a corrupt socialist system is a right system, far from it, but it certainly does not appear to be the ogre my generation, brought up at the end of the Cold War, had been led to believe. </span></b></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Helvetica;"><b>This trip around the SE Asian peninsula has, so far, been made most interesting from a dispassionate perspective; by the people I have met and talked with. Most we have met (apart from the top 5% earners) feel oppressed in some manner shape or form, but the complaints are no more severe than those I hear from friends back home and very similar to those of any 'first world' country. I have met staunch advocates of dictatorships and democracies; communist nationalists and hill tribesmen who's horizons barely exceed 5km from the place they were born and one theme remains common throughout pretty much all except the poorest of those: If I work to support my loved ones, and pay the dues my society demands; my life is relatively at peace. The biggest social issue I have seen is that of <i>perceived</i> wealth. The poor's acceptance that they are poor forever and the rich's expectation that they deserve to be so. A tuk tuk driver we met and employed for a day regards himself as amongst the 'poor', but he owns his own business and can afford to send his children to school, much more than the rickshaw driver sleeping alone in the seat every night. He has the ability to expand his income selling advertisement space on his tuk tuk or investing in a postcard rack for his clients perusal and the mind to do it, but still he complains to us he is 'poor' rather than that food and schooling is expensive. Our Malaysian friends told us that image is everything. It matters not where you live, if you have a car to show off around town you look wealthy and therefore are rich. It's a superficial status thing that society here has adopted, kind of like the 'bling' culture coming out of LA and when you get down to brass tacks, it matters not one jot. I am not wealthy and I certainly do not mean to judge without walking a mile in their shoes. I own no car, no television set nor a wall to put it against or a roof to cover it with. I will bargain for an hour or more over less than $5 to allow me to continue my travels; but every morning I wake up healthy and with a smile on my face. I count my blessings and consider myself a rich man.</b></span></div>
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<b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Recommended read: When Heaven and Earth Change Places is a 1989 memoir by Le Ly Hayslip about growing up during the Vietnam War, her escape to the United States, and her return to visit Vietnam 16 years later.</span></i></b></div>
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ofParadiseVisionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08535511199313264230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-501971850732172162.post-260400915857149032012-09-08T22:18:00.001-07:002019-11-17T19:21:27.053-08:00Losing Ourselves in the Central Highlands, Dalat, Vietnam<br />
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Aug 16th, 2012 - Aug 19, 2012</span></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVQHtLTVn-MPQrCLF9ldiV4foFScYKtWBSXR6fiJ9p9AglvEVzRGkpD4ICi5_xbgg5_SKiSnSqrGDn8-y-bXoqkVJyuQu0jO7wSOGTADGlmon0Uh8NoyCEjGCnGLxecyMajnPU7_5-yUU0/s1600/Dalat+-+The+lion+and+the+word.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVQHtLTVn-MPQrCLF9ldiV4foFScYKtWBSXR6fiJ9p9AglvEVzRGkpD4ICi5_xbgg5_SKiSnSqrGDn8-y-bXoqkVJyuQu0jO7wSOGTADGlmon0Uh8NoyCEjGCnGLxecyMajnPU7_5-yUU0/s400/Dalat+-+The+lion+and+the+word.jpg" width="400" /></a><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Arranging our visas for Vietnam in advance was required and we were told by numerous sources that Bangkok was the only place we could achieve this. Our plan had been to travel the length of Thailand as well as Laos before entering Vietnam, which made coming up with specific dates difficult and frustrating for an itinerary as loose as ours. We eventually made up our minds to experience Laos at a later date and pass directly thorough from Thailand to Vietnam. Due to our diversion to the Akha hill tribe north of Chiang Rai, we arrived in Vietnam with six days already used up before we had even crossed the border and with the expiry of our visas fast approaching after our extended stay in Hoi An we had to decide between visiting the central highlands or the beaches of Na Trang before spending our last few days in Saigon. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">There is something about Vietnam which completely drained my energy. The chaos, noise and heat. The abundance of people and the 24 hour soundtrack of vehicle horns is a constant stress factor and we thought that the central highlands of the country may offer some peace, cooler climes and a bit of the mountain lifestyle we are used to. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">On the 13 hour bus ride into the hills a mental imagine of mountain serenity and maybe a friendly alpine town filled my mind and I was eager to reach Dalat. On arrival, as usual, we accepted the invitation from a hotel proprietor on his assurance that he had a quiet spot. Taking Julian on his motorbike first he soon thereafter came to collect me and on arriving in the room Julian had agreed upon I was disheartened to find sat above a busy intersection. I voiced my concerns to our host who insisted that its very quiet come nightfall and we needn't worry. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">After a quick stroll around the immediate streets, we turned in for a brief nap. Julian awoke with a start to the choir of horns blazing from the streets below; the noisiest of rooms so far on our travels and declared that finding an alternative room was essential. We packed, left the room exactly as it had been presented and made our way downstairs to find our proprietors' younger brother in charge. We told him our intentions and asked for our passports. He quickly demanded payment for the room. Whilst this is standard practice in cancellations (as we know full well from our collective years working in the industry) there was no way Julian was going to part with the full amount for the three hours we had been in the room. Everything in Asia is negotiable and knowing this he barrelled into a heated discussion, offering half the room rate for the trouble. The owner was (as I mentioned above) the receptionists older brother and soon enough the younger got on the phone under the barrage of English coming from my dearly beloved. Another heated discussion took place over the phone with the owner who of course was demanding the full amount. At this point Julian would have usually decided to put up with what we had got, but the noise from the road was to a level where even he could not hope to sleep and his mind was set upon moving. The proprietor asked to be put back onto his brother and after a short conversation the phone was put down. 20 minutes later and the hoteliers had been beaten down to 75% but still Julians' offer had only risen to 55% (about US$5.50) By this time he was in the groove of negotiation and beginning to enjoy himself, his main argument being that he had nothing but time and very little money and could carry on talking all night to the receptionist, keeping him up until 3am if that's what it took. Another phone call to the older brother resulted in a threat to call the police (for talking) and a phone slammed down in Julians' ear. Still, he kept on at the receptionist, who was by now reduced to staring at his hands and voicing concerns that his brother would punch him if he dropped the requested monies further. But the price was falling. First to 140,000VND then 130,000VND until after about 45 minutes of wearing the poor man down, he offered Julian a settlement of 120,000VND (US$6). "Done!" said he, as soon as the offer came and offered a smile and a handshake to seal the deal. The money was paid and our passports handed over. Pausing on the steps of the hotel we looked back to meet the receptionists rueful smile and with our own warm grins and blessings to him for a good evening; we headed off into town. I'm not quite sure the young lad had ever come across somebody like Julian. The technique of talking without a breath, wearing his opponent down to a price, and using the language barrier to his advantage has been developed as we've gone through Asia and for all the noise and kerrfuffle, it works. The next morning whilst out for his walk, Julian was passed by the receptionist making his way home on his moto. He greeted Julian with a big smile and a wave. It appears the technique is forgiven if the parting is friendly.</span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b>Passports in hand we wandered in search of a quite backstreet residence but to no avail. It seems the Dalat is just as hectic as any other Vietnamese city; main streets and back alleys a swarm of motor and cars squeezing past each other. Frustrated but finding a street less crowded, we were turned away from every hotel despite the "Vacancy" signs hanging on the doors; apparently western tourists were not welcome in this part of town. In the end, a kindly woman accepted our offer of 200 000VND ($10) despite being slightly lower than her usual asking price (but comparable to local rates) and we found a room with no window facing the street. Finally comfortable we began contemplating ways to get clear of Dalat and deeper into the Highlands. </b></span></span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b>Having made enquiries with the local tour operators, we decided to aim for Lake Lak, some 150km to the northwest and reputed to be one of the most scenic spots in the Central Highlands with plenty of accommodation and hiking trails for us to explore. The route was clearly laid out along highways #105 and #27 and it looked like a breeze to follow once we got clear of the city limits. Our motorbike renter we spoke to the following morning insisted we not take the bike out of town despite agreeing both to look after a backpack for us (so we might travel light) as well as to a three day hire. Eventually, easing concerns we got a map out and told of places within city limits and to a radius of about 15km that we planned on visiting and soon had the keys to a bike, filled it with fuel and got out of Dalat as quickly as possible.</b></span></span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">It did not take long for us to begin to understand some of the reasons they prefer tourists not venture out of the city on their own. There are very few sign posts and the ones that do exist are not very informative to the english speaker. Following our (small scale) map and using our compass to direct us in what we though was the right direction, we ventured down this road and that, turning around many times whilst looking for the main highway. Relatively confident at last, we continued down a road until it gave away to a dirt trail riddled with pot holes. We pressed on, as there was a river on our right which we expected and we were heading north west as our map indicated we should be. I tightly gripped Julians hips as the bike tripped around flooded potholes and ruts on the unsurfaced track. </span></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5mw2bqvWhk3zO_jTN7yW_fA1F7mj6-fFfEseRW-PNgXHoiN1_IBcRee6I5AbU3ye3YUdd4-1XbQMBsNnp8QJH2GsclWNXP55GqqrKGrrNmmNGxhEmo_gycpISUW1kqkdJESWZBn8sFvT7/s1600/Dalat+-+Strawberry+fields+forever.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5mw2bqvWhk3zO_jTN7yW_fA1F7mj6-fFfEseRW-PNgXHoiN1_IBcRee6I5AbU3ye3YUdd4-1XbQMBsNnp8QJH2GsclWNXP55GqqrKGrrNmmNGxhEmo_gycpISUW1kqkdJESWZBn8sFvT7/s400/Dalat+-+Strawberry+fields+forever.jpg" width="400" /></a><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Every last inch of the countryside was cultivated; strawberry fields, cabbage patches and coffee plantations grew on even the highest summits as farmers in conical hats tended the crops. A dubious looking bridge seemingly constructed from palm leaves and surfaced with loose-laid planks and luck crossed the river and I urgently suggested I would cross on foot so I can 'take a picture of Julian crossing the bridge on his bike'. For some reason he did not find this idea appealing and despite watching another motorbike cross without issue opted to continue past. Finally the path ended at one of the many farms; workers looked at us curiously and we pulled one aside to ask for help. Taking the map into his hands but not really looking at it, he pointed us back in the direction we came from and nodded 'yes' to our queries about H105 and Lake Lak. Clearly he had no idea where we were trying to go and as we pulled away we realized that most of the farmers out here were almost certainly illiterate, none spoke a word of English and they had probably never used a map. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b>We continued this process of backtracking and trying new roads until hunger got the best of us and we pulled over in a hill top village rolling with coffee plantations. A Vietnamese man eagerly came out to greet us with "Bonjour!" Responding both in English and French I learned that his French was as good as mine and we spent a good hour conversing over a bowl of Pho Bo and local coffee. He informed us that indeed this road went to where we intended to be and we could either turn left or right to eventually get there, though a left hand turn would take us down the easiest road but it was far to late in the day to make the drive now. He suggested we return to Dalat and make a second attempt tomorrow.</b></span></b></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b>Of course, this was not a satisfactory response and convinced we could make 120km by the end of the day (it still being early in the afternoon) we continued along the paved road. Leaving the farmland behind we soon found lush forest stretching across the rolling mountain landscape. Checking the map and compass periodically and convinced of our route we rolled onwards and upwards and downwards. The road broke up every so often and eventually, to our dismay the road ended completely to lapse into a well used but rough and muddy track. Still, maps and compasses don't lie so we continued.</b></span></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">As the afternoon waned and the fuel gage read halfway, we mulled over the decisions which lay before us. Turn around and return to Dalat or continue on to see what happened. Hesitating, we turned around and started back until Julian defiantly made the decision to not allow defeat, turned around and kept going. Other motorbikes often passed us coming from the direction we were heading so <i>something</i> had to be over there. Looking out from a high ridge to our morning stomping grounds and satisfied enough with our location we continued. We passed numerous construction sites making note of any large machinery parked for the night or small camps which may prove as emergency shelter or fuel to be pilferred should a desperate need arise. A new road was clearly in the process of being laid and once, probably some 30km along the track our sore bums were gifted with a stretch of cemented pavement. Elated and thinking we had made it through, expecting any minute to drop down to the valley floor and the bridge shown on our map we were once again distraught when the solid surface ended, forcing us back on the bumpy, off-road 'highway'. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Finally, a village. Children stared, then greeted us and laughed with glee when we enthusiastically responded. Palm leaf and bamboo huts lined the muddy road and Julian turned to me stating "Well, you wanted to get off the tourist track, right?" I began to doubt that we were on the highway we were meant to be following but Julian was eager to press on, as much for the fact we didn't have enough fuel to return the way we had come. I was still unsure until we came across a side side stall with petrol on offer. Filling our tank with a pre-measured two litres the attendant gave us the excess in a clear plastic bag which she hung off the handlebars.</span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">As we continued past the village the road got worse and worse, at points so slippery and with such deep ruts in the red clay soil I was demoted to foot power. Eventually with the light beginning to fade, I got off the bike again and walked a hundred meters or so to have a look at what lay beyond the bend only to find that it looked impassable. Noticing a road on the other side of the river we took advantage of a dam under construction and crossed to the other side, only to find the road blocked off. The sun was setting and we faced a long ride back to Dalat across questionable, dark terrain through the jungle and mud nearly half a metre deep in places. At least the petrol tank was now full.</span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Before long a barking dog got the attention of some men inside a tin longhouse of sorts just above the dam whilst we deliberated our options. Language barriers in full effect they made it clear we should come up to the camp and meet with a man who spoke a little english. Seeming to understand that we had lost our way he poured us some bitter Vietnamese tea and picked up his phone. His wife, by chance an english teacher, translated the situation and we soon learned that this was a work camp in which they have lived for about four years working on a hydro-electric project. We were invited to stay for dinner and were offered the choice of either heading back to Dalat that evening (for the road did truly end here and was not our fabled highway) or spending the night at this remote outpost. Not at all eager to get back on that road in the dark we gratefully accepted their hospitality under their condition that we surrender our passports so they might notify the authorities of our situation. We got the impression that every guesthouses must follow this procedure and it was a slightly sobering thought to find big brother out here in the back of beyond. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b>Formalities accomplished they showed us to a room containing a sleeping platform upon which lay four futon mattresses surrounded by tin walls with a bathing room and toilets in the next corridor. Clearly, a couple of the guys had agreed to bunk together to allow us privacy. The whole arrangement was far more comfortable than I expected to be offered given the circumstances and I was able to relax into the amusing situation and wondered what else this day could have in store for us.</b></span></span></b></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b>Joining the four engineers in the dining space, a game of charades tied together with stumbling english, pictorial diagrams and numerical equations allowed for the amusing, entertaining and educational conversation. We were soon served a bowl of soup to start; a questionable mixture in a red broth which had a pleasant, floral taste overall despite a couple of crunchy bits. Surely the red broth was beetroot, I attempted to convince myself. Julian muttered that he had learned from them the ingredients of this soup and he was not about to tell me until tomorrow. Unsure, I finished the mixture based on the pleasant taste then insisted he reveal the ingredients; "the bits of the chicken left behind". From the brains to the blood this soup was every other part of the chicken which was now presented to us with rice and vegetables. I was pleased to see the feet remained on this platter on the table and shrugged my shoulders. What can I say? That made that soup taste pretty good and must contain vital nutrients!</b></span></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">The second course of chicken, cabbage soup, rice and a plate of green vegetables was now served and the reached into the back of the cabinet and presented us with shot glasses. In a bowl they mixed a local vodka with rice wine; a similar, strong rice spirit similar that what we were served in Sapa. The food was enjoyed between shots of this neutral tasting spirit (<i>neutral being: Diluted petrol- ED)</i>. The plate of green vegetables turned out to be just as easy as broccoli, my favourite! "Sou sou sow!" they informed us slowly and howled at our attempt to repeat the names of the dishes before us in Vietnamese. It wasn't long before we had gone through two bowls of the spirt and upon completion revealed a 'special bottle'; a brown spirit made from fermented tree roots. They watched me carefully as I accepted the first shot and were pleased as I smiled in approval at this earthy tasting substance. "Healthy!" they informed me. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">A few cats and a couple of dogs roamed around our feel as we continued sharing shots, food and life stories. Laptops came out as we tried to explain to them the concept of 'the Arctic'. They saw the photos but I don't think they comprehended what they were looking at as is the case with just about every Asian person when we attempt the explanation of what an Ice Road Trucker is. The concept of -60 degrees, frozen lakes strong enough to withstand a 50 ton truck and dancing lights in the sky so impossibly foreign to them they just can't get their head around it. In turn, they showed us pictures of the progress since the project began to dam the river and the building of the road from its humble beginnings. A video soon followed of an attempt to reach this site in the rainy season; deep pools of mud along this undeveloped road proved tough going to even their 4x4 vehicles, the 90 minute journey taking them closer to seven hours to complete that day and I was thankful we had found the road in as 'good' a condition as it was. We retired soon after with heartfelt thanks and many smiles; laying our heads upon slightly mouldy pillows and mattress I was thankful for my silk sleep sack and its built in hood. The sounds of Vietnamese music from the office next door and frequent short rain showers upon a tin roof lulled us to sleep.</span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">After a breakfast of rice and chicken 'porridge' they humbly refused our proffered payment; our first experience with Vietnamese people who were not after our wallets left us feeling like we had partaken in a sincere example of local hospitality and although it was nothing less than I would have offered had the fortunes been reversed, it was refreshing beyond belief. Shaking hands we bid our saviours farewell, passed back through the village offering big smiles and waves to anyone who glanced in our direction (sending children running, giggling with glee) and onwards across the muddy path back towards Dalat. </span></b></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b>We paused to give sore bums a break at a roadside cafe built to accommodate maybe 150 people, but empty at this time of year. We had a meagre lunch and set off for a short wander in search of a waterfall the signs advertised at the side of the road. Being low season we had the place to ourselves and descended the way from the restaurant to the plateau of the falls, looking down upon them and into a gorge which disappeared into the distance. Searching for a different perspective we found a trail and made our way to the valley floor before turning back upstream to follow the river to the base of the falls. It was here, deep in a gorge we found, for the first time, that sense of peace and solitude I was hoping to find coming into the Central Highlands of the country. Choosing our route we climbed up the rocks alongside the falls, imagining the impressive scene this must be in full flood and finally having to utilize strong roots to pull ourselves back up onto the high plateau.</b></span></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">We wandered around Dalat (a popular honeymoon getaway for the Vietnamese) on our last day making use of the last hours of moto freedom by paying a visit to a fabulous artist studio. Run as a collective operation for painters, sculptors and needleworkers and displaying some wonderful, intricate and original work. The needle work was especially impressive including 3D work and another style of such fine stitch we believed them to be painted until some very close inspection with a magnifying glass revealed otherwise. We paused briefly at the entrance to the flower gardens, with its pair of dragons formed out of hedgerow protecting the gateway and getting lucky with a shadow of cloud across the sky for the photo, although the gardens themselves were shut at the time.</span></b><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b>We also payed a visit to Wat Linh Son which overlooks the northern half of the town. The rear garden boasts a seven story pagoda, decorated with broken porcelain pieces of many colours, making pictures and flowers in relief, in bold colours. Most interesting here was the image of Buddha. Set in a landscape depicting Vietnamese boats upon a sea, the figure of Buddha sits on an outcrop under a bhodi tree; the spot at which he gained enlightenment some 2500 years ago. Presumably due to the communist regime actively discouraging belief in anything other than the 'system' the figure has had its porcelain removed, the features and colour scratched out as if to erase the Buddha from the image entirely although the rest of the scene remains in pristine condition. I found this to be one of the most fascinating defacements I have ever seen and would love to know more about the circumstances but can only assume.</b></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8ftv6J1X9a3Bf6s5SuQ_6nzdyqtVbQtWT5XW0ilh59UOgJdI9fVWlduTeinoYvgzYaUrAbRyEpqjV6l07srWSeDBMIUmhW_4lWPm027Op6hKAkcF5SwJEYGxy-pgBMXnBitJb5FwOSVCN/s1600/Dalat+-+A+man+and+his+ox.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8ftv6J1X9a3Bf6s5SuQ_6nzdyqtVbQtWT5XW0ilh59UOgJdI9fVWlduTeinoYvgzYaUrAbRyEpqjV6l07srWSeDBMIUmhW_4lWPm027Op6hKAkcF5SwJEYGxy-pgBMXnBitJb5FwOSVCN/s400/Dalat+-+A+man+and+his+ox.jpg" width="400" /></a><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">In another yard on the temple grounds, a wall is decorated with panels telling the story of a man and his ox from capture, to journey, to work, to the bond between the man and his beast. There are many other murals on the outer wall panels, some of which are still works in progress, none of which have religious symbology. Instead they are dedicated to the joys of the natural world, in fantastic, almost grotesque style and bright cartoon colours. It was a fascinating garden when compared with the temples we have visited throughout Thailand in particular and we spent over an hour wandering the gardens alone. The other thing shocking about the place to our western eyes was the proliferation of swastika emblems. To us (in the west) of course the swastika is inescapably linked to the nazis but it is a much, much older symbol than that having been used throughout the past 3000 thousand years by many cultures including as the official emblem on Americas 45th Infantry Division between the 1920's and 30's and in Asia it simply means 'The Word' - to represent life, sun, power, strength and good luck. Window frames are filled with the image repeated many times over and it is used extensively the decoration of Wat Linh Son. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Later we spent the evening walking the towns evening markets, chuckling at the holiday makers in puffer jackets, wooly jumpers, toques, scarves and gloves. I was comfortable in the cooler temperature of the hills and hardly found that 15 degrees warranted winter attire. Children greeted us and adults offered friendly (if somewhat equally baffled) smiles as they eyed our shorts and T-shirts. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">The experience here was far from what I imagined it would be. The people we met were exceptional in their treatment of us, both from the good as well as the bad. We never did do the hiking we had come here for for, found only a little of the 'small town' attitude we hoped for and were disappointed and delighted by both the countryside and the people of it, in equal measures. Despite the mental image I had en route to Dalat being nothing at all like the reality of the place, it was one surprise after another. </span></b><br />
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ofParadiseVisionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08535511199313264230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-501971850732172162.post-131723235942486492012-09-05T04:18:00.000-07:002012-09-05T04:18:25.064-07:00Colours of Hoi An, Vietnam<br />
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b>Aug 9th, 2012 - Aug 15, 2012</b></span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b>The smell of seafood and spices hangs heavily in the air as freshly caught fish are brought to the chopping board. Brightly coloured herbs and spices, vegetables and fruit in bamboo baskets line the streets as we wander through the morning market of Hoi An. Traders call to us in attempt to interest us in their fresh goods but unfortunately we don't have a kitchen. Only the residents are up at this early hour leaving the streets free of all but a few tourists allowing us to blend with local life. </b></span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b>The beating of drum and gong resonates in the distance and we allow the pulsations to guide us away from the market through the otherwise quiet streets. The narrow lane ways are lined with carved teak wood storefronts engraved with characters foreign to my eyes, accented by lush green plants and colourful Chinese lanterns glowing red, yellow, white, orange or purple.</b></span></span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">The rhythm of the drums grow stronger as we are lured to a small gathering of people outside a Taoist temple. Finding a space along the side of the road we are greeted with welcoming smiles. A religious celebration of sorts? A group of performers are lined up in pairs dancing in circle, their heads covered with small Vietnamese sun hats decorated with multicoloured circles. Each is dressed in a tunic with a red tabard. A priest in fearsome regalia leads them hither and thither in a snake trail dance around the entranceway to the shrine. Probably dressed as a protector, the man leading constantly bangs on a small gong, the noise (as Peter had told me whilst we were with him in Taiping) was to ward off evil spirits. The priest dances with the energy of a man himself possessed, his long false beard and makeup masking his true face as disguise lest he anger the evil spirits and they 'know' him. The others follow his looping path, their arms folded, their faces emotionless, with shuffling steps. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">A small brass band prepare their instruments as the crowd stirs; clearing space on the road in anticipation. A procession leaves the shrine. The band leads off and three monks follow them down the street. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Two pairs of men carrying a shoulder pole between them, suspended from which are the drum and the gong, come next and then 15 or so people carry a platform from within. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">It was at his point that we realize that this vibrant celebration is actually a funeral. Family members emerge last with tears in the eyes, the immediate relations dressed entirely in white. They are followed by the assembled mourners from the road. We join them for a while. Only one shop has opened their doors at this early hour; a jewellery shop which presents a small shrine with pictures of an elderly women; presumably her place of work. Allowing family and friends to accompany her to her final resting place we drop away from the group. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b>The morning was warming and we claimed places on low plastic chairs, drinking coffee and the familiar bitter green tea at a riverside setup where a women dressed in pyjamas (as so many do here) serves hot drinks from the front room of her home. A small canal diverts some of the waters from the river beside us and is spanned by a Japanese bridge with a tiled rooftop and Buddhist pagoda attached to one side; the gateway to Old town, the former Japanese settlement once divided from the rest of the village.</b></span></span></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl2wugZKYaQIkGFb0naLjRTPDUbc3jCMwci_92iDSLIsOI4AJ183rZJ34wQIufGRicE3OwjGRacC5jf198oQ2iVAQTLpbkou5NU-3OdBDYuqIt-tqfO0u1RLJWDk7TKnlRDE2w6MccvM5g/s1600/Hoi+An+-+The+bridge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="252" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl2wugZKYaQIkGFb0naLjRTPDUbc3jCMwci_92iDSLIsOI4AJ183rZJ34wQIufGRicE3OwjGRacC5jf198oQ2iVAQTLpbkou5NU-3OdBDYuqIt-tqfO0u1RLJWDk7TKnlRDE2w6MccvM5g/s400/Hoi+An+-+The+bridge.jpg" width="400" /></a><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">We cross a larger red bridge adorned with yet more hanging Chinese paper lanterns, perpendicular to the layout of the old town centre, to the opposite side of the river and wander rather aimlessly through the streets as they begin to thicken with people. It is still only 0730 as we follow the streets away from the main village centre into the residential areas of Hoi An. Children are encouraged by parents to greet us with smiles, some stoping us in the street to introduce an infant in a sling on their backs to our white faces. The mood of people has drastically changed now that we are in the southern half of the country. The desire for our business remains the same but we are no longer faced with unwelcoming glances, comments and downright rudeness we found in the north. </span></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijwvoSVykXjyY3ogHmWINxNwCXqq0jJfHddYAtOR6P8r7FjUsh7kvs-OnxJIxPkHlPj-vgiHh5M6q68Do8LvU0E11jtM-AeXgm8fk4uiLd4X-n4jAiKSYJckqQwFAZ2NmLw_0zYqugKzva/s1600/Hoi+An+-+Those+eyes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijwvoSVykXjyY3ogHmWINxNwCXqq0jJfHddYAtOR6P8r7FjUsh7kvs-OnxJIxPkHlPj-vgiHh5M6q68Do8LvU0E11jtM-AeXgm8fk4uiLd4X-n4jAiKSYJckqQwFAZ2NmLw_0zYqugKzva/s320/Hoi+An+-+Those+eyes.jpg" width="213" /></a><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">We follow a river path lined with homes which seem to be constructed with any means and material available, set within thin bamboo forests. Children playing look up at us, each and every one of them cheerfully greeting us in perhaps the only english word they know. The positive energy offered here washes away the feelings of trepidation, paranoid sub-text and claustrophobia we got used to in Hanoi.</span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Meeting one of the main roads back into town, we follow it, facing the traffic as motorbikes and minibuses blaze their horns in passing; overtaking, turning, stopping and starting. We purchase some fresh fruit to share and bite into the shells of longan berries; the shell cracks easily and teeth peel it down before squeezing fingers pop an aromatic, juicy fleshed fruit, about the size of a cherry but with a more concentrated and sweeter flavour than a lychee. Certainly one of my favourite fruits found in SE Asia and we have taken to buying several hundred grams of them before boarding our longer road journeys.</span></b></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b>We are drawn to the side of the road by intense heat cast upon an iron cylinder as it rotates through the power of an electric motor, spitted over a fire. Granted permission with a nod and a smile from the lady working within a narrow, long room, stretching back from the footpath, we entered her space and were immediately engulfed in temperature far higher than the morning heat outside. The language barrier restricted us from finding out what the small bean like things were that she was roasting (they could have been seeds or grain too) and we walked away fascinated with the procedure, non the wiser for our curiosity and overwhelmed with the realization that this women spends her entire day within this oven. One of the countless single trader operations across the peninsula.</b></span></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">As the sun rises higher in the sky the temperature too rose to over 30 degrees. The streets of Old Town are flooded with tourists and I am looking forward to our afternoon siesta. After a late morning brunch from our favourite restaurant we return to the shade of our guesthouse and escape the heat until evening is upon us when the hundreds of Chinese lanterns light the streets and riverside. </span></b></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b>The ratio of Western to Vietnamese tourists just about evens out as the light fails. Mad dogs and Englishmen are the only moving animals in the midday sun but during the evening many families are out soaking up the atmosphere of this exceptionally preserved ancient town. Store fronts offer an abundance of beautiful, quality clothing. Jewellery, art, museums and many restaurants line the streets, their doors and shutters flung wide, allow aromas and laughter to escape into the narrow roads with equal abundance. A SE Asian trading port from the 15th to 19th century with both local and foreign influence, Hoi An was once the largest harbour in SE Asia which brought it enormous wealth at the time. These days the importance of preserving the architecture (a glorious mix of Chinese, Japanese and French) and heralded as the best example of an 18th century fishing port of the region, has branded Hoi An as a UNESCO world heritage site which amongst other things allows the town to apply for UN funding for the maintenance and upkeep, helping to keep the coffers if not full, at least solvent for the foreseeable future.</b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b>We sat in a courtyard and watched characters perform a musical and noisy 'bingo' style game for the kids, which we might have joined had we had the faintest idea what was going on. The cacophony of PA assisted vocals complete with a quartette of traditional string, wind and percussion instruments providing great entertainment for the nationals and prizes for the winners. People were setting origami boats with lighted candles afloat, down upon the river waters from the bridge and when I learnt from Julian that the litter was cleared every morning by two workmen in a rowboat, I happily parted with my dollar to the elderly women making a living selling them and made my own wish to be taken with the current.</b></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRjgdryrRUa9uC6BxGOXubFeK-IKj5ekPT-d8PO5ALXiVzJK1YgGg_gaojjejN7p-YVQ8Z1cFxzCiaCuleF69jTVZhg4giocnQbih4xd6Q4hIQo0UeBxs0pKjGgwTUMjYPFJ5Q1upChl7z/s1600/Hoi+An+-+Hats+V.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRjgdryrRUa9uC6BxGOXubFeK-IKj5ekPT-d8PO5ALXiVzJK1YgGg_gaojjejN7p-YVQ8Z1cFxzCiaCuleF69jTVZhg4giocnQbih4xd6Q4hIQo0UeBxs0pKjGgwTUMjYPFJ5Q1upChl7z/s400/Hoi+An+-+Hats+V.jpg" width="400" /></a><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">As we sat upon the curb soaking up the atmosphere I found myself entranced by an old woman who sat hunched over a small blanket covered with a handful of merchandise and I couldn't help but wonder why she was not at home being taken care of by family. Wizened in her advanced years, and short on effort compared to the younger enthusiastic generation of street merchants, she hardly looked up at the people passing by and I never saw her stand. Perhaps for 20 minutes I watched her. I never saw her make a sale, although there were those who donated money from the hearts. She appeared so alone and I longed to know her story but alas, never will. Just another soul in many that I will never get to speak with, another life so remarkably differing from my own.</span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Tour agents everywhere listed My Son to be the place for sunrise; a site of Hindu influence, ruins from the ancient Cham dynasty who ruled central Vietnam from 200AD to 1700AD and is considered the most important site of the Champa Kingdom. As usual, we sought out the most cash flow friendly means of visiting the site and hired a motorbike to set off to My Son some 35km from Hoi An. Our (or should I say, Julians) first time on a motorbike in Vietnam was off to a tense start as vehicles travelling in the opposite direction came directly towards us. One lane was utilized for three or four vehicles side by side or overtaking and roundabouts could apparently be tackled going in any direction. No signposts pointed us the right way and at the first major town we encountered a uniformed officer of sorts sent us entirely in the wrong direction lengthening our journey by about 300%. We found ourselves in rural countryside where children and adults alike greeted us as we passed calling loud 'Hellos' from porches, roadside and gardens. I was quite happy with this experience while Julian (being the only one to really keep a mental map and any sense of direction what so ever) was growing increasingly frustrated. </span></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVyntYBYBYzd3llRmkHEDEXrGu1iF5rnyrC1x6J5JIie8totR8QLLa-dm-_zl-9DH8EjXy4eVvB0aoYAbMvf9nCSeT208APUuax8ovMe7MrkyurNSzQH2UR93oaHKuf2pyvGcpbCHE-oGn/s1600/Hoi+An+-+My+Son.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVyntYBYBYzd3llRmkHEDEXrGu1iF5rnyrC1x6J5JIie8totR8QLLa-dm-_zl-9DH8EjXy4eVvB0aoYAbMvf9nCSeT208APUuax8ovMe7MrkyurNSzQH2UR93oaHKuf2pyvGcpbCHE-oGn/s400/Hoi+An+-+My+Son.jpg" width="266" /></a><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Leaving at 0530 was in vain as we missed the sunrise and hit the ruins as the late morning (9am) heat intensified and coach loads of tourists arrived. The journey of 35km had taken us three hours! The motorbike ride to and from the site was more exciting than the site itself which is in a major state of disrepair and poorly managed. The effect of hundreds of tourists arriving every day and allowed to wander at will through and over the remains, is obviously causing more destruction than preservation. We visited about half a dozen piles of bricks that day and understand why this is of national importance to the Vietnamese but could not comprehend why this was of enough international importance to be considered a World Heritage site. There are more than 70 temples on the site, built between the 4th and the 14th century. The building was completed without the use of mortar which in itself is a marvel considering the scale of the construction but the damage was done and most of the architecture destroyed in a single week, by the Americans carpet bombing the area during the Vietnam war. We left with a distinct feeling that UNESCO has arrived to the party a little late and it's really a case of shutting the stable door after the horse has bolted. Nothing but a complete rebuild would bring the site to approach it's former glory and although it's a site of a civilization long since demised, we're not sure the efforts are in vain and limited resources could be better directed elsewhere.</span></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnSnTTxi9ICQq4Z2aeUPHGwxF9Fp265YbIqBwi-LTBpX_mlV8-RinJVV7-rAXihvhXN1O2QAX2qCx3987cCyxS248Ivfm-EKsT66TyTtH2b1IPcV5hLf0lXTWCymJGaYnY4fB6em_963vi/s1600/Hoi+An+-+Beach.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnSnTTxi9ICQq4Z2aeUPHGwxF9Fp265YbIqBwi-LTBpX_mlV8-RinJVV7-rAXihvhXN1O2QAX2qCx3987cCyxS248Ivfm-EKsT66TyTtH2b1IPcV5hLf0lXTWCymJGaYnY4fB6em_963vi/s400/Hoi+An+-+Beach.jpg" width="400" /></a><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Having spent a few days in Hoi Ans' Old Town we took advantage of the hired motorbike and set off to the beach to find that we had only just touched on what Hoi An had to offer. We found an additional 5km of city we never knew existed en route to the sea front which is blessed with some of the finest white sand I have ever set my feet upon. Parking the bike, we wandered across the sand between the hundreds of Vietnamese families who holiday here and basked in the warm waters of the South China sea (or Eastern Ocean as the Vietnamese maps show it) as the sun set. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Hoi An proved to be a beautiful escape from the chaos of Vietnamese cities where we stayed a few days longer than expected and upon reflection a month later could be among our favourite places in SE Asia thus far. There is a relaxed atmosphere of a holiday town an the gorgeous buildings with pockets of noisy hustle and bustle in the market places. Everywhere you look, the fine and iconic Vietnamese sun hats and brightly coloured pyjamas worn by the women folk are prevalent reminding us we "ain't in Kansas any more".</span></b></div>
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ofParadiseVisionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08535511199313264230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-501971850732172162.post-89616215736130800042012-09-02T23:48:00.000-07:002012-09-03T00:14:04.863-07:00Historical Hue and tour of the DMZ, Vietnam<br />
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<b>Aug 6th, 2012 - Aug 9th, 2012</b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">In Hue, the former capital of Vietnam, 13 hours south by bus of Halong Bay and just below the DMZ, I began to attempt to alter my body clock to suit 'Asian style'. To my deep dissatisfaction the alarm sounded far to early for my liking at 0600. The sun had been up for well over an hour and the markets were in full swing, the town going about its daily business never sparing a thought for my lost hours of slumber. Julian looked at me expectantly waiting for me to roll over and leave him to his morning as usual but to his undisguised amazement, I sat up, gave him a grumpy face and was out the door moments later. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">To my surprise the morning air was cool, almost chilly and Julian confirmed that indeed this was average temperature for this time of day. The streets were already busy with life. On the sidewalk ladies sat on low plastic stools with fires burning under hot pots of noodle soup or water for the bitter Vietnamese green tea or black, sludge like coffee sweetened with condensed milk. We wandered through the streets and admired a garden of large potted bonsai trees, complimenting the owner in passing as he swept the yard with the standard reed brush. We continued, crossing a bridge over the brown waters and working boats of the Perfume River, the brightly coloured tourist 'dragon' boats still yet to make an appearance and headed for the historic citadel; another UNESCO World Heritage Site.</span></b></div>
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<b>Through a stone archway we entered the outermost walls of the fortress city. At the centre and between two entrance tunnels on the wall stands a flagpole with the largest Vietnamese flag you ever did see. No vehicles are allowed in this part although the hum of motorbikes and the constant sound of horns, our soundtrack to Vietnam, permeated the air. In contrast to my tired, burning eyes, the locals partook in their daily exercises, both in groups or singularly as we crossed a bridge spanning a moat and headed for the entrance to the Imperial Palace.</b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifQ_cB3SUu5z4M7FSIDI8HsgGuga1U2q5VP7HY2dX_CsvysAJvZfbU4ulCu0dUFWdEgKPJAXiBR0ZzyT7BlDAxiOv7Hmsaz90QQoR-INYv12Asldr1dIQHl-lxtPqBk9Fa0han4QxFzqiC/s1600/Hue+-+Imperial+Palace+the+great+hall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifQ_cB3SUu5z4M7FSIDI8HsgGuga1U2q5VP7HY2dX_CsvysAJvZfbU4ulCu0dUFWdEgKPJAXiBR0ZzyT7BlDAxiOv7Hmsaz90QQoR-INYv12Asldr1dIQHl-lxtPqBk9Fa0han4QxFzqiC/s400/Hue+-+Imperial+Palace+the+great+hall.jpg" width="400" /></a><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Passing through the exterior gateway, lanterns hang above a intricately carved bridge. The path leads up to the first of the 150+ buildings making up the palace compound. The building is guarded by ferocious stone lions which unusually face the palace rather than looking out from it. Inside, a throne sits on a dias in front of double doors, awaiting the imperial derriere. The massive, double gabled roof is supported by red pillars and poems written in gold chinese characters adorn the cross beams. There is room inside for perhaps 500 of the most senior military and civil chiefs who would be summoned, twice a month, for audience with the emperor. Here they would assemble according to rank; the military to the emperors right and the civilians to the left in full ceremonial dress, as the business of running the empire was determined and awards for service were rendered. This was as far as most ever got (the great unwashed would be addressed from a balcony on the gateway building) and it was the limit of intrusion allowed to the imperial family's sanctuary for all but the most important diplomats and senior officials. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Beyond the reception hall many courtyards, segregated by walls and covered walkways divide the palace compound according to a structured design. To the west are the hospital and accommodation quarters for diplomats and more distant relatives who visited. To the east, the emperors mothers' residence; her own personal space defined and separated from the rest of the palace by its own high wall. The emperors mothers' quarters were among the most beautiful and were mostly spared during the bombings. The faded yellow exterior, beautiful gardens and equally faded stone gateway looks exactly like a place I would have my own mother reside (when she comes of an age where I might lock her away behind 15m outer walls). Some of the walkways are already in the process of an extensive 'ground up' rebuild and craftsmen and the sounds of power tools and hammers periodically break the peace of the palace as they begin the days work. Most however are nothing more than foundations and it takes a fair amount of imagination to picture the palace in its glory.</span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Hue is situated very near to the north/south divide (on the southern side) and suffered from considerable damage which is still evident today. The American bombing in 1968 all but flattened the Imperial City which was then left unattended after the war because they were seen as "relics from the feudal regime" by the victorious socialists. Bullet wounds still pierce the walls of some of sites awaiting restoration; a project which is expected to take many years. All that remains of the emperors palace in the Forbidden City is the remittence of blue and white ceramic floor tiles.</span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">As the late morning heat accumulated over the city we made our way back through the grounds, easing past the coach loads of Japanese tourists that by this time were beginning to crowd the palace and retreated to our room for siesta. Thankful for the early start which allowed us to have had the grounds pretty much to ourselves; to imagine the eunuchs wandering the same paths as we did. The soundtrack of ball meeting racket whilst the last emperor played tennis in the court he had built to accommodate his passion, as his mother, maybe, sipped her morning tea in the gazebo overlooking her fish pond and diplomats from lands near and far, waited in the wings for their audience at the seat of Vietnamese power. Not accustomed to taking naps I was surprised how easily I slept the afternoon away and rose as the heat of the day began to diminish, feeling refreshed and ready to explore into the evening. Usually at this time of day I feel drained and overheated; perhaps I could get used to "Asian time". </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Originally intending to forgo the DMZ (Demilitarized Zone) tour in Hue over the Cu Chi military tunnels further south, we were encouraged by a Dutch man over a beer that evening to do it the other way around. Having done both tours we took his advice and once again woke early the following day for our 13 hour bus tour. This narrow band of terrain extending along the 17th parallel from the Laos border to the coast formed the boarder between North and South Vietnam. I found it difficult to believe that this spectacular mountain scenery and dense, rugged jungles saw some of the heaviest fighting during the war and has a dark, bloody history to tell. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">I was hoping that I would be as enthralled with this tour as I have been visiting other places of historical importance over the years and I would love to tell you the DMZ tour was as fascinating as the history that surrounds that unfortunate strip of land. I would love to tell you about the heroic struggle of the barely trained farmers and tradesmen that made up the majority of Viet Cong forces from the north. Their battle to exile the armies of democracy (read 'American invaders') from their homeland and oust the Christian led regime from the south. Unbeknownst they were just pawns; a side attraction in the Great Game being played out by the worlds two great super powers of the age, hell bent on waging death and destruction across the world in the name of control, money and power whilst attempting to keep such death and destruction from their own back yards. But you know all this and a tour of the DMZ does little to give more than the theoretical knowledge that books provide. Of course, history is written by the victors, and in this case it was interesting to read the words with a socialist spin, but besides that, the only visit of real note during the day was exploring the Vinh Moc Tunnels; three levels of underground civilian refuge. It was fascinating to see the tiny spaces in which entire families might spend 5 days, complete with communal kitchen, toilets and water wells. Julian and I managed to loose the rest of our group to explore this cavern in solitude. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b>In all honesty I cannot put the day into better or drier tones than the report of the same tour (in 2006) on Travelfish which I came upon during my research. If you would like to read about a mirror of our day, you may find it here: </b></span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">http://www.travelfish.org/feature/80 </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Ultimately the tour was about one thing and one thing only in a very long 13 hours. When all the shouting was said and done (from the mighty banks of speakers along the river that hurled propaganda from both sides across the water) we ended at the Viet Cong cemetery. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">When the powers of the world collide and the politicians stop talking there is only one outcome. You end up with lots and lots of dead people.</span></b></div>
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ofParadiseVisionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08535511199313264230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-501971850732172162.post-27996237040237162232012-09-01T18:34:00.000-07:002019-11-17T18:41:22.012-08:00Missed Vietnam train, Cat Ba Island and Halong Bay<br />
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Aug 2nd, 2012 - Aug 6th, 2012</span></b></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 14px;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Our return to Hanoi was anticipated along with the rest of the inclusives of our tour. We were dropped in Lau Cai after the ride from Bac Ha and left to our own devices for a few hours. These we used to fill our stomachs with an early evening meal along with a few beers with fellow traveller. Satisfied we returned to collect our bags and whilst I paid one last visit to the conveniences Julian waited outside and fell into a conversation with a gentleman of advancing years, also waiting for his train back to Hanoi. It turned out that the gentleman had been living with his family as a child in Hanoi when the DMZ was formed in 1954. Together, as a family, they relocated to Saigon and initially under French protection remained there throughout the next two decades. They finally left their homeland as some of the 'Vietnamese boat people' in 1978 to eventually settling in Paris, France. He was here as a part of a tour group and must have made a fascinating traveling companion; our conversation with him was riveting enough that when I urged Julian to check his watch we discovered that not only were we three not waiting for the <i>same</i> train, but ours had been due to roll out of the station some 10 minutes prior. </span></b></span><br />
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">We made our hasty and ultimately fruitless dash across the road to the station and, of course, this was to be our first experience of public transport actually running on time in Asia. Our train was long gone towards the big city no doubt with two passengers celebrating their unexpected fortune at having a four berth compartment to themselves. A few moments of frantic panic ensued. It was Sunday evening, the busiest day of the week for trains back to Hanoi and we knew how difficult it would have been to organize our own train tickets into Lao Cai. But in Asia there are always those people on the fringe of legality prepared to take advantage of the huge amount of tourists and in Lao Cai it was no different. Within five minutes we had ascertained all tickets from the box office for that night were sold and had offers from two touts with tickets to two different stations in Hanoi. We'd have to drop down from first to sixth class but we could get back to the capital for $40. Julian made his choice between the two scalpers and between them they did the deal whilst the other came to try and haggle with me. Eventually we had two tickets in hand; a six berth compartment to Gia Lam, the Hanoi station on the opposite side of the river from where we wanted to be. It didn't look that far on the guys smart phone and we had nothing better to do at 5am the following morning so the walk should be pleasant enough back to our hotel. The trouble with doing things in a hurry, with elevated stress levels and on the fly with language barriers to boot, is that you don't really have time to discuss options and maybe you don't get all the information available. The woman was offering two tickets to the station we actually wanted to go to, for less money and in a higher class berth whilst the guy Julian was dealing with was telling us we could hang on one station more (just pay when you get there) to get to Long Bien on the western side of the Song Hong (Red River) where we wanted to be. When all the shouting was done amidst the chaos of passengers milling around the overheated, packed station all we knew was we needed to get on 'X' train at 'Y' time to get back to Hanoi.</span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">When we arrived at Gia Lam and unable to confirm where the train was heading next (due to those aforementioned language barriers) we alighted where and when we were told our ticket was bound for. After a check of the indispensable Lonely Planet we headed off on foot, Julian leading out with his usual confidence assuring me he knew exactly where we were going relying on a handheld compass looking for "a river". When we came to a waterway I thought may be the river I was sure we had walked far enough and suggested we might cross it at the next opportunity that presented itself. Out came the compass again and with finality he said he was looking for a river "a little bigger and going the other way". Coming to a T-junction and picking a direction at random we turned right hoping to reach one of the two bridges that the map showed crossing Song Hong and ended up being spat out right in the middle of them both. </span></b></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b>The one we ended up choosing was the rail bridge. Not quite as bad as it might have been in another city; there was only a single track down the centre of the bridge and on either side a narrow road way and alongside those, walkways at the outer edges. The roads were reserved for Vietnams preferred method of travel; motorbikes. It was 7am now and the westbound stream of traffic poured into the city; three, sometimes four lanes thick. In those 30 minutes it took us to cross that bridge I've never seen anything like it. As anticipated, the river was a "little bigger" than the one we'd come across earlier and across that bridge we were accompanied by a steady stream of bikes, horns blazing for reasons I couldn't comprehend. We were the only pedestrians on the bridge, often having to move aside for moto's utilizing the sidewalks, earning curious stares and smiles from amused drivers every time we paused to take in the spectacle of thousands upon thousands of bikes crossing the bridge like a column of ants heading for the nest. It seemed never ending and whilst we were there, it didn't. For all I know the stream of traffic is still steadily moving citywards even now.</b></span></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Approaching Hanoi by foot across that bridge is something I will never forget. We paused, watching the river and the fishing boats amongst the reeds. Beyond the rivers edge are lush, flooded banana plantations and vegetable patches clinging to the reclaimed but unbuildable mudflats of the rivers' last 400 metres of width. More boats putted between the two sections which were split by a wide channel perhaps some 75m across. This relatively peaceful scene might have been represented almost anywhere along the major rivers of the Asian peninsula, but only here is there the chaotic, crammed to bursting backdrop of Hanoi's old town and the constant accompaniment of thousands of moto's cruising past us at 20 kph. It was such a sensory overload, we could only turn to each other and laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. The noise, the chaos, the masses of people on bikes was absurd! The meeting of the river life we enjoyed a few days earlier as we meandered down the Mekong lay below us, whilst in front, behind and just inches away, the hubbub and hum of an Asian metropolis. Whilst I know that one depended on the other, the visual separation between the two worlds was absolute and rigid. A undulating line of square, low story box buildings bordering the wide, rippling, green leaves of the banana trees and looking down along the sharp edge of the bridge, the mechanical thunder of a train rumbling alongside the bikes, against the gentle flow of muddied waters far below us. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">It's definitely not a walk we would have found listed in a guidebook and we certainly would not have chosen to do it with backpacks on, but this perception of the city in the morning light was so overwhelmingly "Hanoi" that I wonder if it should warrant a small recommendation in the backpackers bible. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">As we learned when arranging our visit to Sapa, tours are hard to get away from in Hanoi. It took ages for us to find an alternative to the common coach tours to our next destination. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">When you think of Vietnam, surely the UNSECO heritage site of Halong Bay is one of the first imagines that come to mind. When it comes to visiting this stunning part of the world I had this lovely imagine painted in my head inspired by New Zealand experiences. Renting out a kayak for a couple of days and paddling in solitude amongst the giant limestone formations rising steeping from the South China sea; precisely one of the many ways to explore Able Tasman National Park. Agents continuously offering guided tours where every moment is strictly structured was to be avoided at all costs and I was determined to find alternative options. Fortunately, Wiki Travel had a solution; the large island of Cat Ba, south of Halong Bay, offers accommodation and a base for the Halong Bay experience. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Getting off the bus at a quay on the mainland appeared to be one of the most unlikely locations for this renowned site. The hydrofoil pulled out of the port where rubbish and oil polluted the brown, murky surface. Wooden shacks on stilts served as homes and fishing bases and farms which all finally gave away to clearer waters as we headed for a mountainous mass in the distance. Steeping onto Cat Ba island was like stepping into Jurassic Park; steep, jagged, limestone mountains rise amongst dense rainforest. First impressions during our 20 minute drive across the island suggested an almost pristine, stunning landscape. Arriving at a sea side 'resort town' we were approached by numerous hotel operators who vied for the opportunity to quickly usher us to a sea view room for $12 per night (which we later learned was about to rise to $75 a fortnight later during a week of Vietnamese holiday). We chose the second offer and our balcony offered a lovely view of the bay; home to many fishing boats, tour boats and floating restaurants. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Seeking a meal as usual after arriving, we were rather turned off by the oppressing stares and rude remarks (we expect in Hanoi) coming from local restaurants and shops. It seemed nobody was pleased to see us and were even more irritated when we asked if they were serving lunch. Granted, it was the hottest part of the day when people usually 'turn off' for a few hours to escape the heat, and here were the two westerners asking if they would work. </span></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdkKlguEET8YbbQgqv__xSNDaGJShU6Vf5KUibnFzpEEJT2NkyzX52HIlLA7GvqKw5rKeCkg_X-alpTnf_5bfERucyLOM7zy_Ql7N_FL3HHVVasPwuQfSvPOh3OJIrwsY9J5fgyw0YN_ur/s1600/Cat+Ba.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdkKlguEET8YbbQgqv__xSNDaGJShU6Vf5KUibnFzpEEJT2NkyzX52HIlLA7GvqKw5rKeCkg_X-alpTnf_5bfERucyLOM7zy_Ql7N_FL3HHVVasPwuQfSvPOh3OJIrwsY9J5fgyw0YN_ur/s400/Cat+Ba.jpg" width="230" /></a><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">We also learned that afternoon that indeed, the only way of seeing Halong Bay was aboard a charted boat trip of which there were many at ranging prices; no option of an independent kayak expedition or solo excursion of any kind. Evening fell and neon lights lit the boats and coastline along the harbour reminding me more a seaside resort in Ibiza with the added tackiness of Clifton Hill in Niagara Falls. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">We walked for a while following a concrete path which wound its way around the outcrops above the sea in search of a ideal spot for a sunrise shoot and soon found the sea beckoning us into its depths. The sun had long since set so we striped off our clothing and allowed the warm salty waters to clear our sweat moistened pores. It wasn't long however before a flashlight shone and a whistle blew. The beach shut at sunset of course and in this part of the country, little men with loud whistles feel very important and wish everybody would just conform to the rules! Knowing full well we had invaded a private hotel beach, Julian played the incensed, misunderstanding, white boy resident tourist for a few minutes and berated the man for closing the sea, but we got dressed anyway and continued our stroll back to town feeling much refreshed after our dip.</span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">A bus was to pick us up the following morning and when it was late our host and tour agent had to make quick alternate arrangements; a man on one of the many small bamboo row boats that ply the harbour as taxis, had us board his craft. He was paid and quickly ushered us onto the bay. The job looks like far to much work and I can't help but wonder why he makes things so hard on himself. The oars resemble wooden sticks with not much of a 'paddle' on the end. He stood at the stern pushing all his weight into the ors with the mighty strength of his shoulders to transport us to a large, two decker snub nosed boat. It was clear that this was not the boat we were initially intended to board but we managed to bag ourselves the best seat in the house, legs dangling over the bow and offering us an unobstructed view whilst we glided over the water. As the day warmed, we chatted with others who would be amongst our company for the next eight hours hours, in particular a Canadian couple and a French lad.</span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">We skirted around the south shore of Cat Ba and up the east coast of the island towards Halong Bay. Cat Ba proved to be as striking as our first impression of the place had indicated and towered above us. We flowed between islands of limestone which dotted the coastline and I started to wonder if perhaps we should have spent the extra money for a climbing excursion rather than the boat tour. I wanted nothing more in that moment than to jump off the boat to get my hands on the fabulous rock formation offering what must be so many untouched routes. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">It was not long before my eyes could focus only on the absurd amount of rubbish littering the surface of the waters here. Drink bottles, lost sandals, cardboard and plastic of all sorts, little bits of styrofoam and occasionally entire boxes of the stuff. I silently morned for this place in my heart, baffled at how people can allow such an important and stunning place of natural beauty to become so badly littered by mindless actions of man. I have been deeply bothered my entire way up SE Asian peninsula at the endless amounts of rubbish which lay in heaps everywhere and to see it here was certainly the most disheartening. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Still, schools of fish could often be seen and spotting jellyfish soon became a game I played with myself. Jellyfish of all shapes and sizes, either clear or purple with long dangling tentacles or short ones, the smallest no bigger than my hand, the largest about half a meter across. Other than the floating plastic bags I wrongfully picked out as potential jellyfish, they appeared so beautiful from the bow of the boat despite how wary of them I am every time I step into the sea. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">The limestone formations grew in density; this area of 1,553 km2 is five million years in the making and consists of over 2,000 limestone islands each topped with thick jungle vegetation and each rising spectacularly from the sea offering around 2,000 inlets. After about 3 hours of cruising through these monoliths and marvelling at their water and weather sculpted shapes, we pulled into one of the inlets along with masses of other boats. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Alighting we followed hundreds of people in single file up stairs into the mouth of Grotte des </span></span></b><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Merveilles, one of the numerous islands which are hollow. The temperature mercifully dipped as we descended its depths into a massive chamber of stalagmites and stalactites, beautifully lit. We followed the wooden walkway deeper into the womb of the earth to find two more caverns larger than the first, perhaps 200m deep and with a (comparatively) narrow looking exit high up the outer wall. We followed a concrete path, up and down steps, laid to show the very best of the caves features and to protect the fragile and porous rock from millions of feet that pass through here each year. Trapsing in file with about 500 others we 'oooed and ahhhed' at the right places and tutted at those taking short cuts across the rock before exiting and dropping back down many stairs to sea level. We searched for our boat out of the many which were docked in the bay for the same daily purpose and were promptly served a lunch of spring rolls, tofu, fish, veggies and rice whilst our captain set sail for Cat Ba once again. </span></b></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b><b>The boat meandered amongst the bays until we pulled into an inlet and given an opportunity to jump from the boat for a swim followed by 45 minutes in a kayak. Relieved to rinse off, the warm waters were as refreshing as warm waters can be and soon after we eagerly secured a double seat kayak and went in the opposite direction of everyone else. We explored small caves, climbed up the rock and enjoyed our few moments of freedom in solitude. </b></b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b>Continuing to head home we putted through floating communities which are sustained through fishing and aquaculture; the people ply the shallow waters for fish and mollusks. In my option the islands here were among the most impressive yet I was further disheartened to find it the most polluted. Rubbish floated everywhere upon the surface and following every boat like a snail trail, the water was laden with an oily film glistening rainbow colours in the afternoon sun. We paused briefly on Monkey Island to 'enjoy' the small tropical beach with 300 other day tourists (and no monkeys) until we were once again summoned by the ships horn and our return to port.</b></span></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Leaving Cat Ba as fast as arrangements would allow, to head for the mainland south of the DMZ, our journey to Hue was split up with a three hour layover in Haiphong. Seeking some food we found ourselves in a sort-of-restaurant where nobody spoke english. We were offered a menu in Vietnamese and none the wiser pointed at the kebab meat slowly turning on the spit outside and ordered a couple sandwiches. As we finished out mediocre snack two Vietnamese girls walked in, sat beside us and one, in the most unexpected of accents, stated "It's hot here, eh?". </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Surprised, we soon learned she was from Vancouver visiting her family here in Haiphong. She has been eager to find fellow westerners, who are apparently few and far between in Haiphong and quickly took us under her wing. She ordered us some food out of what was essentially an ice cream parlour, then invited us to join her in a cab so she could pick up her car. We were soon being chauffeured around Haiphong amongst the craziness and horn blasting of Vietnamese traffic, on a whistle stop tour of the city before pausing down a back alleyway. A local woman working out of her home kitchen was producing some fabulous aromas and just dishing up the first of the evenings buffet. Pork prepared in a multitude of ways was on offer along with a delightfully seasoned tofu and tomato dish and the inevitable rice. Once we had stocked up for our evening meal, our new friend dropped us off at the bus station with some of Vietnams cheapest, freshest and <span style="text-decoration: underline;">finest</span> street food for our 10 hour overnight bus trip to Hue. I have no idea of the Canadian's name, nor of her cousin that accompanied us throughout that three hour layover. We didn't exchange e-mails nor even direct her to this blog. Maybe one day we'll meet again, probably not though, but what a wonderful and surprising encounter it was. </span></b><br />
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ofParadiseVisionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08535511199313264230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-501971850732172162.post-19652130403332345212012-08-30T07:59:00.002-07:002012-08-31T22:17:29.374-07:00Coming Home with the Black H'Mong tribe - Trekking Sapa, Vietnam (2 of 2)<br />
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<b> July 30th, 2012 - Aug 1st, 2012</b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b>Everyone woke the following morning with no trace of a hangover and we devoured a huge plater of pancakes with honey between us. My 6 year old friend had decided to join us, Julians porter strapped his backpack atop her bamboo basket, May and our group ready to go. The 15kg (about 30lbs) backpack on top of her bamboo basket must have been awful. It was top heavy and her shoulder straps offered no padding at all, the woven string digging into her gorgeous outfit. Slightly concerned for her well being I asked her if she was okay. Not once did she frown; "No problem! Not heavy!"</b></span></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdxKX_8NVN0Vm1PgZuAjkIfS3U374VTSxfe2t9smxpC-EyUJazfMQwq0IHVT06GTvcXUK9ld-xf_5jDYomPZB8jHmYg0QpTlY3wMofeWfl568ALsRfb4LYAKz-EgpdLFutGAtpO7f1I6r5/s1600/IMG_6853-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdxKX_8NVN0Vm1PgZuAjkIfS3U374VTSxfe2t9smxpC-EyUJazfMQwq0IHVT06GTvcXUK9ld-xf_5jDYomPZB8jHmYg0QpTlY3wMofeWfl568ALsRfb4LYAKz-EgpdLFutGAtpO7f1I6r5/s400/IMG_6853-2.jpg" width="282" /></a><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">May lead us through the village and guided us down paths which looked like private property although as we are learning, neither 'private' nor 'property' are defined as in the West. Doorways are open and any path immediately outside the house (or otherwise) is considered a right of way. Social etiquette determines personal space and the lines of privacy must be subtle inside where families of three or even four generations often sleep together in a single room. </span></b></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b>Looking back across the hillside as we progressed revealed a scene much like the previous day. Groups of both tourists and local tribeswomen joined us for this second day of trekking and parties were spread across many pathways scratched from the hillside and between the paddies to cultivatable level. A path just a muddy as yesterday led us amongst the rice and through a small bamboo forest. My young friend stuck by my side the entire way, offering me her hand when the going got steep. Despite being confident in my trekking abilities I took her hand anyway and allowed her to guid me along these trails. If anything, her hand made my steps slightly off balance and if I was going down, she was surely going down with me. Regardless of this, bless her little heart, she took my hand every time. I definitely was not getting out of this one; somewhere along the line I knew something in that bamboo basket of hers was going to find its way into my backpack and some of our hard earned was going the opposite way. </b></span></span></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Around midday we paused high up on the wall of the valley. A beautiful waterfall cascaded down the sandstone cliff into the valley below and May warned us to be careful. They lost a young trekker a while back when he explored too far to the edge which curved gradually and deceptively before becoming almost vertical We stopped here for a good half hour, washing boots, drinking in the stunning surroundings and the sunshine and indulging in final conversations before the end of the days hike in the village below us and across the valley floor. I was sure to tell all our local friends how fortunate they were to live in such a beautiful place. During my travels over the last seven years I have seen many places in many countries, across four continents and this valley is definitely within my top five. There is something about the lush green terraces, the natural lines being worked with rather than bulldozed through, the brown bamboo huts nestled into the landscape as if they belong and above it all the peaks of the hills that are part of the Hoang Lien Son mountain range, the eastern-most extremity of the Himalayas, reaching 3000 metres heavenward. It feels like a home.</span></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSAZGdMtwsF2trvMlyLCWE_NpC4k8nNWaPdufLxPffeq8kMlcFU1R2N-7W2T5Noi6sG38A_L7TntX_FE810ut3XDrNvf7FNS6Vn76VmsjORBokhAHm24toI-wuV7HhyrfIGe5RinByXy37/s1600/IMG_6755-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSAZGdMtwsF2trvMlyLCWE_NpC4k8nNWaPdufLxPffeq8kMlcFU1R2N-7W2T5Noi6sG38A_L7TntX_FE810ut3XDrNvf7FNS6Vn76VmsjORBokhAHm24toI-wuV7HhyrfIGe5RinByXy37/s400/IMG_6755-2.jpg" width="400" /></a><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">As the afternoon came to an end May linked arms with me and told me she wanted to touch snow with her hands. I whole heartedly offered my home to her. Over the last two days she has managed to create and personalize relationships with each couple in our group, managing somehow to make us all feel like she was 'our' guide. If I could, and if she were willing and wanting, I would show this girl the world. If I had the money I would fund her trip to Canada so she could touch the snow with her hands and maybe throw a couple skis on her feet. So she could feel the icy cold of the winters I love and see her breath with every exhale. I know though, that in reality she probably is not even able to obtain a passport; her people, moved on over the hills through the centuries from Myanmar or China through borders they had no concept of and they truly are not recognized as Vietnamese people. They are the Black H'Mong and she will continue to live vicariously through her tourists and maybe one day she will have enough money to continue her education at senior school. She speaks three languages fluently and is learning Dutch and Spanish now with a little German thrown in for good measure and though her happiness and her love of her home is obvious, I cannot help but wonder what would have become of such and open, peaceful and brilliant mind had she had the opportunities I have had.</span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">At the end of the trail we were once again accosted by women trying to sell us their handcraft. I only had one girl in my eyes though as I beckoned towards my young helper. She offered me small wallets and handbags and I picked her largest; an embroidered blue bag she made with her own hands. Then the bargaining began at 200,000 VND (about $10), a price higher than I expected her to start off. I hate this part! I bargained from 40,000 dong and eventually we met in the middle at 100,000 VND, a good days earnings for a six year old! </span></b></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b><b>Julian pulled a $20 note from his wallet to give to his eager sherpa. As he handed it to her, she went on to ask for an additional 100,000 VND on top of that telling him "the bag was heavy!" to which he replied "I know!" and shaking his head with a smile he refused. The bargain had been made and she could probably take the rest of the week off with her handsome sum. </b></b></span><br />
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">After a hug from May we boarded a minibus back to Sapa where were to spend the night at a hotel as well as being reunited with the remainder of our luggage. We wandered the weekend market of Sapa, where all the local hill tribes come to sell off their handicrafts and produce, dressed in their gorgeous handmade attire; the red headscarves of the Yao women and the intricate needlework geometrics of the Black H'Mong being the most prevalent. We were, however, financially wiped out from the previous two days and were unable to even think about any further purchases regardless of how beautiful these things were which made saying 'no' to every single merchant, every few metres, who called for our attention much easier, apart from a pair of earings Julian managed to bargain for me. They were similar in style to those worn by the Black H'Mong women and will always remind me of that glorious valley and the smiles and welcome from our wonderful hosts. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Dinner at the hotel that evening, which was included in our ticket, was one of the worst meals we have ever been served. I didn't know it was possible to destroy tofu as badly as this 'chef' managed and be forewarned; do not ever drink Vietnamese wine. Never before have I not finished a glass of wine but this glass proved the rule "there's a first time for everything" (even when wine is involved). </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">The following morning we woke early to a lousy Sunday breakfast of eggs that had been cooked on Friday (in March) and a cup of mud masquerading as coffee before boarding a mini bus for the 3.5 hour ride to the market of Bac Ha, famed as the largest and most colourful of market in the north. The hill tribe women around these parts dressed differently than Sapa. Here the Flower H'Mong are those most numerous. Their headgear, tops and dresses, bags and skirts, decorated with brightly coloured horizontal and angled stripes and are flared almost to ankle level though through the stiffness of the material or with help from hoops I cannot say. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The handicraft was just as beautiful but this market is really about the spaces away from the tourist purchases and where one comes to buy a new ox, buffalo, horse or cow. Along with the usual raucous 'wet' market selling meat and fish (live until purchase to ensure freshness) the vegetable and spice stalls, the bright displays of chilli peppers, the squawking of chickens, the birdsong of the caged (not for eating), the heat from the braziers cooking bananas, nuts, meats on sticks, and dough, deep fried in the ubiquitous woks, the aromas of cooking in the food hall style dining and the constant hum of the meeting of friends, the telling of news and of bargains being struck on everything from table runners to ice-creams; there is a muddy field full of tethered livestock for sale. </span></span></b><br />
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Other than our home stay and trekking with May; the tour reminded me exactly of why I dislike tours. After our allotted hours to stroll at leisure around the market, and dutifully reporting for lunch at the given time, we were ushered from place to place following our guide like a flock of sheep with no freedom to roam. Provided meals were dire and additional stops like a tour of a traditional village much resembling homes we have just seen where I stepped off the muddy trail into shin deep buffalo shit and lost my shoe. For some reason Julian refused to fish it out for me and I spent the rest of the afternoon shoeless. A final stop to see the boarder of China from across the river simply prolonged the day. As interesting as this market was we both agree that it was possibly not worth the six hour round trip journey.</span></b></div>
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ofParadiseVisionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08535511199313264230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-501971850732172162.post-7487351554311021512012-08-30T04:00:00.000-07:002012-08-31T22:17:39.298-07:00Coming Home with the Black H'Mong tribe - Trekking Sapa, Vietnam (1 of 2)<br />
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">July 29, 2012</span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">With the night upon Vietnam we walked across the tracks to board our northbound train. As independent travellers we tend to avoid tour operators as much as possible knowing that a little effort and time (which we have a-plenty) will usually save us dollars (of which we have too few) but this time it was unavoidable. There are dozens of tour agents and hotels now littering the storefronts in old quarter of Hanoi. Having had no straight answers at the railway station, two days were spent asking for prices and advice and any question about travelling to Sapa on our own was met with discreet avoidance. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">After our two days of research we came to realize the indeed the tour was the best option, we bit the bullet and booked paying only about US$20 more between us than we would have independently. This offered luxuries we never would have chosen on our own accord including first class berths on the overnight train, but negated the hassle of shuttles from our hotel to the train, from Lau Cai to Sapa and of course our usual search for accommodation once in Sapa. It also gave us the guarantee that we would see and experience a culture and a way of life already in decline, to a deeper level than we might have if we had struck out without a guide; allowing us to integrate if just for 36 hours and live as they have done for generations until the advent of motorbike and farm mechanization which is now coming even to these far flung reaches, along the Chinese border, with ever increasing rapidity. As we would see; mobile phones, North Face backpacks and even the technological wonder of wi-fi internet is already prevalent. As long as the flow of dollars continues then change and assimilation into the new world order are inevitable. With luck and a little consideration a balance might be struck by the H'Mong allowing the traditions and culture to live and breathe still amongst a healthier, more comfortable age but already the road high up on the valley wall is busy with the buzz of Honda and Yamaha and breeze blocks are replacing bamboo walls. Red tiled roofs stand stark against the green paddies and the superficial appearance has been marred by unsympathetic, multi-storey, square box architecture funded by generous donations of foreign money creating schools and health centres. Time will tell more than I can.</span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Once at the station we realized why the booth operators perviously insisted there were no available sleeper trains to Sapa that weekend. Each coach is privately owned and the seats are disbursed amongst the agents, booking guests on tours. We shared our four berth cabin with two other Vietnamese men (civil engineers heading to Lau Cai on business); twin sets of bunk beds with fresh linen, silky blankets and complimentary water. Comfortable enough and comforted by the rhythmic sound of the train against the tracks eventually sleep took me. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Much too soon we were woken at 0530 by a pounding at the door. Upon opening it a man asked "Mini bus to Sapa?". We nodded groggily and Julian sprang into action packing up our stuff while I grumpily rubbed my eyes. The man constantly insisting we hurry, further stressing us and we were urgently herded off the train, through the station to a waiting mini bus. As we approached, Julian realized that no names had been asked for and no introduction given. Shaking off the last remnants of slumbers he took out printed instructions from our tour operator out and read the statement: 'OUR HOSTS NEVER ENTER THE STATION. DO NOT GO WITH ANYONE WHO DOES NOT HAVE YOUR NAME ON A LIST!' Surprised, we shook out head at the man who sighed in frustration at Julian's wagging finger, and we walked away to find our designated guide. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Seated in the proper bus now I was quickly hit once again with motion sickness as the bus wound up a steep, twisting, turning, switchback road towards our destination 30km away. Having not slept well or eaten I felt more ill than ever before and spent the entire journey with my head buried in my lap (I really have to figure out a cure for this motion sickness thing. It's not something that has ever bothered me much before but here its so regular that I dread being in transit. Not good considering our overland intentions).</span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Finally we were dropped off at a hotel where we were to leave our bags for the next two days while we trek into the hills. The breakfast buffet was all but emptied by the time we got to it. We ate buns with sweet jam and rubbery eggs before meeting our guide. After the unsatisfying breakfast, a rushed tooth brushing and hectic bag re-packing hour I was left exhausted and grumpy wanting nothing more than to bury my head under a blanket for a couple hours. My withdrawn demeanour quickly melted away however when I was greeted by a beautiful Vietnamese face in traditional dress. Her round cheeks, almond eyes, long jet black hair, infectious smile and bubbly attitude quickly stole into my heart as I looked down at all 4"6' of her tiny frame. She was adorable. She gathered our group of six; two Dutch couples and ourselves, and lead us down the pavement to the market square in the centre of Sapa village. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Stalls tended by women in traditional dress lined the streets with their goods. Fruits, vegetables and handicrafts; jewellery, clothing, handbags and machetes. As we passed them a dozen or so tagged on to our group and joined with us on their walk home. All the women are taught at a young age how to make their clothing, each tribe with a unique, identifiable style and our accomplices were all dressed in gorgeous blouses and skirts with intricate embroidered bands, geometrically patterned at cuffs, upper arms and hemlines. Each carried a bamboo basket on their back and yellow plastic sandals or bright blue wellies adorned their feet. Many groups like ours set off on this trek out of Sapa; at least four entire trains worth of people split into parties similar to ours but mingling with each other as paces, spacings, differing routes and conversations stabilized on our initial descent out of the town. With the tribal women and tourists walking together at around a 1:1 ratio, so far this guided trek hardly felt like a guided trek. We were just walking home with them. </span></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRc4jhyphenhyphen95JWPifoxuo1AWghhF6bW2zNlufjDLT1IcvnJmjgcAOmG7g_CFpu5wuAxdrLjV1s1a2ZZ7PrCRkgW1rLye-U11oKbY_QtAcE4zDCT_3czh-E4xafzHvRKg03C-hsdSA7Y2D__vh/s1600/IMG_6722-2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRc4jhyphenhyphen95JWPifoxuo1AWghhF6bW2zNlufjDLT1IcvnJmjgcAOmG7g_CFpu5wuAxdrLjV1s1a2ZZ7PrCRkgW1rLye-U11oKbY_QtAcE4zDCT_3czh-E4xafzHvRKg03C-hsdSA7Y2D__vh/s400/IMG_6722-2.JPG" width="400" /></a><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">The usual introductory "What is your name?", "Where are you from?", "How old are you?", "Do you have any brothers or sisters?" conversations went on; the majority of the women spoke enough english to carry on these topics before dropping back for the same conversation with the next person in line or chatting in small groups in their own tongue. We were never left alone for more than a few minutes, there was always somebody there to talk with or laugh with despite language barriers. Our assigned guide, May, on the other hand spoke impeccable english and with a quick and infectious smile, was as eager to share her life with us as she was in asking us about our homelands. This bubbly 17 year old personality lives with her parents and two older brothers at her home in a village of about 250 families. She started trekking with tourists a year ago and loves the interaction with us. Multi lingual and with her vicarious worldly knowledge she could well have travelled around the globe four times over when in fact has only ever left her village once; an outing to Hanoi that an Australian couple, her clients, treated her to. The couple had offered to pay for her to travel with them south to Saigon but she was so uncomfortable with the heat, noise and pollution of Hanoi she opted to return home after just two days. </span></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5J7dWbgw6y2kEAQHnj-Xy3FWB3Rn9QyRtUXBo-e54AlXI6hNzIAb9UL8LjRj9unWZgtl3RcerVIsw1l5-bXqjCgOABE9se8EfrrnNSmwK6-XXmeCWA8SdoBGV-KCAKv1rwIgub426CQ8F/s1600/Sapa+valley+I.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5J7dWbgw6y2kEAQHnj-Xy3FWB3Rn9QyRtUXBo-e54AlXI6hNzIAb9UL8LjRj9unWZgtl3RcerVIsw1l5-bXqjCgOABE9se8EfrrnNSmwK6-XXmeCWA8SdoBGV-KCAKv1rwIgub426CQ8F/s400/Sapa+valley+I.jpg" width="400" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b>With Sapa behind us we followed, initially along a metalled road then dropping sharply down the side of the first valley, up and over a shoulder until we rounded a corner and beheld the home of the Black H'Mong tribe. A long and luscious, high green valley surrounded by steep terraced rice paddies and to a skyline of rolling mountain tops beyond. Clouds nestle amongst the hills and the cool air is invigorating; it doesn't take long to realize this is one of the most beautiful spots on the planet. I praise my fabulous Ecco boots for their grip and complete waterproofness as the mud rises towards my ankles whilst other tourists slip impossibly along the slanted trails in tennis shoes and the local women in their plastic sandals (who were more sure footed than any of us) offer a helping hand (sometimes two) to those in need. For some reason they left Julian completely to fend for himself <i>(A blessing indeed</i>. <i>My own boots and balance were quite up to the task….Ed.) </i></b></span></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">We hiked along the narrow edges of the rice terraces, crossing small streams and circumventing muddy dwellings and back gardens with pigs tethered and chickens scuttling out of our path. Workers visible across the paddies at times, a group of children playing amongst their daily charges of water buffalo as they graze until eventually we came down to the valley floor to a long concrete bridge and a road leading into a village. A girl no older than six pointed to a yellow building, her school, on a hill top overlooking the homes spread throughout the valley. Crossing one more bridge they lead us out to our lunch stop after some five hours of trekking. May told us to "meet her inside when we were finished" and it was there that our companions began pulling their handicrafts from the baskets on their backs. "Buy from me, buy from me, very cheap!" I felt obligated and guilt ridden as I shook my head 'no' at the ladies who had offered me their hand along the trail. I just can't do it. As much as I want to help these people and buy all their handmade goods to support their families, in our current situation I am simply unable afford such generosity or carry it all in my pack! </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">My heart wrenches as I pass through swarms of women, some as young as four or five years old as they press their handbags, wristbands and wallets in my path. They follow us to the open sided dining room calling to us "please, have a look" from behind as Julian congratulates my efforts. We are greeted with menus and cold drinks and some of the local women stand on the stairs looking at us expectantly. Once we are seated however drinks are presented any attempt by the tribeswomen to walk down the stairs to press us further is mercifully discouraged by the proprietor. I breath a sigh of relief as we are separated by culture and race from those more economically challenged and we are left to eat in peace. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">After a set lunch of fried rice, pork and egg May greeted us again and we continued our walk through the village towards our night accommodation. The muddy path lead us past humble bamboo huts, livestock and children walking home from school (which is free for the village children up until senior school). Young boys ride on the backs of water buffalo as they herded their charges along the path amongst a few motorbikes and far more pedestrians, a lot in traditional dress but an even greater number in western style T-shirts and shorts, no doubt the final destination of some of the clothing banks we see in the cities judging by the predominance of familiar products advertised on the fronts of children and adults alike. These people are used to tourists coming into their village and we barely raised an upward glance; May told us she remembers white skins coming here since she was born. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Needing to collect her overnight bag from home, she asked us to wait momentarily for her whilst she did so. One of the Dutch women asked if we might accompany her. She responded enthusiastically and we followed her down the path towards her home; a two room bamboo hut with dirt floor and a mezzanine level at either end. The upper left level was where they were drying corn, upper right her parents sleeping area. Downstairs to the left of the entrance an enclosed area where she and her brothers slept. The entrance way and main central space was empty of any furniture and to the right a small living space and kitchen similar to that of the home we visited in the Karen village, north Thailand, with an open fire pit containing a charcoal brazier and running water from a stand pipe on one wall. Her parents (who spoke no english) smiled in welcome to our intrusion, obviously well used to their daughters strange acquaintances, while a couple of dogs and cats ran around. Outside there is a muddy, enclosed court yard shared with their neighbouring relatives with a few chickens scratching and pecking at unseen morsels amongst more dogs whilst at the back of the house, trellised cucumber and pumpkin vines grow vivaciously over the wood pile providing the family with a much needed source of vitamins and iron. On the side of the dwelling a valuable plough blade and various other metal and wooden tools hang from the outer walls, sheltered from the weather by the eaves and the bamboo leaf thatch that reaches down to head height and we stand aside as her brother and two of his friends ease their moto's down the narrow alley between house and the (family owned) paddy fields adjacent and away along the path we had just walked. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Leaving her house a couple of kilometres behind us, May lead us up a hill to our home-stay where we picked up a new tag along; a 6 year old girl who decided to befriend me. She lived with her family in the next village over but hiking the rest of the way up the hill to our home-stay she decided to spend a couple hours hanging around there with us. Inside the large hut which would be our home that night 25 beds lined the walls divided and sheltered by a mosquito netting. Picking our space we eagerly showered and joined everyone else at the table; a group of about 12 tourists resting after a days trek. After my new 6 year old friend had repeatedly asked me to 'buy from her' she eventually gave up by saying 'maybe tomorrow' and left me finally in peace. My will was apparently much stronger than Julians that evening. An local women of around 40 presented him with a handsome handmade, embroidered shirt which she wanted 400,000 dong ($20CND) for. After the usual (by now) 20 minutes of showing of wares and monotonic English phrases, learned parrot fashion by all the street traders the conversation went to: </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">"I'll tell you what," he says, laughingly "you carry my bag for the entire day tomorrow and I will buy that shirt from you at 400 000 dong, no bargaining!"</span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">She took half a second to think about the offer before declaring that she would join us on our hike tomorrow. Unsure, I said "Wait a minute! You don't know how heavy that bag is." and went to fetch it for her. Containing all that we 'absolutely cannot live without' (<i>sic</i>) including our wash kit, clothing changes for us both, a 3 litre water bladder and Julian's enormous camera (plus the second lens) the pack weighs in at around 15 kgs but she took it from me effortlessly and with a huge smile declaring it was 'not heavy'. Amused, I took it back from her and the deal was sealed between them with a 'pinkie swear' before she departed for the evening having secured a days work for the morrow. Feeling a little (but not very) guilty at the idea of this diminutive woman taking his load the following day, Julian voiced some concerns but was quickly put at ease by the other women present telling him she was quite capable of hauling 40 kgs all day long should the need arise.</span></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIZvzNFrmA2-6OpQWXTgLC3YStf42uAfFB57WMswc6N614ypz0GS0sQM_8Qe1EoQz-8bIrbwfzWE0xTQX6vYYRt0qRVFclFmsq0drZXysY8jHe8KqFSyOiS4tDvSai3koHVnqLn8S0Y833/s1600/IMG_6796-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIZvzNFrmA2-6OpQWXTgLC3YStf42uAfFB57WMswc6N614ypz0GS0sQM_8Qe1EoQz-8bIrbwfzWE0xTQX6vYYRt0qRVFclFmsq0drZXysY8jHe8KqFSyOiS4tDvSai3koHVnqLn8S0Y833/s400/IMG_6796-2.jpg" width="266" /></a><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">With all the merchants leaving us for the evening meal we could finally relax. Our hosts cooked us a fabulous meal which we enjoyed over light conversation. That evening May and her friend, who was guiding another party at our residence (and who's name I am so disheartened I forgot; she was a fabulous woman!) sat with us for a drinking game as they worked on more embroidery. They taught us "Snap" and brought out a bottle of 'rice wine' which in fact was more like a rice spirit with an alcohol percentage of what I think must be around 30%. The game turned quite enthusiastic and conversation flowed as freely as the rice spirit. We went through 4 bottles; they had 20 litters of the stuff out back which only takes 1 day to ferment. One of the guys we were with turned beat-red as the spirit caused him to open up and admit he was gay, finishing the sentence by saying "okay, thats awkward." </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">I smiled warmly at him and shook my head, telling him its not at all awkward and his friends pretty much told him they assumed so anyway, which made him relax. May, sitting next to me with her arm hooked around mine, clenched my skin and looked at me with disbelief. Having never met a gay person before she openly displayed her feelings of confusion and discomfort at this new theory. I told her this is very common where I come from but she couldn't begin to comprehend the idea. Nobody in her village has ever admitted to being gay and such things are not discussed amongst her people. While the conversation continued she whispered to me that she was nervous and uncomfortable around him now. I think I managed to ease her feelings after a while and told her she was very lucky to be exposed to so many different cultures and ways of living. She agreed with me, visibly happier about the situation. The evening proceed with some songs, more rice wine until eventually we all drifted off to bed and a sound sleep at the end of a long and enriching day, somewhat conscious of a reasonably early start the following morning.</span></b></div>
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ofParadiseVisionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08535511199313264230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-501971850732172162.post-13577615577400290082012-08-21T00:10:00.002-07:002012-08-31T22:17:53.372-07:00Chaos of Hanoi, Vietnam<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">July 24th - July 28th, 2012</span></b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">The first morning in Hanoi Julian rose early as usual and headed off for an early stroll around the city. Wandering around the military headquarters, a restricted compound covering several blocks in the heart of Hanoi he is told off in no uncertain terms by a Kalashnikov wielding military guard for walking too close to the restricted zone. Apparently outside the walls is not enough and he has to cross four lanes of traffic to the other side of the road. Paranoia is apparent and abundant, on first impression the rumours appear true: The authorities are fearful of those they seek to control. Generally heading west he made his way towards the mausoleum of Ho Chi Minh himself, preserved and lain in state in a glass sarcophagus. After getting told off once more for trying to take a short cut to "Uncle Ho's" residence he joined the queue and filed past the body (or for the cynically minded, the Madam Tussauds copy) of the father of modern Vietnam. </span></b></span><br />
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Ho Chi Minh was a visionary. Having grown up under the French 'protectorate' which did little to protect the Vietnamese in the first half of the 20th century, he strove for an independent nation. After forming the French communist party in Paris he received training from Moscow and later from China, Ho Chi Minh led the Vietnamese struggle for independence in the war with the French from 1946 to eventual victory in 1954. The ceasefire was bittersweet however as after post war negotiations in Geneva the country was split in two and the DMZ formed along the 17th parallel, just north of Ho Chi Minh's home town of Hue. In 1963 after it became apparent that Diem, president of South Vietnam would refuse to be party to national elections, the North turned officially from political to armed opposition to the regime in the South. The struggle for reunification would last for the following 12 years, the repercussions are still begin felt today. Ho Chi Minh died in 1969 and never saw his dream realized but it is testimony to his contribution that the country's second largest city, Saigon has been renamed after him. His former home in Hanoi has been preserved as a museum and crowds pass quietly through the grounds in almost a reverent atmosphere.</span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Following the tour around the palace complex the obvious final stop is the Ho Chi Minh museum. The political propaganda in this building is extreme and exactly as a boy growing up in the home counties of England had been led to expect. Row upon row of photographs of 'important' political and military leaders receiving awards and medals for one act or another. The text is boring, even to scan read and repetitive and on the second floor the static displays are monotonously grey and equally as dull as the pages and pages of text, poorly translated into English. A quick circuit was enough to satisfy curiosity before a return to the hotel and breakfast. </span></b></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b>Stepping out of our air conditioned room into the chaotic, hazy heat of mid morning; Hanoi was already a hectic buzz of activity. An overwhelming amount of vehicles; motorbikes, cars, pedicabs, trishaws and bicycles swell the streets to capacity. There appears to be no rules on the roads here. Horns are blazed to warn when one is about to overtake, enter an intersection, turn at a junction, reverse, execute a three point turn and even for no apparent reason what so ever. There are no stop signs and traffic lights appear only at SOME major intersections. Other than that, it appears the road is free game. Accidents are apparently commonplace and disputes solved with either fists or bribes, on the spot; apart from the inconvenience of waiting goodness knows how long for the police to arrive (should you care for them) of course that would introduce a third party to any incident and that would correspondingly increase the costs as he would need to be "compensated" for his time and judgement. Three lanes turns into seven or eight lanes of traffic and any extra space is immediately taken over by any vehicle or pedestrian of the right shape and size. Crossing the streets is a game in itself. Generally I just take Julians hand, close my eyes, step into the void and hope for the best. </b></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgna-ZvyO8d36IzRxpM0xtotfIwr4NCgR_3tco8DcJR4eNdwBTQRI7xmCXOr0J-2dT1hpYXdy1mwFDpdP-oGmBG0vqbp1vG8GDubb_-7SgdePo13Xb6pEww6aAqlexPUjvcMiYUVm39DT-v/s1600/Hanoi+-+Basket+vendors.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="248" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgna-ZvyO8d36IzRxpM0xtotfIwr4NCgR_3tco8DcJR4eNdwBTQRI7xmCXOr0J-2dT1hpYXdy1mwFDpdP-oGmBG0vqbp1vG8GDubb_-7SgdePo13Xb6pEww6aAqlexPUjvcMiYUVm39DT-v/s400/Hanoi+-+Basket+vendors.jpg" width="400" /></a><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">The sides of the road are lined with street vendors of all sorts. Women carry their goods in two large baskets which balance on their shoulder on a bamboo support; fruits in one and their young child in the other. Their day starts around 4am, loading up and walking in from home just before sunrise to set up their stalls if they are fortunate enough to claim space. If not, they will walk the streets with a heavy bamboo beam supporting baskets digging into their shoulders, resting at intersections, perspiration beading on their foreheads under their conical hats. </span></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFXyQQMJHvO0-RGqcPOnehrKuZ9mflCFiMnNp0ueFl-jmmK-y3NX_4AKgkOY7plI66y9rhbD15GSl5w_39YGvRfxFUyFOEVUS3DUX_tjJMKMe3EqNVt4CGL7M9rdBDgLzPVqYrQQRXVk1D/s1600/Hanoi+-+Another+load.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFXyQQMJHvO0-RGqcPOnehrKuZ9mflCFiMnNp0ueFl-jmmK-y3NX_4AKgkOY7plI66y9rhbD15GSl5w_39YGvRfxFUyFOEVUS3DUX_tjJMKMe3EqNVt4CGL7M9rdBDgLzPVqYrQQRXVk1D/s400/Hanoi+-+Another+load.jpg" width="400" /></a><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">"You buy from me, Sir? Very cheap! Special Price for you!" they call out to passers-by. Quoted prices are always at least twice as much as they expect to get which bring forth the game of bargaining between merchant and customer. This game is always played in good humour and with giant smiles (Lonely Planet states "frowning is not a bargaining tool"); each person wanting to get the best deal. Julian has got this game down to a 'T' by now, enjoying the haggling process intertwined with good humoured conversation, language barriers always making things more interesting. Admittedly, and despite the good nature of this business, I find the process challenging and sometimes uncomfortable. Everywhere we turn, as "wealthy" western tourists we are continuously kept out our toes and often taken advantage of as, with a lifetime of experience, they pry every last dollar and dong they can get from our pockets, often pressing for much larger amounts than the goods are worth.</span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Throughout old town we are constantly called to purchase fruits, sunglasses, sweet deep fried dough and savoury meals from vendors aging from four years to 100; children sent out to help support families at a very young age as school is not an affordable option and retirement usually not an option for the elderly. Sometimes shaking our heads 'no' politely with smiles on our face is enough to send people in search of other customers but often 'no' is not enough. They will follow us down the street pushing their goods in our face in hopes we will "Please, take a look, Sir!". Eventually Julian, having learnt from Bangkok in particular, began to have fun with the vendors as they walked with us for a few blocks having full but somewhat one-sided conversations, using the english language to its full capacity knowing full well his words are not being understood, developing his own rapport to match their sales pitch. With a smile on his face he will insist that should make a purchase now he will be "unable finance little Johnny down the road for the new yo-yo he desperately needs nor send May and her sisters, cousins, aunts, uncles and second cousins-once-removed to school so they might better themselves in this harsh and dangerous world and besides, if we bought all the zebras, elephants, bananas, pastries and coach tickets we have been offered; how on earth would we carry it all in our merger backpacks? After all, we don't have any walls to hang them from and the postage would triple the costs despite the 'special price' and really, a new suit is no use whatsoever to a travelling trucker unlikely to be invited to any weddings, funerals, birthday celebrations or bar mitzvahs in the near future and the dragons we're sure to meet in China next year would suffer as a direct consequence of any purchase today, and you wouldn't want that, would you?". He is just as persistent as they are, barely drawing breath until the exasperated merchant will stop in amused amazement, shaking her hands at us in defeat.</span></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4LIe9BsoVlci28NpMT3suai2Ni_PYobkocIKbVg6zGdnQH3z-nchP-dWFn8HxUdf9bVmJ93FpjKUYw5wPHj5FK9Zpt5qCqZFXCsRkF94tozsVnsU2z1pH6NCEgE1OAkAcqN2lGER4XLvK/s1600/Hanoi+-+Bike+of+baskets+II.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="272" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4LIe9BsoVlci28NpMT3suai2Ni_PYobkocIKbVg6zGdnQH3z-nchP-dWFn8HxUdf9bVmJ93FpjKUYw5wPHj5FK9Zpt5qCqZFXCsRkF94tozsVnsU2z1pH6NCEgE1OAkAcqN2lGER4XLvK/s400/Hanoi+-+Bike+of+baskets+II.jpg" width="400" /></a><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">This becomes routine as we explore Hanoi; constant interaction causing our perception of the mood of the city to change dramatically as we visit the sights. Some who are eager to get into our wallet and whom are used to regular interaction with tourists are generally friendly. This is not always the case however and as we venture out of the tourist zone we are often greeted with narrow eyed glares and a very different, not so positive energy. One man called out to me "Hey, you American?!". Shocked and suitably offended I responded to him that I was definitely not American which seemed to satisfy him and he went back to his business. Cold stares followed us around parts the city from the older generation and the conversation between Julian and I focused very much on me picking his brains for information about the Vietnam / American war and I began to understand the ill feelings from the people in the north a little more. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b>We visited one of the several temples in Vietnam dedicated to Confucius; The Temple of Literature which hosts the Imperial Academy, Vietnams first university. The grounds are gorgeous; large pools such as the 'Lake of Literature' surrounded by mature trees with impressive root systems. Large potted bonsai trees decorate the courtyard amongst various statues of important teachers and scholars. Despite war and disasters the temple has undergone major restorations preserving the ancient architectural style.</b></span></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5xoIg5AgHQR4UTjh1VlxukQKGnYePXg8uqUrPrf6i0757ASep1vaSex_IUn3rX6ZACGKDiniW1RIqe8442zc3MIdo_bK-tZrm_zIzzNrCdC7qd_J-Pw3rg5LZRjipkRYqg_2EB5ZXcVjY/s1600/Hanoi+-+Tortoise+Tower.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="248" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5xoIg5AgHQR4UTjh1VlxukQKGnYePXg8uqUrPrf6i0757ASep1vaSex_IUn3rX6ZACGKDiniW1RIqe8442zc3MIdo_bK-tZrm_zIzzNrCdC7qd_J-Pw3rg5LZRjipkRYqg_2EB5ZXcVjY/s400/Hanoi+-+Tortoise+Tower.jpg" width="400" /></a><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">In most cities we will read up on the popular sites of the city and spend time touring these areas. In Hanoi however, the "sites" are few and far between so our experience was related much more to the vibe the city gave off; the people, the chaos, the energy and noise of the streets and narrow alleyways and we spend a couple of days simply wandering the streets and taking it all in. In book and from fellow travellers we have heard that Vietnam boasts some of the best food in SE Asia. Within the first few days we spent in Hanoi I have yet to be convinced of this and have been consistently disappointed with the menus on offer and dishes laid before me. Finally, on our last night before leaving for Sapa we found a street stall which offered the best food so far. Shrimp and noodles for me while Julian ordered "beef and fried potato'. He was presented with a plate of french fries with sautéed beef and smothered in a gravy thick with garlic and ginger. Poutine, Vietnam style. I only wish I could have indulged in a entire plate myself, my health conscious guilt taking over. I'm finding things tough enough that foods I choose not to consume on a 'normal' basis are unavoidable here as I find myself eating rice or noodles daily. My body is definitely having trouble processing it along with issues with lack of the nutrients I'm used to through not having available either the variety nor quantity of vegetables we're used to eating. My usual active lifestyle limited here to yoga (when I can cope with the heat) and walking around new places is taking its toll on my mind and body and I anticipate spending the next few days trekking up to hill tribe villages in northern Vietnam. </span></b></div>
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ofParadiseVisionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08535511199313264230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-501971850732172162.post-41326897606528919212012-08-19T22:59:00.000-07:002012-08-31T22:18:09.750-07:00Luang Prabang, Laos and bus trip to Vietnam<div style="text-align: right;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSEoEbmyUe4I81EO-Vhn4GnZ43DoFiDAeUbOTT59nZ00b5-WKa44VsryOCgzDBoHk4tItZpvmFsx0gdi51BmtegNrBU4MJ5c91XkvKlDZEXPC4J9a4ClDfUogLtFXKBJ2e87dAP9L6iJbO/s1600/Luang+Prabang+residence.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSEoEbmyUe4I81EO-Vhn4GnZ43DoFiDAeUbOTT59nZ00b5-WKa44VsryOCgzDBoHk4tItZpvmFsx0gdi51BmtegNrBU4MJ5c91XkvKlDZEXPC4J9a4ClDfUogLtFXKBJ2e87dAP9L6iJbO/s400/Luang+Prabang+residence.jpg" width="400" /></a><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Knowing Laos to be the least developed of the SE Asian peninsula did nothing to prepare us for Luang Prabang. Our accommodation was by far the most luxurious of budget accommodation we have had yet, food prices were the highest and the colonial architecture felt like you were walking though a part of France in need of a paint job. Old town at night offered a particularly lovely vibe. The lack of streetlights in exchange for beautifully lit buildings created a unique atmosphere that made one feel like enjoying a glass of wine at one of the numerous appealing spots (or maybe thats just me?). It is the first place we have come across where visa cards are widely accepted, even our budget accommodation was the first that was happy to collate charges together in a final bill, western style, to make debit and credit cards a viable option rather than the Asian habit of paying as you go, day by day. For the first time we found many places actively advertising travellers cheque exchange and there is a money changer every few hundred metres in the old town. The entire place is geared up for tourism in every sense, providing all the convenience and luxury a traveller of any budget may be seeking. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">As lovely as this little place was I felt like I was missing the real Laos. Surely this is not a typical town in this country and it both exceeded yet disappointed expectations, especially as this is the only place in Laos that we will be visiting this time around (with intentions of traveling from south to north in a couple of months). </span></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhAGWwg-tmiinbwHk_CCCVEOVyEVOSUTp1073w9EZbN1SlWu257u3bowlFwRSuXLkAhQr7HiP4ftc_jw6A7udIqb42IfCVG-fXdNPGu-cJvmXcHAGHa3MGhjYhHGtDiY3ekEIT9YqfzEPA/s1600/IMG_6265-2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhAGWwg-tmiinbwHk_CCCVEOVyEVOSUTp1073w9EZbN1SlWu257u3bowlFwRSuXLkAhQr7HiP4ftc_jw6A7udIqb42IfCVG-fXdNPGu-cJvmXcHAGHa3MGhjYhHGtDiY3ekEIT9YqfzEPA/s400/IMG_6265-2.JPG" width="400" /></a><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Every morning the devout line a street in Luang Prabang to give alms to the monks of the town in return for a blessing. Of course this happens all over Asia, but in Luang Prabang it has become something of a theatrical ritual and Asian buddhists will make the pilgrimage specifically to take part. I have seen the monks waiting to receive alms in other towns throughout Thailand and Malaysia, but never as here. By the time I arrived on the scene at 0545, the sidewalk was already lined with people, their purchases of food already made from a small army of women with the traditional supplies of rice, fruits and biscuits in their suspended bamboo baskets. Across the road, western tourists look on with a mixture of bafflement and interest and the two sides of the road spent an amusing 10 minutes taking photos. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">At 6am the chief abbot of one of the local temples (I assume this regularly changes by ballot or rotation) enters the street at the head of a column of some 200 - 300 monks and they proceed in turn down the line at a sedate pace as the devout fill their alms bowls to capacity and beyond. In the gutter of the road stands a young street urchin, with a large blue plastic basket and periodically one of the monks will turn and pass some of the food to him until that basket too is full and the child disappears, presumably to share the days bounty with his brethren. The women of the town meanwhile stand behind the devout, ready at a moments notice to resupply a waning stock (at a price of course) and the westerners run from one position to another like a pack of wolfish paparazzi, hungry only for the best angle.</span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">After 20 minutes, its all over, the last line of monks heads off at the intersection to divide the meal between them at their respective wats; the women pack the last of the food into their baskets and make for the market place and another days work; the devout, no doubt reeling in heady thoughts disappear to their own breakfast and the rest of us dissipate to cups of coffee and examinations of three inch screens under the rapidly warming sun. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><b>At the other end of the day, the night market offered some of the most beautiful, quality handicraft we have come across yet and our usual tight fist was pried open to a number of items on display. A gorgeous painting, a t-shirt and a stunning silk sarong easily took us three times over our daily budget and that's without the postage costs to send it all back to Canada. We need to get out of this place! </b></span></b></span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Unfortunately for me, the only way overland to Vietnam, to be on time for the hill tribe weekend market in Sapa, is via a 24 hour bus journey. "Singapore to the UK by Land' isn't always as romantic as it sounds. Sometimes I wish we might fly instead.</span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Before our bus journey we visited Wat Xieng Thong (or Temple of the Golden City) which is a gorgeous example of typical Laos art and temple architecture; the roof sloping towards the ground with gold inlays in the carved door depicting scenes from Buddhas life and elephants built into the outer walls. The interior was sumptuously decorated, carpeted from wall to wall and contained, along with the usual Buddha images, incense and candles, the most glorious gong. With the hammer placed conveniently on the stand it was beyond my self control not to hear the rich booming tone just the once. As rain poured from the heavens we dutifully inspected the rest of the compound including the building which houses the funeral chariot and urns for the royal family, the Wat having been under royal patronage until as recently as 1975.</span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">The journey to Hanoi was both my best and worst overnight bus journey. The upper seats were full to capacity with other western travellers in high spirits looking forward to another new country. On the plus side we had fully reclinable seats which made the journey so much more comfortable. The seats however were so close to the ceiling that you almost hit your heat, I had a pillar for a window and decorative tassels dangling in my face obstructing any kind of view I might have had. Within 20 minutes that familiar feeling of motion sickness hit me with a kick in the head and all I could do was recline in my seat for almost the entire duration. With no bathroom on the bus, when one had to go the bus pulled over and we went on the side of the road. The women squatted at the back of the bus huddled together in the dark and pouring rain. At night this was fine and barely bothered me. It was during daylight hours when we had to pull over and pee in view of oncoming traffic that was far less dignified.</span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Sleep did not find me that night though as we twisted and turned around corners as it traversed mountain passed often making me feel as though I was suspended from an inversion table and being swung around like a game of game of tether-ball. The horn sounded to warn every motorbike en route we were overtaking. Of course, Julian slept easily and it wasn't until our driver pulled over at 0230 and another 30 Asian people piled on the bus that he stirred at all. The Vietnamese settled below us on what I thought were luggage racks but in fact were sleeping platforms with no windows, no ventilation and basically no comfort what so ever. These people piled on the bus so loudly it was atrocious. Babies crying, some people fighting for space, others talking on cell phones, one woman demanding an English girl move seats to accommodate her (which was not happening) whilst the driver whipped a blanket from beneath a western girls' head to offer to the newcomers. The hectic expedition lasted about 20 minutes before the bus finally pulled out, moved about 100 meters and pulled over again. The mood on the bus changed dramatically.</span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">The driver proceeded to yell at us in Vietnamese to alight. Confused and tired we were all reluctant to pile out of the bus; the driver pointing at us individually to hurry out of our seats. Pointing a finger and speaking harshly at Julian who was in no mood to deal with his attitude after being woken up in the middle of the night. Refusing to get out of his seat he blatantly insisted he did not have to use the toilet and wanted to remain sleeping in his place. More forceful now the driver continued his harsh rambling until we all moved out and dutifully lined up at the toilets. Inside the women's restrooms five palm leaf baskets sat on the floor which caged 3 chickens each. All I could do is laugh in my exhaustion at this bizarre sight as we all tried to get our head about it.</span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Apparently it was breakfast time. We were served a bowl of chicken and rice soup which was decent but I was turned off from the scene in the bathroom and couldn't help but consider the cleanliness of the kitchen that used public toilets as a larder. </span></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPkzZ2AL7cJil5FDxfYm7CBHMxaLibkXbbAuvzOpo44aQxxfBOvgP2AGMpDuKJC7BYrOYNpKhXmUHP5kpj37OFciYIbQRhlCasc2fL93cBfuNcifx3ZBCOxX32v0PL2nufh3EEp85lNK3P/s1600/Bus+to+Hanoijpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPkzZ2AL7cJil5FDxfYm7CBHMxaLibkXbbAuvzOpo44aQxxfBOvgP2AGMpDuKJC7BYrOYNpKhXmUHP5kpj37OFciYIbQRhlCasc2fL93cBfuNcifx3ZBCOxX32v0PL2nufh3EEp85lNK3P/s400/Bus+to+Hanoijpg" width="400" /></a><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">When the driver was ready to go he let everyone know. That familiar barking tone ushering us onto the bus, pushing us forward when the person in front had yet to move. It wasn't long before we decided that not only was he the worst driver but he was also the rudest person we have ever met. His treatment towards us was appalling and I began to envision being transported somewhere against our will. The only solace being the comfort of our reclining seat and the air conditioning mercifully keeping the bus cool.</span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">We made two stops the following afternoon. We pulled over for 'pee break' on the side of the road which four ladies took advantage of. As we searched for some kind of cover I was appalled to see the three drivers (who were exchanging duties in shifts) peering at us from around the bus. We later stopped for lunch some 12 hours after our previous 0230 breakfast and was once again blown away when I saw a woman chopping vegetables on the concrete floor in front of the hose tap outside the bathroom used for hand washing. </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">The 24 hours turned into 27 hours as we paused at three or four locations to allow our Vietnamese contingency off at part-way destinations before we pulled into an unsurfaced yard under a major freeway intersection. A young Vietnamese man boarded the bus and offered us a solution: A US$2 ride into Hanoi city to any location with a stop at an ATM for those in need. At 2130 on a soggy evening in Hanoi and after 27 hours on a bus, his information and command of English was invaluable and we all breathed a sight of relief for his helpful and inexpensive service. Having no pre-booked accommodation for that evening as usual for us, he suggested his own hotel which after speaking with fellow travellers we have found to be one of the cheapest, most comfortable options in Hanoi. Should you ever be in the city we can definitely recommend We deposited our luggage and went for our usual foray for food (coming across dog on the menu for the first time) then both passed out before the clock stuck 12 and slept for a solid 11 hours. </span></b></div>
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