Ben and Faye's Eurasian Adventure

Ben and Faye's Eurasian Adventure: Stats, Observations, Recollections, and Closing Thoughts

2008-02-08T11:42:00.098-09:00

One year and two days ago, the journey began. As we've reflected upon the trip, and the months of preparation that went into it, we're still not really sure what possessed us to imagine a voyage across the Eurasian continent with each other, of all people. We've been arch rivals longer than friends, and our constant competition with each other has led to a record number of pulled-out-hairs and disturbingly high spikes in blood pressure. We'd established a very tentative friendship only a month before deciding to share our post-graduation travels, and we seriously considered pitching our project as a reality show rather than an outreach venture. Yet somehow, it worked, and worked well (even without Fox). Despite countless revisions of just about every idea we took with us, we managed to hold three things constant: Eurasia, our partnership, and this blog. The project was born out of two desires: We wanted to travel, and we wanted our travels to have meaning beyond personal gratification. The first part was easy. It took a while to figure out how to accomplish the second. In the end, it came back to the discipline that had inspired and nurtured us, and our fears that younger students would be denied the same thrills we'd gained. Geography, then, would be our gospel. We took the project to school, hoping that our travels could help fill the gaps in our young students' Amero-centric educations and inspire them to someday set forth on their own journeys.

As the trip progressed, we realized that we were catering to a far more diverse audience than we'd originally planned on. Thus, the nature of the project changed. Our posts became longer and, at times, more political. Adults, it seemed, were equally hungry for tales of the rest of the world. But for some reason, too many of our cautiously curious countrymen were staying at home. We met less than a dozen fellow Americans during the course of the trek. Our focus thus grew as we tried to share not only the importance of geography but also that of travel, of living beyond borders and political constructs and accepting the shared humanity of every citizen of the globe. Lofty, we know. But such goal divergence served the original intent of the project- good travelers make good geographers. Good travelers and good geographers make great ambassadors, and that is perhaps what this world needs above all else. Our moments of greatest pride for this project have occurred when the students we spoke with told us how much they want to travel now, and the places they want to see. When they look at what we, and other travelers, are experiencing, and want to see for themselves. There is an entire generation of would-be explorers waiting in our schools, being alternately brainwashed by news reports telling them how scary the world is and inspired by the valiant teachers who try to show them otherwise. Any assistance we've provided in this aim is one of our greatest joys.

This blog is the end result of our efforts, of literally our blood, sweat, and tears. It was a difficult endeavor to say the least. Trying to write a textbook that reads like an adventure novel told by journalists catering to 12 year olds and 62 year olds alike, and everyone in between, all while battling dodgy internet connections, finicky censors, and intermittent power outages is even more challenging than one would originally suspect. We know we've made mistakes. We know that we've probably made more than a few factual errors. Please excuse us for these truly unavoidable, though lamentable occurrences.

Now, to the blog itself: We hope that we've made it as user-friendly as possible, but a few pointers might help the uninitiated to better navigate its depths. On the right, you'll find chronological links to all of our photo galleries, which, for better or worse, include virtually all of the pictures we took on the trip. Below these, we've included a list of geography and travel related websites we've found useful throughout our careers as students and wanderers. You'll also find our archived posts, indexed by the month in which they were posted. On this post, you'll also find the links organized by location. We think that this is a far more user-friendly system. We've also included interactive maps on each post, with pointers marking the locations described in that post. You can zoom in and out using the '+' and '-' icons in the upper left hand corner of each map. These maps are from the Google Earth database, and offer pretty high resolution snapshots of the places we visited, and all places on Earth for that matter. The maps on this particular post are not interactive, but are useful in that they better depict the actual route we took across Eurasia. Finally, even though we're officially signing off, we'll still be happy to answer any questions you may have. Simply leave us a comment, and we'll do our best to respond on the same page. We'll always gladly accept suggestions on how to improve the site, too. Good luck, and thanks for paying us a visit!

That said, we're presenting the trip as a cohesive unit below. The first section breaks down the distances we traveled, followed by the country-by-country listing of posts (which are linked- just click on the title). Under these you'll find lists of our best and worst experiences with food, people, and places. Finally, we've compiled a list of our favorite 20 memories from the adventure, which are all linked to their respective posts. Enjoy!

PLANES, TRAINS, AND AUTOMOBILES... HOW WE CROSSED EURASIA

The Grand Eurasian Route Map

Planes, Trains, and Automobiles (and boats, motorbikes, and tuk-tuks...) :
We've used different colors to indicate our different modes of transportation.
Blue- planes
Green- trains
Red- buses, cars, vans, and tuk-tuks
Purple- boats
Orange- motorbikes

While we were putting these new maps together, we thought it would be interesting to look at how many miles we'd traveled, and how those miles broke down.
Including our flights to and from Eurasia, we traveled 38,831 miles. We think it makes more sense, however, to look at the miles we actually spent "on the trip," i.e. on the Eurasian continent. The grand total there is 15,753 miles.

The breakdown:

Planes: 23,268 miles

Trains: 9,189 miles

Buses: 4,330 miles

Cars: 1,360 miles

Boats: 502 miles

Motorbikes: 122 miles

Tuk-tuks: 60 miles.

.......................................................PRE-DEPARTURE.......................................................

Faye's Flight: Boston to Milan to St. Petersburg, Russia.

Ben's Flight: Alaska to Amsterdam to St. Petersburg, Russia.

Stateside Posts:

First Post- Scarborough, ME, January 2007

A Fortnight Until Liftoff- North Pole, AK, February 2007

Young Geographers in Mahoney Middle School- South Portland, ME, February 2007

Taking it All to School- North Pole, AK, February 2007

............................................................RUSSIA............................................................

Russia Posts:

Entrance Into Another World- St. Petersburg, Russia, February 2007

A Tale of Two Cities- St. Petersburg, Russia, February 2007

Ice-Skating in Red Square?!?- Moscow, Russia, February 2007

Hostel Life: Napoleon Hostel- Moscow, Russia, February 2007

A Traveler's Epiphany: Yaroslavsky Station- Moscow, Russia, February 2007

Riding That Train... Trans-Siberian Railroad- Moscow to Irkutsk, Russia, February 2007

Hello North Pole Elementary! -Irkutsk, Russia, February 2007

Finding Bliss, Part One -Olkhon Island, Lake Baikal, Russia, March 2007

Finding Bliss, Part Two -Olkhon Island, Lake Baikal, Russia, March 2007

Finding Bliss, Part Three -Olkhon Island, Lake Baikal, Russia, March 2007

Finding Bliss, Part Four -Olkhon Island, Lake Baikal, Russia, March 2007

Cow-Bone Breaking, on Video! -Olkhon Island, Lake Baikal, Russia (posted May 2007)

............................................................MONGOLIA............................................................

Mongolia Posts:

Hello Mahoney Middle! -Ulaan Baatar, Mongolia, March 2007

Update and Olkhon Addendum -Ulaan Baatar, Mongolia, March 2007

Out of the City and into the Void -Gobi Desert, Mongolia, March 2007

Luck of the Irish -Gobi Desert, Mongolia, March 2007

The Gobi in a Few Pictures -Gobi Desert, Mongolia, March 2007

The Blog That Wasn't Meant to Be -Gobi Desert, Mongolia, March 2007

UB or not UB... the "Real" Mongolia? -Ulaan Baatar, Mongolia, March 2007

Dressing For Success -Mongolia/China, March 2007

............................................................CHINA............................................................

On the Road to Everest, Days Three to Five -Everest Base Camp to Lhasa, Tibet, May 2007

We Need Your Help! -Kunming, China, May 2007

Cradle and Grave of Empires -Xi'an, China, May 2007

Baby Won't You Take Me on a River Cruise? - Three Gorges, Yangtze River, China, May 2007

Movin' on to 'Nam -Kunming, China, May 2007

..................................................NORTHERN VIETNAM..................................................

Northern Vietnam Posts:

Vietnam: The War, The Place, The People (Ben's Abridged History) -Sapa, Vietnam, May 2007

Goooood Morning, Vietnam! -Sapa, Vietnam, May 2007

The End of the Street Without Joy -Dien Bien Phu, Vietnam, May 2007

Summer in the City -Hanoi, Vietnam, May 2007

Mortorcycle Diaries and the Chronicles of Clutzes -Cat Ba Island, Halong Bay, Vietnam, June 2007

Heat -Ninh Binh, Vietnam, June 2007

..................................................CENTRAL VIETNAM..................................................

Central Vietnam Posts:

Answer Time and a Discussion on Global Climate Change -Hue, Vietnam, June 2007

Finally on the Hue South -Hue, Vietnam, June 2007

Profiles of Vietnam: Hue's Hue -Hue, Vietnam, June 2007

Profiles of Vietnam: Zeke's War -Hue, Vietnam, June 2007

Stuck on the Circuit -Da Nang and Hoi An, Vietnam, June 2007

.............................................SOUTHERN VIETNAM.........................................

Southern Vietnam Posts:

Who Are We? Why Are We Here? What Is Geography? -Nha Trang, Vietnam, June 2007

Going Under -Nha Trang, Vietnam, June 2007

Bittersweet Emotions -Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam, July 2007

So Long, Saigon -Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam, July 2007

............................................................CAMBODIA.............................................................

Cambodia Posts:

Ghost City -Phnom Penh, Cambodia, July 2007

Tuk-Tuks, Temples, and Tourists -Siem Reap and the Temples of Angkor, Cambodia, July 2007

.............................................................THAILAND............................................................

Thailand Post:

Splash and Dash -Bangkok and Kho Tao, Thailand, July 2007

............................................................MALAYSIA............................................................

Malaysia Post:

Vacations -Malaysia, July/August 2007

............................................................SINGAPORE............................................................

Singapore Post:

Closing Time: Singapore and the Long Journey Home -Singapore to Alaska, August 2007

............................................................REFLECTIONS............................................................

Ben and Faye's Top Five Rundown:

Top Five Meals:

5. Nikita's Guesthouse (Olkhon Island, Russia)

4. Silk Road Cafe and Millie's (Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia)

3. Vegetarian Indian Restaurant (Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia)

2. Beijing Hutong- Several Restaurants (Beijing, China)

1. Huang Y's (Cat Ba Town, Vietnam)

Top Five Worst Meals:

5. Mystery Meat at Vietnamese Family's House (Tam Duong, Vietnam)

4. Chinese Sweets (China)

3. St. Petersburg (St. Petersburg, Russia)

2. Gobi Desert Nomad Cuisine (Gobi Desert, Mongolia)

1. Denzig's Grandparent's House (Outside of Lhasa, Tibet)

Top Five Experiences:

5. Sapa Trekking (Sapa, Vietnam)

4. SCUBA Diving (Vietnam, Thailand, Malaysia)

3. Tomb Raiding and associated conversations (Angkor, Cambodia)

2. Gobi Desert Expedition (Gobi Desert, Mongolia)

1. Mingling with the Buryat Mafia (Olkhon Island, Russia)

Top Five Times We Were Certain We Were About to Die:

5. Initial bout with giardia (Train from Lhasa to Xi'an)

4. Anytime we were on the back of a motorbike. (Vietnam)

3. Bus ride between Kunming, China and Lao Cai, Vietnam.

2. Anytime Ben was in control of a motorbike. (Cat Ba Island, Vietnam)

1. Stranded in the Gobi (Gobi Desert)

Top Five Places:

5. Tibet, China

4. Cambodia- all of it.

3. Gobi Desert, Mongolia

2. Olkhon Island, Russia

1. Vietnam- all of it.

Top Twenty Memories:

20. A blissful five days of fruity drinks, fresh seafood, giant lizards, breathtaking sunsets, and fantastic diving on Tioman Island. (Tioman Island, Malaysia).

19. Meeting some of the world's greatest young geographers amidst some of the world's greatest monuments at Angkor (Angkor, Cambodia).

18. An evening stroll through our Hutong in Beijing yields a handful of great interviews, dozens of portraits, and lots of smiles and waves (Beijing, China).

17. Fighting off tears and becoming pacifists at Saigon's War Remnants Museum (Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam).

16. Hand delivering dinner to a group of orphans in the slums of Phnom Penh (Phnom Penh, Cambodia).

15. Our first personal views of a coral reef teeming with vibrant life, feeling that we'd stumbled into an entirely foreign world (Nha Trang, Vietnam).

14. Riding on the back of Zeke's motorbike as he guided us around Vietnam's old DMZ, a place he knew too well after spending most of the war there. (DMZ, Dong Ha, Vietnam)

13. Setting up our tent with a cluster of others at Rongphu Monastery near Everest Base Camp, hearing the hymns of locals during the night, and waking up to the sight of the mountain (Everest Base Camp, Tibet).

12. Being dropped off in the wrong town in northwestern Vietnam and wandering aimlessly admiring the sun drenched foliage and bizarre landscape before being invited in to dinner with a deaf woman, her sister, and their parents and, later, the sister's teenage friends who came by for a slumber party (Tam Duong, Vietnam).

11. Spending hours drinking milk tea and talking with a Tibetan monk-turned-thangka-artist who explained his art, spirituality, and family life, and offered us priceless enlightenment regarding modern Tibet (Lhasa, Tibet).

10. Feeling like the most warmly welcomed people on Earth on a cyclo ride through the less touristy areas of Saigon, where every second or third person waved frantically and grinned at us (Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam).

9. Ben's prophetic proclamation foretelling our crash and his rather dubious motorbike skills on Cat-Ba Island (Cat Ba Island, Vietnam).

8. A surprisingly pleasant encounter with the Russian Police at Yaroslavsky Station, followed by karaoke with two attendants (Moscow, Russia).

7. Getting unofficially married, gaining a new set of parents, eating raw garlic and hot peppers, and testing our skills at non-verbal communication, all over several bottles of wicked rice brandy and a case of beer with a pair of middle-aged Chinese bureaucrats on the Yangtze (Yangtze River, China).

6. Having our souls shaken at the S-21 Genocide Museum in Phnom Penh, and having them healed by the smile of a young Khmer girl (Phnom Penh, Cambodia).

5. Trekking into the misty hills around Sapa with our Black Hmong and Red Dzao escorts (Sapa, Vietnam).

4. The surreal night beginning with our breakdown in a Gobi snowdrift, walking to a nearby T.V. tower, and huddling with several stranded Mongolians and ending with an epic drive through the middle of the night, stopping periodically to assist other stuck travelers, all while borderline hypothermic (Gobi Desert to Dalandzadgad, Mongolia).

3. Being awed by near-tangible spirituality at Shamanka Rock on our first evening on Olkhon Island (Olkhon Island, Lake Baikal, Russia).

2. Meeting the "plague brigade" and wrestling with their rowdy brothers at a ger camp somewhere between Erdenedalay and Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia (Gobi Desert, Mongolia).

1. Toasting the sunset and brotherhood on Lake Baikal, followed by a memorable banquet and an even more memorable bout with a rugged cow-bone (Olkhon Island, Russia).

At this point, we'd like to express our sincerest gratitude to all of those without whom we would have never been able to savor these 20 experiences and the hundreds of others that could have easily made their way onto the above list. Most of you know who you are. Some of you may have forgotten by now. If we took the time to mention everyone who's influenced, supported, or helped us along the way, we'd be compiling a list of Tolstoyan proportions. We've made everyone read enough already, so we won't endeavor to be so comprehensive. A few very important people do deserve more thanks than we could ever humanly offer, and those we will name here. Dr. Mike Sfraga, the head of our program and the energetic dynamo who made all of this happen. Katie Kennedy, the real brains behind the whole operation, whose coordinative abilities are superhuman. She made sure we saw whom we needed to see and talked to whom we needed to talk to. She also had a huge hand in getting us up on the geographyua website, along with our maps. Dr. Jason Ohler, for supporting our initial endeavors at creating the blog. Lovro Valcic, for giving us expert advice on digital mapping. Dr. Cary deWit, Dr. James Johnsen, Dr. Patricia Heiser, Dr. Mark Carper, and Dr. Jeremy Tasch, for generously volunteering their support and knowledge as members of our respective graduate committees. Walter Armstrong, Mrs. Mingo, Mike Towle, Mrs. Guzman, for inviting us into their classrooms so that we could reach our most important audience. Shawn Biessel, for being not only a great friend, but the man who arranged both of our post-trip presentations at UAF. All who stopped by to hear us ramble for two hours on two snowy, cold Alaskan nights. Our fellow travelers, for encouraging us, enlivening our adventures, and providing valuable advice. All of our beloved friends back home, who dutifully slogged through our posts and sent their love across the seas. Everyone who took the time to read and comment on our posts, and all of you who've approached us personally with words of encouragement upon our return. And of course, our families. They, above all else, were the sustainers of our trip. Their unbelievable generosity, which kept us from selling internal organs, was truly miraculous, and their constant love and support despite our selfish inclinations to terrify them was courageous in the extreme. You are the people who made us, raised us, and influenced us at every turn. We can't tell you enough how much we love you and thank you. We'll try anyway. THANK YOU!

And with that, we're signing off...this time for good. May the road rise up to meet you, and the horizon always beckon. Happy Travels!
Ben and Faye

Closing Time- Singapore and the Long Journey Home- August 13-18, 2007

2007-12-25T15:43:00.000-09:00

Singapore, like many places, has a loaded name. Its mention conjures up images as vastly different as can be, evoking two different worlds and two very different times. Perhaps, upon hearing it, you think of the colonial splendor of Raffles Hotel, sultry equatorial Asian summers, and all the vice that accompanies a thriving, exotic port. Or perhaps you think of the last big time Singapore made American news, when a teenaged American tourist was sentenced to be caned for chewing gum in this excruciatingly clean city. The interesting thing about Singapore is that these two worlds co-inhabit one geographic place, sharing both their rich history and rich (literally) present with travelers.

We had two days to see Singapore, the last two days of our six-month experience. To be honest, we were tempted to spend them sleeping. We checked into a hostel in one of the residential districts, strikingly suburban and upper middle class. It was also strikingly expensive. Singapore enjoys, by far, the highest income levels in Southeast Asia. Its citizens regularly travel to paradises like nearby Tioman Island, or enjoy their own stretches of beaches and parks. At the end of our funds, we were ready to faint at the prospect of western prices for restaurant meals, no matter how posh said restaurants might be.

Singapore was originally one of the British Empire’s colonial ports, distinguished from most other colonial Southeast Asian ports by its tax-free status. This, of course, made it quite attractive to fledgling capitalists the world over. The “Lion City,” like most of Southeast Asia, soon found itself hosting an incredibly large community of Chinese immigrants. This would prove to be quite a crisis in 1965, when, after briefly residing within the fledgling Malay Federation, Singapore was essentially booted from the nation due in large part to its majority Chinese population. Ethnic Malays simply didn’t want to risk losing more political power to an already substantial Chinese minority. Since then, the enigmatic little city-state has carved out quite a niche for itself as a strategically located, politically stable (if not authoritarian), and unabashedly market-friendly center for technology and manufacturing. Along with Taiwan and South Korea, Singapore was the vanguard “Asian Tiger,” with per capita income rising to nearly $15,000 (absurdly high by Southeast Asian standards) by the 1990’s. This is great for native Singaporeans, but not so great for road-weary travelers with an even more fatigued bank account. The exchange rate between the U.S. and Singapore dollar was nearly 1:1. No more six dollar massages or three dollar meals for us.

Fighting off outright depression, we had a difficult time finding “touristy” things to do. Being located so far from the city-center also lowered our enthusiasm for exploration. We did take an evening to explore downtown Singapore’s famous Orchard Road, a cosmopolitan conglomeration of high priced shopping malls, high-rises whose exteriors glisten like polished mirrors, and streets so impossibly clean they seem made more for surgical procedures than driving. Pigeons fluttered aimlessly through skies surprisingly devoid of smog, while we pensively and silently ambled along the crowded sidewalks, seemingly the only two people in the city not in a hurry to get somewhere. Night fell rapidly, darkness bringing only slight relief from the sticky, oppressive heat of the equatorial city. We had to content ourselves with a contrived, urban lightshow rather than one of a more natural variety, as high rises negated our last chance to witness one of Southeast Asia’s gorgeous sunsets. This is not to say that the city lights weren’t brilliant. They were. The bustling city just seemed a rather unfitting place to end our journey. Mentally, we were done on Tioman.

Riding home that evening in one of Singapore’s predictably spotless taxis, we had an interesting conversation with our talkative driver. “We are surrounded!” he exclaimed excitedly, as if the commander of a besieged island fortress. “The Malays to the north, the Indonesians to the south, they are all Muslim, all crazy, and all buying military equipment! From the Russians and the Chinese! We have to be strong in Singapore. We also buy military hardware- from the United States.” He had a point, if only a vaguely accurate one. On Tioman, we’d heard several radio broadcasts describing Malaysia’s recent acquisition of several Russian-made Sukhoi fighters, unarguably some of the most formidable aircraft in the world. Indonesia too seemed interested in bolstering their military might. Singapore has a fairly reputable military, and often trains with counterparts from the United States. We’re not sure this a credible indication of some kind of brewing Southeast Asian arms-race, but you know what they say in journalism circles: If you want to know something about a place, just ask your taxi driver.

We spent much of our time in the neighborhood around our hostel, wandering down the broad suburban avenues with their gated homes and preppy kindergartens to a row of buildings that contained both a sumptuous Javanese massage parlor and several restaurants that showed the true breadth of Singaporean culture. While Chinese influences are certainly dominant, Indian and Indonesian food are popular, as is sushi, Mediterranean fare, European bakeries and colorful bistros. We also did lots of laundry, not wanting the colorful smells emanating from our packs to present a problem with airport security. It was in the midst of one laundry session that we had one of the most encouraging conversations with another traveler of the entire trip. He was in his late fifties, a real estate agent from Florida. He wore shorts, flip-flops, a tank top, and a gold cross around his sun-bronzed neck. And he loved Vietnam and Indonesia with a passion equaled by his wife, so that they spent most of their money on long trips to Southeast Asia every year or two. Amazing! Other Americans who were traveling in countries that are Communist and Muslim and loving it all as much as we did. While they were two of less than ten Americans we met during the entire adventure, their appearance as we prepared to head back home was immensely encouraging.

The morning of our departure arrived with unexpected suddenness. We were ready to go. It was like saying good-bye to a loved one you knew you’d not see for a long time. We couldn’t bear to drag the farewell out any longer and wished, with reluctance, to get on with the next phase of our lives. Our hostel slept as we silently tiptoed down the steps and out the door with packs significantly less cumbersome than the ones we arrived in St. Petersburg with almost six months before to the day. Two teenage boys sat on milk crates across the alley at an adjacent gas station, talking quietly in the dim, yellow light offered by the street lamp. Otherwise, the streets were empty. The air possessed a chill not felt since we’d ascended the mountains to heavenly Sapa. It was half-past four a.m. on August 15, 2007 when the taxi sped around the corner and lurched to a halt in front of the gated doors of the hostel, signaling the end of the Eurasian Adventure. Two hours later, our Boeing 777 operated by United Airlines lifted off from Singapore’s international airport bound for smoldering Tokyo. Closing time had finally arrived.

Nine hours later, we touched down in Tokyo. It was late afternoon and over 100 degrees outside. It didn’t matter. We didn’t have the time or the energy to add one more country to our itinerary. We stayed in the airport, gorging on easily the best sushi we’d ever had and mentally preparing for the 14-hour marathon ahead of us. As the sun mercifully set on the Land of the Rising Sun, we boarded another 777 and lifted off for San Francisco, USA. America. Back to America. It seemed a strange thought, an even stranger reality.

Somewhere over the mid-Pacific, at almost exactly the halfway point of the flight, we ran headlong into the remnants of a tropical storm drifting northward from Hawaii. The jumbo-jet thrashed about the sky like a tiny fishing boat caught in a hurricane. With bug-eyed horror, we clasped each other’s hands and pled with whatever heavenly ear might care to listen to get us somewhere, anywhere, safely. After three hours, it stopped. We slept like weary children for the rest of the flight.

Fog rolled across the low hills surrounding San Francisco Bay as we de-boarded and marched obediently through U.S. customs, obscenely annoyed by the terror warnings placarded on the walls and blaring through the loudspeakers overhead. We had nine hours before our flight to Anchorage was scheduled to depart, and we’d planned to venture out into the Bay City for a while to help ease our adjustment back to life in the States. We fell asleep on the floor instead. Jet lag had arrived with un-tempered ferocity, and we’d not readjust to Alaska Time for well over a month.

Naturally, we were wide-awake when we touched down in Anchorage sometime just before midnight. Familiarity struck like a baseball bat upside the head. With a pair of brooding sighs, we emerged into Ted Stevens International Airport and embarked upon the unthinkable: the return to normalcy. We had one more trick up our sleeves, however. After spending so much time on Asia’s most famous railways- the Trans-Siberian, the Trans-Mongolian, the controversial train to Lhasa- we felt like we needed to finish everything off with one last train ride, and see Alaska like we’d never seen it: as tourists. It turned out to be a better idea in our dreams than in actuality.

After arriving in Anchorage, we took a taxi to an exceptionally nice hostel and tried in vain to sleep. Instead, we indulged ourselves with free food leftover in the hostel’s kitchen and long-missed pop-culture. Comedy Central was showing reruns of that evening’s Daily Show and Colbert Report. We were shocked and disturbed at how easily we fell back into old, familiar routines. That night, and over the weeks that followed, our souls seemed to be locked in desperate civil war, one side clutching desperately to the lifestyle we’d left behind in Asia, the other striving to reengage with the place we reluctantly called home. Six months later, as we finally put the finishing touches on this blog, similar skirmishes are still taking place. We’ve found no way to quell the Asian insurgency wracking our spirits.

We met our friend Michelle the next afternoon and went for a short hike at Anchorage’s Kincaid Park. The crisp, early autumn air seemed at once incredibly foreign and disturbingly familiar. We felt alien. Nothing was out of place, and that made everything seem wrong. We were struck by the volume of large trucks and SUVs aggressively plying the streets. Where were the rickshaws, tuk-tuks, busses, and bicycles? Why the hell couldn’t anyone drive something slightly smaller than a battleship? For the first time in months, we were experiencing culture shock.

We banished ourselves to the hostel, not quiet ready to face reality. A smattering of intrepid foreigners milled about the hostel’s lobby, and we felt more at home eavesdropping on their unintelligible conversations than we did outside, amongst our own. The place we’d called home for years seemed to us a prison built on a foundation of the habitual.

That night, we endeavored to stay up until morning, and then resiliently push on through the day’s train ride without snoozing. We accomplished the first half without difficulty. At 8 a.m. we boarded a polished blue and gold passenger car aimed north, and chugged slowly towards our final destination. Our heads hung heavily over our shoulders, eyes drooping like those of a worn hound dog. Faye was asleep by Wasilla. Ben fought longer, but fell himself sometime after Talkeetna. We awakened to find Denali cloud free and utterly magnificent. It was a fine day to be a tourist. We spent much of the journey hanging our heads out the opened frames between cars, finding an odd satisfaction in the fresh air of Alaska’s interior. We sprinted through Nenana sometime around dinnertime, our hearts fluttering in anticipation of reaching Fairbanks. We had no idea how we’d react to “home.” It seemed such a strange concept. Home.

Fittingly, it was UAF that we passed first. The evening sun glinted off the Butrovich building, perched stoically half way up West Ridge. It seemed to be winking at us, welcoming us back to the institution that had so graciously sent us forth on our journey. The train had already begun to slow when we passed beneath the bridge on Thompson Drive. For some reason, we both broke into nervous, yet broad smiles. Finally, we lurched to a stop outside the train station. For several seconds, we stared at each other in disbelief. What are we doing here? With shaky, tired legs, we descended the stairs, heeding the conductor’s warnings to watch our steps. Ben’s parents emerged from the crowd, and with giant bear hugs and a few weary tears, it was over. Six months, nine countries, uncountable experiences, all of them priceless, over. We did what anyone in our situation would have done. We went for ice cream at Hot Licks

Vacations- Malaysia- July 23-August 12.

2007-12-25T15:41:00.000-09:00

Peninsular Malaysia

We had many reasons for wanting to visit Malaysia. It’s a country with an incredibly rich history marked by multiple periods of colonialism. It was one of the darlings of the first wave of globalization, when European traders and colonizers spread out across the world in search of new markets and raw materials. Malaysia’s location along the Straits of Malacca, gateway to China, and its natural resources made it highly coveted land to the major seafaring powers, most notably the Dutch and the English. Four centuries later, Malaysia is still a darling of globalization, and many multinationals are setting up shop throughout the country's bustling cities. This colorful history of trade left Malaysia as multi-cultural as they come, with indigenous Malays sharing a population plurality with ethnic Chinese, Indians, and a host of other Asian nationalities. Its location has maintained its strategic importance, as a significant proportion of Arab oil exports bound for China and the United States must pass through the congested and pirate ridden stretch of ocean between Peninsular Malaysia and Indonesia’s island of Sumatra. It’s also an Islamic nation, and is often cited as an example of how democracy and Islam can peacefully coexist. Most importantly for us, at least at this stage of our journey, was the nation’s reputation as a laid-back, hassle-free vacation spot with plenty of world-class dive-sites. Thus, the sign at customs that read “Absolutely No Hippies Allowed” caused us considerable alarm. Laid back? Hassle-free? How could any nation threatening to immediately deport individuals with “long greasy hair, loose silk trousers, and patched clothing,” be laid back and hassle-free? Their description of the vile hippie sounded like every backpacker we’d ever met. We, for instance, hadn’t showered in several days, were wearing giant, baggy trousers bought days before in Cambodia, and by all accounts looked very hippie-ish. We’d gotten used to such unfriendly welcome signs at border crossings. In Thailand, a giant sign warns all who cross that mandatory life sentences or even execution await those convicted of drug-trafficking offenses. But this seemed a bit ridiculous. Hippies? What kind of grave threat to national security could hippies possibly pose? Do hippies actually even exist anymore? A more important and immediate question for the two of us was, were they even going to let us into the country? Thankfully, the smiling border guards and headscarved customs agents showed more good-humor than the ominous sign, and we were whisked through and on to our destination: Georgetown, capital of the island Penang.

Once inside Malaysia, we ran into signs like this one, posted to commemorate the 50 year anniversary of the nation's independence and consolidation. The signs at customs were far less pleasant.

Hours later, wandering through the streets of the town, we were floored by the architectural and cultural legacy of years of mercantilism. Along the waterfront, British colonial buildings squatted imposingly. A few blocks up the Indian district was alive with five Bollywood soundtracks playing at once and storefronts overflowing with colorful saris and garlands of flowers. Following our noses, we found a shop full of Indian baked treats, which we enjoyed before walking another few blocks for Chinese stir-fry. We were staying in the majority Chinese area, where elaborate temples flanked by stone dragons shared alleys with traditional apothecaries. There seemed to be very little interaction between the town’s inhabitants- we never saw, for instance, young Chinese and Indian students socializing, and yet there was no perceptible tension in the air. Within two blocks we saw a mosque, a Chinese Buddhist temple, an Indian Buddhist temple, and a Hindu temple. Perhaps it is the fact that these religions have all been imported, and the landscape is not full of holy sites to be contested. For the most part, conflict in Malaysia has occurred on ethnic lines over economic and political power, as the Chinese controlled much of the country’s capital and the indigenous Malays enjoyed advantages in the political system.

Along Georgetown's main streets, low buildings like these are uniformly dedicated to commerce, with families living above or behind their shops. Much of Georgetown's architecture reflects its colonial heritage, although the city is certainly moving forward rapidly.

One of many Chinese temples in Georgetown. Chinese labor was needed to man the tin mines and rubber plantations in Malaysia during the colonial years, as locals had little interest or need to work such low paying, high demand jobs. A good deal of the Chinese stuck around, becoming merchants, traders, and bankers.

South Asians also came to Malaysia in droves, seeking the same labor intensive, low paying jobs as their Chinese counterparts. Many of them were made to leave their Indian homeland by the British, who controlled India as well as much of Malaysia at the time. Though Indian immigrants were initially far less likely to move on to white collar jobs like the Chinese, many of them stayed in Malaysia. Today, they are represented in all fields of work in Malaysia, and they've greatly influenced contemporary culture, from food to music to the sometimes despised yet highly addictive Bollywood films.

This is not to suggest that religion isn’t playing a huge and sometimes counter-productive role in Malaysian society. Islamic mullahs, offended by the provocative and overtly sexual nature of Bollywood films, have repeatedly tried to have them banned in Malaysia. Legislation such as this is, of course, fiercely contested by the large Indian minority, who are observably addicted to Bollywood. The mullahs have also been actively pursuing more conservative policies regarding women. At one of the mosques we stopped at in Georgetown, a guest lecturer was scheduled to deliver a sermon on the evils of feminism. Alongside the fliers advertising this event were others describing a subsequent lecture to be delivered about the terrorist attacks of 9/11/01, directly insinuating that the whole event was an elaborately staged hoax intended to foster hatred towards Muslims. Later, we learned that Malaysia’s mullahs had actively encouraged Malay citizens to fight against coalition forces in Afghanistan. To us, all of this seemed rather detestable. But it served to illustrate a very good and often overlooked point. Without exception, all of the Malays (and Indians and Chinese for that matter) we met were kind, generous, and peaceable. It reminded us that we must always remember that lunatics and leaders (too-often one and the same) make news, not ordinary people. When we read about or watch programs describing religious extremism and violent acts of terrorism, we mustn’t be tempted to judge all of those in the society in which the acts occurred. The conservative, fanatical ideologues at the top of the hierarchy are the ones making all of the noise in Malaysia, not the ordinary citizens. Nevertheless, Malaysia provides a fascinating look into the conflict that is ripping the Islamic world apart, and should continue to generate considerable interest for the foreseeable future.

A mosque near our hostel in Georgetown. The ethnic Malays in Malaysia, like their kin to the south in Indonesia, are predominantly Islamic. While the brand of Islam practiced here for the most part seemed peaceful and laid back, the clerics and mullahs are becoming increasingly conservative and hard-line.

From Penang, we took an overnight bus across the northern end of the peninsula east to Kuala Besut, a coastal town that serves as the gateway to the paradise-like islands known as the Perhentians, where we’d once again accommodate our addiction to coral reefs. The Perhentians are two jungle-covered islands pock-marked with resorts of varying quality, all of which are serviced by a flotilla of tiny speedboats serving as water taxis. The luxuriously inviting sandy beaches on their coasts contrast sharply with the rocky, impenetrable interiors of the islands, where giant spiders, enormous lizards, and pterodactyl-like fruit bats reside amongst a host of other creepy creatures. Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on your outlook) for us, these fun and exotic critters were more than happy to make a few appearances down at the beach and on the balcony of our hotel. For five days, we played an amusing yet harrowing game of chicken with a kamikaze bat that liked to fly race-track patterns up and down the walkway leading to our room at head level. Perhaps he was trying to impress the foot-long spider that menacingly dangled from its web on a nearby power-pole. In the evenings, flocks of giant fruit bats took to the air, majestically flapping wings spanning three feet or more and mesmerizing the army of kittens on the ground. When not dodging these exotic rodents-on-the-wing and steroidal arachnids, we spent our time diving, lounging on the beach, and playing cards with three rather colorful English dive-master trainees and a hilarious Slovenian couple. One thing we didn’t do, however, was drink. Flora Bay, where we stayed in the Perhentians, is lined with charming little outdoor restaurants catering to foreign tourists, yet the Malaysian owners of these restaurants stay true to their faith and forbid alcohol on their premises. The one exception to this rule recognized its monopoly on the market and sold canned beer for the equivalent of six U.S. dollars. Ouch! Thankfully, we are atypical divers and don’t have much need for alcohol. Some of our compatriots struggled mightily with the islands strict adherence to Islamic principals, however.

The Perhentians are a pair of laid back, relaxing island getaways off Malaysia's east coast.

We dove, lounged, read, and cavorted with three very entertaining dive-master trainees and a pair of Slovenians. One thing we didn't do was drink alcoholic beverages, as the Muslim Malays that ran the island's restaurants chose not to carry or serve them.

As blissful as our Perhentian sojourn was, it was soon time for us to move on. Our choice was the Cameron Highlands of the western interior peninsula, an area famed for its tea and gardens. During the British period, expatriates would periodically seek relief from the tropical heat in the highlands, whose elevation provided a cool, cloudy climate. Interestingly, it also served as a "cleansing station," where European colonials could come to escape the jungle heat and avoid unsavory interaction with the "inferior" locals, and reassert their moral, cultural, and intellectual superiority. Thankfully these paternalistic and racist fantasies are things no longer mentioned in travel brochures. Much to the benefit of weary travelers like ourselves, the guesthouse we’d chosen had a convenient bus that met our bus from the Perhentians halfway along the seven-hour route. After some harrowing hairpin turns on single-lane, rain-slick roads fraught with suicidal oncoming truck drivers, we were dropped off at the shady haven of Father’s Guesthouse. The beautiful gray stone house was up in the clouds, overlooking a small hamlet clustered along the main road through the highlands. We dropped our packs in our spartan room down by the garden and went up to the house to have our first cup of Cameron Highlands tea. Ahhhh. At this point we were also able to examine Ben’s foot, which was swollen and painful from an infected bug bite. Our first excursion into the village, it seemed, would be to the doctor’s.

The Cameron Highlands, a cool, relaxing retreat set high above the scorching jungles below. Much of the local architecture is colonial in nature, as are the region's decidedly British customs.

The next morning we walked/hobbled down the hill and along the road to the doctor’s office. He was quick, professional, intelligent, and Islamic. He also refused to speak to Faye, directing his answers to her questions to Ben. Not once did he make eye contact. We are both of the opinion, or hope, that this was not meant to be insulting and was simply a show of respect towards Ben. Nonetheless, it was a striking experience, certainly the first time Faye had ever felt sidelined in her life. It was just the slightest taste of how women in more conservative/traditional/backwards/male-dominated (take your pick) societies live, and it wasn’t very pleasant. We left armed with a packet of antibiotics and a new appreciation for our liberal upbringings.

Despite Ben’s inability to put much weight on his excessively swollen foot, we set out the next day in search of the perfect scone and tea combo. Teatime, a decidedly British tradition, is still a daily part of life in this part of the former British colony. As we walked, we passed a plethora of small tea plantations and farms growing strawberries, another local delicacy. The fresh air, cool temperatures, and plentiful precipitation of the highlands make it the perfect location for tea cultivation, and the tea loving Brits that once occupied peninsular Malaysia made good use of the local geography. Although there were at least half a dozen tea and scone eateries within a quarter mile of our guesthouse, we foolishly decided to search for one several miles up the hill and outside of town. Ben’s foot hampered the effort from the start, and a poor interpretation of our only map exacerbated our plight. Finally, we wandered into a fancy looking establishment at the top of the hill that led out of town, where we were directed towards a serene little garden out back. Then, they told us the price of their merchandise: $14 for a glass of tea and a scone with locally produced strawberry jam. We gasped and quickly did an about-face, hobbling back down the hill towards the more plebian establishments in town. By the time we got there, we were both more in the mood for lunch than scones, so we sat down at one of the Indian tandoori restaurants along the main road and sang the praises of curry and nan.

A view of a Cameron Highlands garden from our failed search for the perfect cup of tea and scone. The lofty altitude and resultant weather in the highlands are conducive to certain agricultural endeavors, including the cultivation of tea and strawberries, two local delicacies.

In all honesty, we could have spent six months or more at Father’s Guesthouse. The climate was, in our opinion, absolutely perfect, and it’s hard to beat a steady diet of fresh tea, expertly baked scones, and authentic Indian food. If there’s a better place to relax with a good book than a Cameron Highlands garden, we’d like to hear about it, because such a place must truly be Heaven on Earth. Ironically enough (or tragically enough), this was about the only point on the trip when we didn’t have any good reading material. We’d trudged around Asia for over five months with a small library in our packs, but we’d abandoned ALL of them save for an unreadable copy of a book about Cambodian history by this point. Unfortunately, neither the Guesthouse nor the surrounding community had a book exchange or store. We were told that the nearest bookstore was in Ipoh, a rugged, shady, crime-ridden tin-mining town about an hour away. Somehow we doubted that they’d have a good selection of titles either. We had little choice but to abandon this little slice of heaven and continue on our journey south. We made a solemn vow to stock up on books at the next opportunity and boarded the bus for Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia’s capital and a seemingly good place to do just that.

The cool and cloudy highlands provided the perfect reprieve from the oppressive heat in the jungle below. British colonial settlers of the 1800's apparently felt the same way, and traditions such as teatime still flourish here.

Another hair-raising bus ride later, we climbed off the bus and walked four blocks to Haven Hostel. We were only a back alley away from a major shopping mall, where we indulged by making a beeline for Borders Books. As night set we began our quest for food, walking along a busy street with neon-lit signs, restaurants galore, and a startling number of reflexology practitioners actively recruiting clients. Our exploration of the city, however, had to wait for daylight. The next morning we set out on a circuitous trek, heading through the Indian district where we marveled at a halal McDondalds before wrapping around a forested hill. A small sign directed us through this park towards the KL Tower. We immediately left the city behind as we strolled on leaf-covered paths and over a suspended walkway. We emerged from this wooded oasis at the base of the enormous tower, a sky-scraping spire with incredible panoramic views. As we stood in line to go to the top, we looked around at the other tourists waiting with us. Many of the women were in full hijab, covered from head to toe in solid black. Their daughters were similarly dressed, although their faces were left bare (conveniently for them, because it would have been difficult to enjoy their ice cream cones quite so thoroughly otherwise). The men, macho and chauvinistic in their Gucci and Prada, strutted about several paces in front of their veiled wives and over-exuberant children. Clearly, most of these vacationers were from more conservative Islamic societies. Malaysia is one of the most sought out destinations for tourists from the rich petro-states of the Middle East, and most of the travelers we saw in KL were Arabic. Malaysia is as welcoming as possible to these privileged guests. For instance, Israelis, despised throughout the Islamic world, are not allowed into the country. Malaysia has unfortunately also played host to Middle-Easterners with a more mischievous itinerary, as several successful and failed terrorist plots have been hatched within its Muslim friendly borders. Everyone we saw seemed most concerned with peaceful vacationing, however.

A Chinese sari salesman in the colorful Indian district of KL. For the most part, ethnicities seem to keep to themselves, but the entrepreneurial spirit is strong and occasionally an enterprising businessman will shoot for a new market.

Kuala Lumpur is Malaysia's primate city, a center of culture, transportation, politics, and business. Notably, most of Malaysia's most important cities (KL, Malacca, and Georgetown) are found on its west coast, on the strategically important Straits of Malacca.

The old blends seamlessly with the new in KL. Here, Islamic style architecture flanks newer commercial high-rises near the center of the city.

Up in the tower, we gazed out across a city as green as any we’d ever seen. Trees and small patches of jungle merged seamlessly with the bustling roads and shiny office buildings of the city. A dense smog lingered in the air, obscuring our view of the horizon in all directions and speaking volumes about the amount of motorized traffic and industry in KL. But the city itself seemed quiet and eerily still from that altitude. The setting sun cast a soft glow on all below, producing the kind of brilliantly warm colors one can only find in the tropics. Standing tall less than a mile away stood Kuala Lumpur’s most prized possession- the twin spires of the Petronas Towars. Until recently, they were the tallest buildings in the world. They’ve since been surpassed by Taipei 101 in Taiwan and an even taller steel Goliath in Dubai, but their grandeur remains undiminished. Their distinct combination of modern and stylized Islamic architecture gives them relevance far beyond their stature alone, and we felt fortunate to have had the opportunity to view them on such a lovely evening from such a unique vantage point.

The Petronas Towers, some of the tallest buildings in the world and a symbol of Malaysia's economic development.

Kuala Lumpor was easily one of the greenest cities we'd ever seen. Large parks and small swaths of jungle punctuate the usual steel and concrete of the city environ. This is as important functionally as it is aesthetically, as the presence of such vegetation greatly reduces the effects of the urban heat island, a condition where cities are actually warmer than their surroundings. Nowhere is this more important than sweltering Southeast Asia.

Descending back into the city, we quickly appreciated the illusion of stillness provided by our distant perch. KL at night is anything but still. Malay, Indian, and Chinese merchants noisily vied for attention and the city’s back alleys sprung to life in chaotic maelstroms of business and life as the setting sun cast an alluring orange glow over the horizon. After a quick stop for sushi, we took the opportunity to take care of a few hair related issues. Ben got a shave and a haircut at a small barbershop ($5, 15 minutes, massage included) and Faye visited a more professional salon for a haircut of her own ($40, 2 hours, no massage). Feeling sufficiently beautified, we prepared for another cross-peninsula bus ride to the sleepy east coast village of Cherating, where we hoped, with books in hand, to somehow re-create the peace and tranquility of the Cameron Highlands.

A water-color sunset in KL, a beautiful send off as we prepared to move on.

According to our guidebook, Cherating used to be a happening town with throngs of loyal, oddball visitors. Within the last decade, however, things have quieted down considerably, and most of its visitors now are families seeking what we sought: sun, sand, peace, and solitude. It seemed like the perfect place to kill two days reading and relaxing. Our bus dropped us off on the side of the north/south running highway at the three foot long metal bench that serves as tiny Cherating’s bus station and sped off, leaving us confused and disoriented at the side of the road. We were looking for a hostel with the absurdly impossible name of “Shadow of the Moon at Half-Past Four,” an enduring testament to the kind of crowd that used to hang out in Cherating. The town seemed empty. A hot, sticky stillness accentuated by clouds of dust blown off the dirt road by an afternoon sea-breeze accompanied us on our futile search for the curiously named hostel we’d already made reservations at. An hour into the search, we gave up. We’d twice passed a pleasant looking collection of shacks, complete with a shark-bitten surfboard on the gate, and decided to shack up there instead. A baby monkey on a leash met us as we timidly wandered into the yard of the complex, looking for its owner. A middle-aged Malay, looking surprisingly hippy-like (coincidentally, he would neither be the first nor the last indigenous hippy we met in hippy-hating Malaysia), lazily greeted us and checked us into our one room shack in the corner of the yard. For two entirely uneventful days, we shed all of our responsibilities and cares and sprawled on the beach with book in hand. Bliss at the end of a long journey.

Paradise-like though it was, Cherating wasn’t a place we wanted to stay for long. In fact, it was really just our way of avoiding the weekend blitz at our final destination in Malaysia, Tioman Island. We hiked down the road on Sunday night to one of Cherating’s two travel agencies and arranged our trip back to Kuantan and on to Mersing, where we’d catch the ferry to Tioman. Cherating sent us packing with two very memorable experiences, however. The first of these was our first, and hopefully last, taste of the chokingly disgusting durian fruit. It’s quite popular in Malaysia and Singapore, but there’s a darn good reason why its never found a market in the U.S. It tastes suspiciously like a mashed up mixture of garlic and onion, but with a pungent sweetness that makes it nearly inedible. Hours after our tiny sample the wretched aftertaste lingered in our assaulted mouths. It wasn’t mutton, but it would have made a fine companion to our less than appetizing meals months earlier in the Gobi.

Our second memorable experience was the time we spent chatting with our travel agent, who was an American Navy brat raised in Hawaii. While visiting Malyasia she met and fell in love with her husband and converted to Islam. She said her family was at first horrified by her decision, and never quite understood her choice to wear the headscarf. “Every time I go home to visit,” she told us, “my mother says ‘You can take that off- you’re in America now!’ I tell her I wouldn’t ever wear it if I didn’t want to- Malaysia is not a repressive society. Lots of women choose not to wear it here.” Wearing the headscarf in the states, she was afraid people would take her for a terrorist, and felt some hostility- a strange sensation for a born and raised American. She had a difficult time understanding such hostility. "Islam is a peaceful religion," she insisted. "The terrorists, they are not true Muslims. True Muslims would never kill innocent people or themselves." We could have spent days talking with her about the subject, but days were in short supply. We spent only a few hours in her small shop while her sons ran around raising hell, she reprimanding them in a mixture of English and Malay. We wondered if she was lonely, or felt isolated by her very different upbringing, but she seemed truly at home in the sleepy beachside town. She was also quite at home with her job, and had us on a taxi to Kuantan, bus and ferry tickets in hand, early the next morning.

The days were growing shorter and increasingly bittersweet. Tioman Island was to be our last real stop on the trip, and our moods shifted between excitement at the diving and relaxation ahead and despair at the inevitability of our return to the States. We were determined to suck every last drop of sweetness out of our remaining days. Luckily, Tioman had plenty to offer. We found a small room in the line of cabana shack guest houses that lined one of the main beaches, a ten minute stroll from the laid-back dive center. Right away we went in search of this critical establishment, strolling along the four-foot wide paved path that hugged the coast, dodging children on four-wheelers and placid, six-foot-long monitor lizards. After checking in with the dive center we stationed ourself at an outdoor cafe/bar on the beach, where we spent almost all of our above-water time. Sitting on a pillow covered platform sipping cocktails and enjoying fresh seafood while watching the sunset, we knew we'd found the perfect place to unwind. The diving was as advertised. Two times a day, we'd march barefoot down to the dive-center, grab a cup of thick coffee or tea, and hit the water. Tioman is blessed with an enormous variety of sites, from wrecks and sunken cars to drift sites with ripping currents and elaborate coral seascapes. The highlight of our dives occurred on the third day, as we slowly maneuvered over a flamboyantly colored coral garden. Just a foot or two away, nibbling on the coral, was a hawksbill sea turtle. We hovered in awe as he ignored us, and watched as he pushed up off the coral and swam away. Many species of sea turtles are endangered, and Malaysia is one of their prime breeding grounds. Adult turtles shuffle ashore and lay their eggs on the sandy coasts of islands like Tioman, where they are exposed to various forms of predation. When the turtles hatch, they must make a dangerous sprint to the relative safety of the ocean, doing what little they can to avoid hungry gulls and other predators waiting for an easy, helpless snack. There are several places in Malaysia, including at least one on Tioman, that allow visitors to hand-deliver such baby turtles to the ocean. It's a fun thing for a kid (or adult) to do, and it's helping to enhance sea-turtle populations. This is good news for divers and everyone concerned with the health of the ocean.

Ahhhhh, bliss: The view from our guest house...

...from our favorite cafe...

...and from our daily walk to the dive center. Tioman was very good to us.

The Marine Center on Tioman, where visitors can learn about conservation.

As the days passed, we grew more solemn and reflective. We'd watch as the twice daily flights from Singapore landed at the narrow airstrip carved out of the coastal jungle near the village adjacent ours and thought about purchasing a ticket, thus enabling us to spend one more glorious day in paradise. The checkbook didn't agree with our scheme. We passed the nights reading, feasting, and making a colorful batik print with another of Malaysia's finest hippies, Rikki Powers, a local legend. The inevitable could not be delayed, however, and early one foggy morning we boarded the ferry and set off for Singapore. Tioman had given us a spectacular send off the night before, a torrential thunderstorm that left the whole island wet and steaming in the morning sun. Five hours later, we crossed the border into spotless Singapore with only two days left.

Tioman's steamy farewell.

Georgetown Photo Gallery

Perhentians Photo Gallery

Cameron Highlands Photo Gallery

Kuala Lumpur Photo Gallery

Tioman Island Photo Gallery

Splash and Dash- Bangkok and Koh Tao, Thailand- July 15-23

2007-12-25T15:40:00.000-09:00

Siem Reap, Cambodia, Bangkok, Chumporn, and Koh Tao Thailand

The road from Siem Reap to Bangkok is notoriously treacherous. Rumor has it that Siem Reap Airlines pays the Cambodian government to not maintain the highway, thus making visitors to the temples more likely to take a plane rather than one of the many buses that go between the two hubs on a daily basis. We didn't have the option of avoiding the dusty, pot-holed, rut-ridden route to the Thai border. We couldn't afford the plane ticket at that late stage of our journey. Even if we had managed to save the necessary funds, we'd still probably have chosen the bus. We had to see for ourselves just how bad this road from hell really was. Well, it was pretty bad. And Cambodia wasn't going to let us go without one more good story.

We bounced and bobbled our way out of Siem Reap, past emaciated cows, lazy dogs, and naked children running freely through towns composed of rickety shacks and glistening rice paddies. In all actuality, the journey was going pretty well. The road was by no means in good shape, but we'd driven through much worse in Mongolia and Vietnam and survived unscathed. This was a laugher. And then we ran an old man over. It stopped being a laugher then. The old man, who we later learned was nearly blind, darted onto the road with typical recklessness and raced up beside our speeding bus. And then, without even a look over the shoulder, drove right into the side of it. The bus screeched to a halt and the young Khmer behind the wheel sprinted out to check on the health of the stricken man. A heated argument immediately ensued. Thankfully, the old man had earned nothing worse than a scraped leg, a gashed foot, and a cut forehead from the encounter. One by one, the occupants of the bus filed out into the street to witness the spectacle as our driver and the old man continued their animated discussion. After half an hour of loitering, the police arrived and began a rather Keystone Kops-ish investigation of the accident. It soon became apparent that the six young officers had no intention of releasing the bus or the driver from the scene, and that we were going to have to find a different way to the Thai border. We, along with a handful of French and Japanese backpackers who shared our plight, eventually convinced one of the many Cambodian bystanders to take us the rest of the way to the border in his tiny pickup truck. We, in a twisted stroke of luck, managed to snag the two empty seats in the cab of the truck because of a potentially hospitalizing ailment Ben was suffering. The others had to choke down clouds of dust and got caught in a small downpour in the bed of the truck as it bounced along the pock-marked thoroughfare. Our chauffeur earned his tip, however, and delivered us to the border unscathed and in time to catch our Bangkok-bound double-decker awaiting on the other side.

Now, we'd really love to be able to say that we "experienced" Thailand, but we'd be lying if we did. Yeah, we got our passports stamped at the border, and we did spend a little over a week in Southeast Asia's most prized vacation destination. The reality, though, is that for us Thailand wasn't much more than a way to get to Malaysia. It's not that Thailand lacks geographic relevance. In fact, it's one of the most fascinating places in Southeast Asia. Steamy, erotic Bangkok is Southeast Asia's most important city, an economic dynamo and the region's major transportation hub. It's also on the verge of falling into the ocean as sea levels continue to rise in conjunction with global warming trends. Thailand has historically been considered the region's most politically stable nation, a tragically ironic distinction given there's been ten successful or attempted coups since 1970 and 17 different constitutions and charters since 1932. The last coup occurred in September of 2006, and the nation remains under the direction of this latest military junta and is thus politically unstable. Thailand is often accused of human rights violations and tourists are regularly warned to avoid certain offenses that could and often do result in lengthy prison terms or even death sentences. In the south, a low-level Islamic insurgency has raged for years, causing much embarrassment to the government and headaches to travelers trying to make it to Malaysia. Thailand's landscape is breathtakingly beautiful, from the mountainous north, to the lush river deltas of the south, to the paradise-like islands on both coasts. That beauty can be deadly, though, as the world found out in December, 2004, when a massive tsunami wiped out many of the towns and resorts on Thailand's west coast, killing thousands. The people are incredibly friendly and hospitable, and the food...well, we all know about the food.

Fishermen wave hello as we ferry between Koh Tao and mainland Thailand. Despite their warm welcome, we weren't able to spend much time in their country.

For us, all of this couldn't overcome the simple fact that Thailand too often resembles an out of control international frat party on an extended spring break vacation. We arrived in Bangkok late in the evening, and the party had clearly already begun. Trendily dressed college-aged tourists stumbled in and out of seedy bars and pulsing cafes double-fisting alcoholic beverages while crafty street vendors aggressively inquired about our preferred vice. The streets were sticky with spilled alcohol, and the city reeked of unbridled and inebriated testosterone. No, we wouldn't be staying long. But, much like our fellow backpackers who indulged their own cravings and addictions on Bangkok's out of control streets, Thailand also offered us the chance to satisfy our new-found addiction- SCUBA diving. We stayed in Bangkok just long enough to arrange a trip to the diving mecca of Koh Tao, a small island off the east coast. We left our hotel on the evening of our third day in Thailand under stormy skies and headed south to the town of Chumporn, where we'd catch a morning ferry out to Koh Tao. Once there, we'd take on the next challenge of our dive careers: the PADI Advanced Open Water course.

Much like the rest of Thailand, Koh Tao was crawling with foreign tourists, almost all of them seeking the aesthetic treasures under the surface of the azure blue waters. We signed up with one of the larger and more reputable dive outfits on the island and prepared ourselves for another blissful four day session of submerged Zen-outs. Our first dive was incredible, and cemented in us our love for this wetter side of geography. Our dive boat chugged out to the famed Chumporn Pinnacle, a towering spire of coral and rock whose base lies 100 feet beneath the surface, at the limits of recreational diving. This was the deep dive part of the course, where we'd go down to the 100 foot mark and perform a series of tests to determine our susceptibility to nitrogen narcosis (a condition that causes a diver to lose judgment and get rather loopy). As we geared up and got ready to take the plunge, our Australian instructor devilishly asked one of the other students who'd dove the day before, "And what are we going to see today?" "Sharks!" the student, a young man from Northern Ireland, replied with what seemed like a mixture of nervousness and bravado. We took the giant step into the water with that same mix of nervousness and excitement, both about the depth of our dive and the potential for an encounter with one of the world's most perfect predators.

In and down we went, through the usual collection of sleek barracuda and colorful angelfish and batfish, settling down on a sandy patch on the ocean floor surrounded by spiny-urchins and waving anenomes. We spent a few moments taking in the surroundings and allowing our minds and bodies to register the depth, and then we performed the tasks necessary to complete this part of the course. Then, we began to swim up the pinnacle, spiraling ever so slowly towards the shimmering surface above. A giant shadow passed beneath us. Could it have been...? Then, another shadow, swimming away from us at the same depth. The dive master pointed just in time for us to catch the graceful, powerful slash of the tail fin as the giant fish swam out of sight. A few moments later, we got our first prolonged glimpse of one of the most misunderstood creatures in the world. The 12 foot long black-tip reef shark glided effortlessly beneath us about 15 feet away, paying no attention to the googly-goggled visitors nearby. Soon, a second joined the fray, passing us by with an effortless swish of its mighty tail. We were instantly aware of how out of place we were in this underwater world. Sharks are one of nature's most flawless designs, so well adapted to its environment that it has undergone relatively few evolutionary adaptations over the last 100 million years. We, on the other hand, needed thousands of dollars worth of specialized gear just to clumsily splash about for an hour. It was definitely their world. And man, was it ever exciting to visit it for just awhile!

A scene very similar to the one we witnessed at Chumporn Pinnacle- a graceful black-tip reef shark plying the waters. Photo credit National Geographic.

Contrary to popular belief, most sharks are not a threat to humans. The black-tip reef sharks that we visited seemed as interested in eating us as we were in being eaten. In all actuality, it's the sharks who should be afraid of us. In many parts of the world, shark-fins are a highly appreciated treat. This is especially true in East and Southeast Asia, where shark-fin soup is a delicacy we regularly found on the menus in the "classier" restaurants we visited. The most unfortunate aspect of this particular culinary peculiarity is that, in most circumstances, the majority of the shark is wasted. Live sharks are caught, finned, and then unceremoniously thrown back into the sea to drown or bleed to death. It's inhumane and highly wasteful, and an absolute tragedy for the marine ecosystem. Sharks are also harvested for their supposed value as traditional medicine and as unwanted bycatch. All in all, over 100 million sharks (depending on whose statistics you believe) are lost annually to human activity, and a great many species now face extinction. It's difficult for conservationists to generate much enthusiasm for shark saving campaigns. Their undeserved yet firmly entrenched reputation as soulless, man-eating beasts (the sharks, not the conservationists) makes it highly unlikely that any of us will be sporting "Save the Sharks" bumper stickers anytime soon. Despite their lack of popularity, especially vis-a-vis more cuddly seafaring critters like dolphins, whales, and seals, sharks play a critical role in maintaining the health of our oceans and reefs. They keep populations of other species in check, helping to ensure the delicate balance of life on the teeming reefs. And, they act as wonderful garbage disposals, keeping reefs and the rest of the ocean clean and free of biological and non-biological debris. Perhaps we should be looking into those bumper stickers after all.

Back at the dive-center, we buzzed about our first shark encounter like over-caffeinated schoolchildren. We had another big dive ahead of us, however, and our thoughts soon turned to the evening's entertainment- our first night dive. As the sun began its rapid descent, we boarded the dive boat, donned our wetsuits and gear, and anxiously awaited the arrival of darkness. As the sun made its heroic last stand, we front-flipped James Bond style into the placid waters beneath and prepared to see the reef as never before. Armed with giant spotlights, we descended into the disorienting darkness of the unlit ocean and began our hunt for the nocturnal inhabitants of the reef. It was exhilaratingly spooky. Lurking barracuda swam ominously into our light beams, using them to augment their notoriously poor eyesight to find prey they'd otherwise miss. Alien looking blue-spotted rays glided elegantly over the sandy bottom, spooked out of their rocky hiding spots by our prying lights. Perhaps the coolest part of the dive was the bioluminescent plankton, tiny organisms that glow in the dark if they are disturbed. We entertained ourselves by randomly spazzing out, kicking and thrashing and gyrating in all directions and watching the tiny sparks of light whirl away from us in the turbulence. It was like being underwater with the Aurora Borealis, except we could dictate when and how it shimmered! If any of you haven't figured it out already, diving is really cool.

Another dive boat waits with us as we watch the sun set and prepare for our first night dive.

Bioluminescent plankton, like that we experienced on our night dive. Photo credit oceanfootage.com.

For another aspect of our certification, we had to improve our buoyancy. Most experienced divers will tell you there's nothing worse than being behind a new diver who keeps dropping into the sea floor, kicking up clouds of sand, or damaging reefs. We did NOT want to be those new divers. The buoyancy class involved a series of tasks all designed to help us hone our control and maneuverability in the water, so that we'd be able to rise and fall simply by breathing. We began by floating neutrally in the water, then holding extra weight and attempting to maintain the same level. Next, we hovered upside-down with our feet above our heads and attempted to knock over weights with our noses, without driving said noses into the sand. We swam between each others' legs (a much less harrowing experience for Faye, the only female in the group) to make sure we could stay in control while moving. Then, we set out for a leisurely trip around the dive site. Our instructor had explained earlier that we'd be expected to pass the "goby test," hovering over a goby and shrimp pair without scaring them. This test, while doing marvels for our buoyancy awareness, also showed us yet another example of the intricate interdependencies of the reef ecosystem. Gobies, small, bug-eyed fish, are totally defenseless and unable to build themselves shelter. To survive, they pair up with a blind species of shrimp that builds great caves, but can't see predators coming. So the goby keeps a lookout while the shrimp builds and maintains their home. If the goby's big eyes spot something scary, he flicks his tail to alert the shrimp and they both vanish into their tunnel. We became fascinated by this symbiosis, and kept an eye out for the clever duos on each of our subsequent dives. Reefs, with all their flair and vibrancy, can easily overwhelm one into seeing only the beauty of the whole. As we became better divers, we were able to concentrate our attention on small parts and became increasingly aware of how complicated, delicate, and crucial the interactions between species are. It seems like every species there is a keystone species, critical to the survival of others.

A yellow goby and bulldozer shrimp depend on each other to survive- the goby is helpless, but good at spotting predators, and the shrimp is blind but great at building shelters. Photo credit Ken Kurtis (reefseekers.com)

In so many ways, the reef acts as a microcosm for the world as a whole. It is this kind of interdependence and connectivity that makes our fragile planet what it is, and these connections are what we geographers obsess over. Being underwater reminded us over and over again how each and every one of our actions has myriad consequences that affect nearly everything around us. A poor decision at dinner, for instance, means that another threatened species grows closer to extinction. As you slurp down that bowl of shark-fin soup, the reefs and the oceans grow more and more out of balance. When such a delicate biological balance gets thrown off-kilter, the consequences reverberate all the way up the ladder to us humans on the surface. And this is true of everything. All of our actions, on land, at sea, and even in the air, impact everything else around us in ways we often don't immediately recognize. That's why we love geography so much. Geography, to us, is really more a philosophy than a hardcore academic subject. It's a way of examining the world and everything that happens on it and looking for the hidden connections, always trying to figure out how events in one place or discipline affect or influence events in other places and other disciplines. All it really takes is one visit to a reef to see how it all works, why the connections, even at the smallest of scales, are so important. It's a beautiful and wonderful world we live in, and it only gets better the more you see.

Our time in Thailand was brief, yet influential. The Advanced Open Water Diver course gave us even greater access to this fascinating underwater world, and we anxiously looked forward to our future dives in Malaysia, a nation blessed with some of the world's greatest dive-sites. After our last dive on Koh Tao, we hurriedly caught a ferry back to the mainland and an evening train to our next destination: Butterworth, Malaysia.

A Koh Tao sunset, as vibrant as the world we experienced beneath its waters.

Koh Tao, Thailand Photo Gallery

Tuk-Tuks, Temples and Tourists: Siem Reap and the Temples at Angkor- July 10-14, 2007

2007-12-25T15:33:00.000-09:00

Siem Reap and Angkor, Cambodia

The morning after our gut-wrenching visit to S-21 and Choeung Ek, we boarded another bus bound for Siem Reap and the famed temples at Angkor. As we waited for the other passengers to make their way to the unexpectedly plush motor-coach, a stream of Buddhist monks strolled past, the morning sun glinting brilliantly off of their yellow and orange robes. Our spirits were already beginning to lift. A few miles outside of Phnom Penh, we were joined by two smiling members of the local Sangha (the Buddhist monastic community) who, much to our amusement, sat two seats away from us. The small TV on the bus played a bizarre Chinese movie featuring slapstick Japanese invaders who caught their pants on fire and suffered multiple injuries to sensitive places, which had the monks laughing hysterically. These weren't just young boys out of the monastery for a day either- one appeared to be in his late 50s, missing an eye, while the other was in his 20s. For some odd reason, the sight of two seasoned monks giggling like schoolgirls at such juvenile humor served as a benchmark for us, turning the page to Cambodia's brighter side. Still, it's nearly impossible to completely forget Cambodia's brutal past. Even as we laughed alongside the jovial pair, we couldn't help but wonder how the elder of the two had lost his eye. Had he been another victim of the Khmer Rouge? The monastic community certainly suffered greatly at the hands of Pol Pot's regime, as Buddhist monks were one of the many groups that fell under the dubious heading "Enemy of the State."

Monks stroll through Phnom Penh in the morning, as we head off the Siem Reap.

After several hours of alternately staring out the window at Cambodia's unfathomably flat landscape and laughing with our companions at the trials and travails of the hapless Japanese soldiers on the screen, we rolled into the dusty outskirts of Siem Reap. The scene that awaited us rivaled Shanghai in its chaos, if not quite in scale. As we disembarked we were swept into a cyclone of tuk-tuk drivers, each calling the names of various hotels. We struggled to find our bags, unwilling to deal with anyone until we knew they were safe. Then, at random, we chose one of the drivers who had been more willing to give us some space and time. We climbed into the back of his vehicle, struggling to balance our huge packs in front of us as he accelerated through the red dirt alleys. We had to make several stops before we finally found a hostel with rooms available, as Siem Reap's midrange and low-end guest-houses all seemed at or above occupancy. As we checked into our spacious yet spartan room, we made arrangements with Tom (not his real name, but the one he gave us) to take us on a three day tour of the nearby temples. We'd later learn that we'd done him a huge favor by choosing him out of the crowd of manic drivers at the bus stop. This was the low season for backpackers at Angkor, and Tom said that he sometimes went days without customers. The hysteria at the bus stop wasn't because the drivers wanted to give rides to local hotels, which only resulted in a modest payday. Rather, they knew that if they gave decent service during that part of the transaction, their customers might be inclined to stick with them throughout their stay and use them to gain access to the temple complexes, which would result in a much bigger payday and guaranteed work for up to five days.

Tuk-tuks parked outside our hotel in Siem Reap.

Siem Reap is unarguably the luckiest city in Cambodia. While other cities are still struggling to find an economic foothold, this small, rustic town is able to capitalize on its location on the outskirts of Angkor. Tourists visiting these temples sleep, eat, and shop in Siem Reap, and those traveling independently hire the town's citizens as guides and drivers. Of course, there is a flip side to this blessing: as luxury hotels catering to wealthy travelers pay premium prices for land in the city, they drive up the cost of property. Many Cambodians are now unable to afford land in town and must move out into the cheaper hinterlands, much of which are still heavily mined. These surrounding areas are also low and boggy, and people end up living just a foot or so above stagnant water. Tragically, yet unsurprisingly, the area was suffering a major epidemic of dengue fever during our visit. This divide between privileged tourists and locals is visible even within Siem Reap itself. Most hotels are located in the core area, with paved roads, attractive shops, and streets dedicated entirely to bars and chic restaurants. Just two blocks away, in our neighborhood, water-filled ditches were clogged with garbage and home to giant rats. The roads were rutted and muddy after rain, and dusty in the sun. From our landing, we could look out on fields, clothing lines, and construction projects, and we were serenaded each night by the incessant orchestra of crickets (many of whom took up residence in our room, our backpacks, our beds, and our computer bag). They had good reason to be hiding. Cricket is a local delicacy in Cambodia, and one can find them being sold by the bucket load on most street corners. Perhaps the crickets had some sort of sixth sense that told them they'd not be dinner in our room. Despite this sanctuary, all of our visitors seemed to lose legs and die off at an alarming rate. We blame the army of ants that marched across the floor and up the bathroom wall in one steady, unending stream.

Siem Reap's back streets, in the less polished neighborhood we stayed in.

We met with Tom in our hostel's open-air lobby the next morning and set out for the temples, making a brief stop at a downtown grocery store for cash and snacks. By 9 am, the subtropical sun was already pulsing down upon us, making the air sticky and impenetrably heavy. We passed a steady stream of tuk-tuks, tour buses, Land Cruisers, and the occasional elephant between Siem Reap and the entrance to the temple grounds, where a complex resembling a highway toll station blocked the road. Tom took the tuk-tuk around while we stood to have our photos taken for our three-day passes. We paid 60 dollars apiece for our passes ($20 a day), money which is used in part for maintenance on the temples. Interestingly, the company that manages the park is owned by a Vietnamese group. We're not sure how much of the company's profits leave Cambodia, but this remains a controversial situation. We met Tom on the other side of the gate, flashed our new cards, and continued down the forested road towards the temples. We passed small billboards along the way, each declaring "This area cleared by (insert donor or agency here)." Noticeably, these signs only appeared along tourist routes, and diminished greatly as we left the major road.

Elephants carry tourists between temples at Angkor.

Within minutes, we'd arrived at our first temple. Most of us associate Angkor with the three peaked Angkor Wat, the national symbol of Cambodia that serves as Angkor's centerpiece. The Angkor complex, however, sprawls over 400 square kilometers of jungle and is home to over a thousand temples and structures in various states of disrepair. Angkor was founded by Jayavarman II in the early 9th Century A.D. and expanded over the next 600 years to become easily the largest pre-industrial city in the world. Throughout much of that time, the Khmer Empire was the dominant force in Southeast Asia. By the 1400's, however, their power had declined substantially, allowing neighboring Thailand to invade and occupy Angkor. Angkor was mostly abandoned, and the temples remained unknown to most of the world. It has only been since the early 1990's and the onset of relative stability that Angkor became such a prime tourist destination. Today, visitors crawl over and around the temples like ants marching on a picnic. And understandably so. The temples are spectacular. Mere words are incapable of describing the sheer majesty of the complex, and would do no justice to the site or the experience. We believe that in this case the maxim that "a picture is worth a thousand words" holds true, so here you have it: Ben and Faye's Angkor Photo Essay (to be followed by more words).

Angkor Wat, Cambodia's national symbol and easily the most appreciated temple at Angkor. One scarcely needs to travel to Angkor to know what the wat looks like. Simply glance at the Cambodian flag, currency, beer, soda...you get the picture. We actually waited until the second day to visit here, as Tom told us to save the best for last.

We were initially greeted at Angkor Wat by a torrential downpour that had us huddling in archways and scurrying between points of shelter. Silhouetted behind the sheets of rain, the temple seems especially mysterious.

The temples are between 1200 and 600 years old, and they're trampled on by over a million visitors a year. It clearly takes considerable effort to maintain the structures at Angkor and keep them from crumbling into unidentifiable piles of rubble. Here, work is done on Angkor Wat.

We saw several monks at Angkor, which reminded us that in addition to being an architectural wonder, the temples hold enormous spiritual significance. In fact, Angkor Wat is the largest single religious structure in the world.

The majority of the temples are in barely cleared patches of jungle, overgrown with enormous trees and vines. At this temple, roots snake through old stones and trunks emerge like pillars from the middle of rooms. It all would have left us feeling unbelievably adventurous, were it not for the swarms of package-tourists visiting at the same moment.

Angkor seems to be especially popular among East Asians, particularly Japanese and Koreans. If you're looking to appreciate the temples in peace, you have to be a much earlier riser than either of us will ever manage.

One of the more impressive temples, the peaks here are all carved into giant heads. This is one of the better preserved temples, and we were able to walk through long passageways and ascend interior staircases.

Another view of the many-faced temple above.

This temple, though much smaller than Angkor Wat or its neighbors, is remarkable for the pink color of its stone and for the beautifully preserved state of its myriad carvings.

Peeking into an alcove in the first temple we visited, we were blown away by the intricacy and skill of the carved walls within.

Tucked into corners and niches, proudly displayed in arcades, and gracing ruins, there are countless Buddhist shrines of varying size and ornamentation brightening the temples. We stumbled upon them out of the blue, followed the smell of incense, or spotted bright flecks of orange among the gray stones. Almost all of these shrines were tended by ancient seeming men and women in gray robes.

A word of wisdom: Visit Angkor when you are youthful and agile. Your $20 day pass buys you incredible access to the sites, and as you can see, you can even clamber around on the temples. You've got to be sure-footed and a bit courageous to do so, however. The steps are invariably narrow and impossibly steep. Going up is difficult. Coming down is downright hair-raising.

Climbing the temples requires as much from your arms and shoulders as it does from your legs.

We got caught in yet another massive downpour at the top of one temple, and took shelter in a doorway until it ended. Then we began the terrifying descent down rain-slicked steps. When we reached the bottom, there was a convenient shrine to offer our thanks at.

One of the most memorable experiences from our three days at Angkor came at the end of the second, when we walked up a hill topped with another temple to enjoy the sunset. We had to battle a throbbing crowd of eager photographers, but still managed to come away with hundreds of our own photos of the magnificent scene.

In a truly moving testament to the Cambodian spirit, amputee bands play at most of the temples. The donations of passersby and sales of their cds all go to support a center for land mine victims. As we mentioned before, Cambodians don't beg unless they are absolutely incapable of surviving otherwise. The talent and bravery of these musicians was more impressive than anything else we saw at Angkor.

As impressive as the temples are, one can easily get "templed-out" over the course of a three day visit. By the third day, Ben was officially "templed-out." Plagued with a nagging toe injury and a few other unmentionable ailments, he decided to stay with Tom at the tuk-tuk while Faye explored the remaining temples. That was one of the best decisions of the entire trip. Tom, who'd been relatively quiet throughout our time together, finally started talking, and his candor gave us a very personal glimpse at life for those who rely on the tourism generated by the temples. Angkor, according to Tom, is plagued by many of the same ills as Alaska. Especially during the summer months, when backpackers and independent travelers are shying away from the scorching heat and watery deluges of Southeast Asia, most of Angkor's visitors are East Asians traveling in large tour groups. The problem is, the tour companies that herd these less-than-intrepid souls around are owned and operated by non-Khmers. For instance, South Korean tourists are generally led by South Korean tour-guides employed by South Korean tour companies. Wages and tips go to other South Koreans, who predictably spend their income back at home. Even souvenirs and locally produced products are filtered through non-indigenous merchants. Tom spoke of a particular mushroom, a local delicacy that could be bought from any number of Khmer vendors for a very reasonable price. Non-Khmers working in conjunction with the tour companies tell their clients that it is unsafe to purchase directly from local vendors. Instead, these middle-men sell the same exact products, in this case mushrooms, to tourists at a marked-up price. All of the added value thusly goes back to the vendors' country of origin, not to the local Khmers who desperately need the infusion of funds. It seems that far too many travelers seek to experience the country without experiencing the people who live there, a situation we detest vehemently (more on that later).

Throngs of East Asian tourists flock to Angkor Wat throughout the year, yet most of the money they spend there leaves Cambodia destined for their home countries.

Like most Khmers, Tom's family history was scarred by the Khmer Rouge era. "We were always good, my mother and father, always good. We just worked in the fields, always went along with the Khmer Rouge or whoever else was in Cambodia. But things were still very hard then. I remember having nothing to eat but a few grains of rice in a watery soup. My grandfather almost starved." He received very little formal education as a youth, and now felt as if he had very few career options. "I can speak English, but not well enough to work at a hotel or a travel agency." Ben begged to differ. "No," Tom responded to Ben's protests, "it is not good enough. I have thought about enrolling in night classes to get better and learn more about computers, but I can't afford it." We, on the other hand, were in awe of his nearly flawless grasp of the English language. In fact, nearly every Cambodian we met spoke at least a little English, despite most having no formal language training. It was another unexpected display of knowledge that really won our hearts over, though.

"Tom," our guide and tuk-tuk driver, spoke flawless English and had many stories to tell.

At every temple we were met by swarms of young women and children trying to make some money by selling souvenirs. In cheerful English they'd count out postcards, then count them again in French, Spanish, Italian, German, Japanese, and several other unrecognizable languages. We lost our hearts entirely to the astounding geographic whiz-kids who joined us during a lunch stop. A few young girls, about ten years old, came up to us and started with the standard "Hey mister, where you from?" Here, many tourists just ignore the question, earning reputations as unfriendly, rude, or worse. When the price tag on any item is a dollar or less, it really doesn't hurt to at least talk to the kids around you. If they sucker you into buying something, are you really worse off? At any rate, we responded "America." The oldest of the group, maybe 13, rattled off "America! Capital Washington, D.C. Major cities New York, Chicago, Los Angeles. What state you from?" Laughing, we told her Alaska. With a big grin, she countered, "I tell you capital of Alaska, you buy something from me?" "Sure," we answered, confident that a girl in rural Cambodia wouldn't likely know the capital of our state when Alaskans her own age are clueless about it. "Juneau!" she replied triumphantly, and we practically swooned. Caught up in the game now, we proceeded to quiz her and her friends on U.S. and international capitals. They were flawless. "Bulgaria?" "Sofia!" "Iceland?" "Reykjavik!" "Turkey?" "Istanbul? (her friend whispers, "No, Ankara!") Oh, Ankara!" For these girls, geography is a survival tool. Even without school, they make American students look like complete idiots.

At every temple, throngs of vendors rush out to meet visitors, wowing us with their charm and geographic knowledge.

Our time spent with Tom, these geographic dynamos, and other friends made during the past months were some of the most rewarding of the entire trip- far more rewarding than any visit to a museum or ancient temple, and certainly more than anything we could have purchased. Others unfortunately don't feel the same. How many times on the trip did we hear other travelers complain about the "greedy" and "annoying" locals who "just wanted to take our money" and "always want to sell us something"? How often did we hear people make ludicrous proclamations about how such people detract from their experience? Far too often. It sickens us, and reminds us that it's probably time for a much overdue installment of "Ben and Faye's Travel Tips." We'll call this one, "Love the Locals!" Why on Earth would anyone want to visit Cambodia and not meet Cambodians? How rude, arrogant, chauvinistic, and utterly disgusting is it to visit another people's home and claim it would be better off without them! Traveling is not about coming home with a perfect postcard moment, or about having another country name to impress your friends with, or a great story about how you talked some poor Cambodian kid down from $4 to $2 for a t-shirt. It's about leaving your comfort zone, expanding your horizons, learning first hand about how the rest of the world lives, and most importantly, being a good ambassador and global citizen. For God's sake, leave your xenophobia behind when you travel. That seems self-explanatory, but apparently it isn't. Enough said?

Apsara Dancers, performing a traditional art at a buffet dinner. We spent our last night in Cambodia enjoying the show with Tom.

Siem Reap Photo Gallery

Angkor Photo Gallery, Part 1

Angkor Photo Gallery, Part 2

Angkor Photo Gallery, Part 3

Angkor Photo Gallery, Part 4

Angkor Photo Gallery, Part 5

Angkor Photo Gallery, Part 6

Angkor Photo Gallery, Part 7

Angkor Photo Gallery, Part 8

Ghost City- Phnom Penh, Cambodia, July 8-9, 2007

2007-09-19T12:03:00.000-08:00

Phnom Penh, Cambodia

Our nearly empty tourist bus careened along the road to Phnom Penh, through a flat, green countryside that stretched to the horizon. Despite the beauty of the pastoral landscape, our moods were somber. We were entering a country whose recent past is one of the most brutal of the last century, a country still suffering tangibly from the violence that happened 30 years ago. Every Cambodian has a story of a friend or relative, often more than one, who lost their lives at the hands of the murderous Khmer Rouge. Cambodia is also one of the most heavily mined countries in the world, despite lengthy efforts by locals and international organizations to find and remove the devices. As we stared out our windows, we wondered how many of the fields we saw hid crippling reminders of war and genocide.

Flat rice paddies...

...dusty city streets...

...and the mighty Mekong, all on the way from Saigon to Phnom Penh.

A brilliant, expansive blue sky dominated by fluffy white cumulus clouds greeted us as we drove into sleepy Phnom Penh. Like Vietnam, Cambodia had been a colony of France up to, and for a short time after, World War II. The contemporary layout of the city center reflects its colonial heritage. The flag-lined main boulevard radiates out from a whirling roundabout, a large Angkor-like stupa in its center, reminding one of Paris' Champs d'Elysee and Arc de Triumphe. The splendor of the city center seamlessly merges with the typically Southeast Asian mish-mash of shanties, shops, and urban squalor. In Vietnam and China, these character-rich back alleys and side streets were always chaotic tornadoes of business and life. In Phnom Penh, they seemed deserted and still. We'd heard a lot about Cambodia's ghosts from fellow travelers and from books and articles we'd read throughout our lives. Now, we were making our acquaintances in person.

Phnom Penh's beautiful center- a mixture of French colonial and quintessential Southeast Asian. Note the lack of traffic on the roundabout.

The flag-flanked stupa at the center of one of the roundabouts.

After the French withdrew in 1954, Cambodia set out to establish itself as a functioning democracy in a turbulent region. The effort was fraught with difficulties from the outset, and soon the fledgling nation found itself embroiled in a deadly civil war. The conflict in neighboring Vietnam also spilled over into fragile Cambodia, as American warplanes periodically bombarded VC and NVA units seeking refuge across the border. A brief yet controversial secret invasion of Cambodia by U.S. ground forces also occurred in 1970. In 1975, the same year Saigon fell to the NVA, Phnom Penh came under the control of Pol Pot's Khmer Rouge. Thus began one of the modern-era's most devastating projects in social engineering. The Khmer Rouge set about to create an idealogically pure, peasant-driven socialist society, and promptly began a campaign of nearly indiscriminate internment and execution. Businessmen, the intelligentsia, opposition politicians, and anyone suspected of being against the movement were tortured and bludgeoned to death at a number of so-called "killing fields" across the nation. Urbanites, if they were lucky, were sent to the rice-paddies to "learn" from the peasantry. Others were executed for the heinous sin of wearing glasses or having clean fingernails. Estimates on the exact number of Pol Pot's victims are hard to come by. Some put the number at upwards of three million. More conservative estimates put the number at less than 1 million. We spent our first morning in Phnom Penh visiting some of the sites commemorating those lost during the bloody reign of the Khmer Rouge and recognizing that even one would have been far too many.

Mass graves at Choeung Ek, one of many "Killing Fields" in Cambodia.

We almost caused a mini-civil war of our own before we even left the hostel. We had made arrangements with a man the night before to take us to the S-21 museum via tuk-tuk, a motorized version of the cyclos we'd fallen in love with in Vietnam. In characteristic fashion, we overslept the time of our planned meeting, and sat down to breakfast half an hour later unsure as to how to proceed. Soon, another enterprising Khmer offered his services. Thinking we'd already missed our original cheaffeur-to-be, we agreed to go with him. Shortly thereafter, our original guide, looking worn and haggard, stumbled into the rat-infested (rats the size of small dogs!) dining hall looking for us. We had a bit of a crisis to defuse. While not a consistently reliable source of income, such spontaneous guiding ventures provide locals with a quick source of considerable cash. We felt horrible knowing that we'd have to deny one of our potential suitors, both of whom expected us to go with them. Luckily for us, a third party stepped in and authoritatively settled the situation. We'd be going with him- a big, jovial man affectionately known as "Mup" (fat). We settled into his sputtering tuk-tuk and took off down the ghostly streets of Phnom Penh towards S-21.

Into the city with "Mup" and his tuk-tuk.

Before the Khmer Rouge triumphantly marched into town, the buildings that would become S-21 had been a simple secondary school. In 1975, it turned into the nation's preeminent internment and interrogation center. The palm trees that flanked the gallows swung gently in a refreshing breeze as we paid our fees and strolled through the courtyard and into the museum complex. The museum is divided into two decrepit, three-story structures. The first building consists of a series of rooms once used for detention and torture. They've been left relatively intact. Dried blood marks the cracked beige walls, while mattress-less bed frames with leg and arm shackles sit empty in the room's center. Horrifyingly graphic photos of bloodied bodies shackled to those very beds were illuminated by the sunlight that filtered in through the barred windows. At one point, the museum decided to post photos of Khmer Rouge officials above informative captions alongside these more gruesome displays. The pictures have since been mostly destroyed by a collection of petty vandals and angry Khmers who have no interest in seeing the faces of those who've caused their country so much grief. The caption describing Pol Pot stands alone- the photo has been totally destroyed by vandals and has been removed from the collection.

One of the cells in S-21. The photo on the wall is of one of the room's former occupants, an unfortunate Cambodian (Khmer) who'd been detained, tortured, and most likely murdered by the Khmer Rouge (litterally "Red Khmer").

Vandals have destroyed nearly all of the photos depicting former Khmer Rouge officials and collaborators. The photo of Pol Pot has been completely removed.

The graphic photos in the rooms of the first building were eye-opening. The collection housed in the second building was eye-wetting. Like the Nazis before them, the Khmer Rouge took great care in documenting their atrocities. Each person brought to S-21 went through a battery of tests and measurements and, most importantly, had a mugshot-like photo taken. These black and white prints have been collected and made into an exhibit that make Saigon's War Remnants Museum look like a pottery collection at the Hermitage. The faces staring back at us all conveyed different emotions. Some seemed defiant, others scared to death. Some seemed emotionless, almost as if they'd already resigned themselves to their inevitable fate. Some had clearly been beaten. A few were photographed lying prone, their mangled faces and broken bodies proving no impediment to the need for securing photo-documentation. Some of the women pictured clutched babies to their breasts. Young boys stood alone, making us wonder what they could have possibly done at such a young age to incur the indiscriminate wrath of the Khmer Rouge. Ben held back anger, Faye choked back tears. A tall, uniformed Khmer man, apparently an officer in the Cambodian Air Force, stoically examined the faces on one of the displays. Walking around the corner and nearly running into Ben, he paused and gave a short bow. His elementary school-aged daughter (proudly wearing her dad's camo boonie hat), who had been trailing at a short distance, stopped in her tracks, smiled broadly, put her hands together and mimicked her stately father. As she gleefully skipped off after her dad, it occurred to both of us that they could have easily been looking at the faces of lost relatives. The situation seemed like a microcosm of Southeast Asia. Here we were in a room that held documentation of one of the world's most gruesome human catastrophes, and at the same time, some of the most friendly and beautiful people we'd ever met. That inexplicable contrast stuck with us throughout our entire stay.

S-21 from the outside. Hidden by the palm trees are the gallows used to execute detainees.

The dusty street outside the museum provided no refuge from the emotional onslaught. While we searched for Mup and his tuk-tuk, we were confronted by three middle-aged men, all missing at least one limb. They hopped after us on wooden crutches, ball-caps in outstretched hands turned towards the sky in hopes of receiving a handout. For us, it was hard to turn them down. A plethora of legitimate outfits operate in Cambodia seeking to provide education and employment to handicapped veterans and recent landmine victims. Generally speaking, we felt more comfortable donating to them. Nevertheless, we felt it wrong to tour S-21 and then ignore or shun these still-living victims of the catastrophe documented inside. Still stunned from what we'd seen, we numbly handed out a few dollars, found Mup, and quietly motored away towards the second half of our gut-wrenching tour: the Killing Fields at Choeung Ek.

Out of the city and into the suburbs. We passed a host of bikers...

...shanty communities...

...curious mechanisms of transportation...

...and women tending their watery crops.

Generally speaking, most of the prisoners at S-21 were not executed there. Instead, they were hauled off en masse to a secluded location in the countryside just past the stilt houses and dusty shacks that make up Phnom Penh's suburbs. Here, they were offloaded, murdered, and dumped into a series of shallow mass graves. Often, in an effort to save precious bullets, the executioners would simply bludgeon their helpless victims over the head. Now, a towering white stupa dominates the immediate surroundings. A small sign asks guests to remove their shoes before climbing the few carpeted steps to the glass-fronted building, and incense burns to either side. The stupa itself houses thousands of skulls, their smashed domes grisly testament to the brutal manner of execution. A few tattered artifacts- clothes found in the graves- drove home the point that each skull represented a person who, as our parents were starting their adult lives on the other side of the world, was having his or hers wrenched away. We wandered the perimeter of the killing fields in the shade of low trees, where emaciated cows munched grass only meters from bone fragments. Along the outer fence, a group of kids waited for tourists to tag along with. From opposite sides of the fence, we joked back and forth and chatted until the boys decided they'd gone far enough. They all grouped together, posing for a photo and then sticking their skinny arms through the fence for payment, still joking around and grinning as we fished out a few bills totaling only a dollar or so. At the end of our walk, we searched the tuk-tuk driver crowd at a hammock cafe on the edge of the grove for Mup and headed back into town.

The skull-filled stupa at Choeung Ek, a chilling reminder of what happened there.

We knew they'd be asking for money in exchange for the photo, but they were too charming to turn down. It's more than a little strange to hear and see children playing just outside the gates of one of the 20th Century's most gruesome sites. Perhaps it can even be described as refreshing.

Perceptive Mup realized from his efforts to shepherd us into the Choeung Ek gift shop that we weren't so keen on buying things for ourselves that day. He started telling us about the orphanage he volunteered at, how this time of year rice prices went up and they could barely afford to keep the children from starving, and how sometimes he brought tourists there. Would we like to buy some rice at the market and bring it over? We jumped at the opportunity to do anything at all that we could feel good about, and soon were following Mup through a shanty-town market full of naked children chasing chickens and dodging adults. The rice man agreed to deliver a big bag of the enriched rice to the orphanage, and we went a few meters further down the road. Stopping the tuk-tuk again, Mup chatted fondly with the two knee-high urchins who ran over looking for money. They climbed into the seats we vacated as he explained laughingly, "I pay them to guard my tuk-tuk. I don't want them begging, so I give them work."

"Mup" employed a few of these trustworthy looking security guards to take care of his tuk-tuk while we went into the dirty market.

Knowing that our tuk-tuk was safe, we waded into the tangled web of fresh and rotting vegetables, garbage, trinkets, and clothing to find the man who'd sell us a 50kg bag of rice for the orphanage.

We followed him through the mud and debris past plywood buildings and shy boys until we reached a rough courtyard. This, it appeared, was the orphanage. The lopsided buildings resembled a kid's fort more than an institution- more plywood, with corrugated iron roofs and crudely made ladders. There were drawings on the walls, and a hand-painted sign listing the names and origins of various donors. The kids hammed it up for our cameras while the young man in charge showed us around, up a teetering ladder to the boys' room and the girls'. He also showed us the two small school rooms, one with a row of desks and tiny blackboard in an otherwise empty setting, the other lacking desks but full of maps and drawings the students had made. More than anything, this orphanage was a place to get kids off the streets. The number of orphans here were yet another aspect of the hardships in Cambodia today. The generation that would be today's grandparents, aunts, uncles, or other supportive family, was decimated by the genocide. Families are further strained by the loss of able workers to land mines, and poverty is desperate, which may make it impossible for some parents to provide for their children. The number of young people and absence of middle-aged or older is striking to even a casual observer. In fact, the demographics are startling- the median age in Cambodia is only 20 years old, while the global average is 28.

Despite the difficult circumstances of their young lives, these orphans all seemed happy and full of energy.

The girls loved having their pictures taken, and for good reason- they were all quite photogenic.

The children at the orphanage have access to a stage, a boxing instructor, and a small, map adorned classroom. Ben shows one of the older boys, and also our guide, where we're from.

Faye makes a few new friends.

That same evening we decided to take a look at downtown Phnom Penh, walking from our hostel to the Independence Monument and then following the major boulevard to Wat Phnom. The Wat marks the highest point in the city, which is barely a hill. We strolled up its spiraling paths near dusk. As we walked we were repeatedly flanked by a boy about 12 and his little sister, who would cry as he asked for money. We stopped to watch monkeys clamber over one of the stupas near the top and they appeared again, this time with another little boy and an old woman selling bananas. Through various gestures, they indicated that we should buy bananas to feed the monkeys. Thinking that at least this way we'd be supporting a work ethic instead of begging we went ahead and bought a bunch, which we handed to the three kids. The two younger ones alternated between pointing at monkeys, throwing bananas at monkeys, and pushing bananas into their mouths. At the top of the wat pilgrims prayed in a small temple whose bronze Buddha statues were lit by kitschy rainbow colored lights, while outside one particularly audacious primate stole from their offerings. Charmed and exhausted, we wandered down the wat and navigated back towards the river, which would lead us to a plethora of restaurants and eventually our hostel.

A towering stupa at Wat Phnom.

Buddhist sculpture on Wat Phnom.

One of several mischievious monkeys snacking on bananas, climbing stupas, and setting ambushes for stray dogs at Wat Phnom.

The Mekong River is Southeast Asia's lifeline. In Cambodia, it is of particular geographic interest. During the summer rainy season, the Tonle Sap River, a tributary of the Mekong that converges with that mighty river near Phnom Penh, reverses its flow and floods the Tonle Sap Lake. Normally, the Tonle Sap is little over 2,000 sq km, with an average depth of little more than a meter. But, during the rainy season, it can swell to over eight times its normal size and be nearly nine times as deep. It's an interesting geographic phenomenon that we, unfortunately, missed out upon. We had to content ourselves with appreciating the river's more picturesque qualities, qualities obviously not lost upon the city's restaurateurs. Families strolled on the river's bank, silhouetted by a spectacular pink sunset as we settled into a deck table at one of the strategically placed eateries. A low hedge-row shielded us from the neighboring road, which became progressively busier as the night wore on.

The setting sun painted the sky a brilliant shade of pink and deep hued blue as we sat down for dinner.

We hadn't even gotten our menus before we were startled by what was to be the first of a steady stream of unexpected visitors. A young man, probably no older than 25, popped through the line of bushes and nearly into our laps. He had no legs below the knees, and no arms beyond his elbows. All had been lost because of an unfortunate encounter with a landmine. We spoke briefly with him, gave him a small donation, and watched as he made the rounds through the rest of the restaurant. He then retreated back to the street, where a friend or relative waited to push him to the next restaurant in the row. Several minutes later, another similarly impaired man stopped by, again emerging through the bushes like a chick hatched from an egg. And then another. And another. All had at least 3 limbs missing, most all four. These men, all of them young, were exceptions to a general rule in Cambodia. Most of the amputees, if they could, worked. Unfortunately, there is very little a quadruple amputee can accomplish. They were the most unfortunate of the unfortunate. They could all speak English, seemed to be well-kempt and intelligent, and had remarkably positive attitudes. If they'd managed to keep at least some of their limbs, they probably would have been employable. They hadn't, and they weren't. So, they had to do the only thing they could- beg. We thought it incredibly fortunate that they all had friends or family members to take care of them. We're sure that plenty such victims do not.

Most of Cambodia's amputees do whatever they can to eke out a respectable living. Some play music, others produce locally flavored art and textiles, and others, like this man at Angkor, sell things to tourists. Unfortunately, the quadruple amputees we met in Phnom Penh could do none of this, and thus had to resort to begging.

As the amputees passed in and out of the restaurant, we were joined by another friendly solicitor, this time in the form of a young boy. Thankfully, he was in possession of all of his limbs, but apparently not in possession of adequate or even existent parenting. He carried a stack of books with him, hoping to avoid the embarrassment of begging by offering tangible goods in exchange. He had a nasty scar on his face, and seemed to have gone several days without bathing. He spoke to us in a raspy voice that had already mastered the English language- an impressive accomplishment for a boy whom we doubt made it to school very often. We had no need for books, and didn't wish to insult the boy's efforts by offering a handout. At first, he seemed disappointed. As our conversation continued, however, he brightened up and proved himself to be quite the character, telling genuinely funny jokes and even engaging in some physical comedy. As he walked away, we were again reminded of how important our actions are- even the ones that seem insignificant. Other tourists brushed this kid off, acting annoyed and incredulous at his efforts at survival. We gave no money, but the simple act of polite conversation seemed to lift his spirits and left him with a smile on his face- and ours. Later, another young boy, this one dirtier and decidedly more bashful, approached our table selling flowers. We felt terrible- we'd just ordered dessert after a huge meal, and now found ourselves turning down this obviously hungry child. We hurriedly bundled up the apple pancake we were about to share and passed it on to the boy, who quickly scurried away with his prize. We were both surprised and touched by what happened next. He walked out to the street to another young boy, this one smaller and much dirtier, put his arm around him, ripped off half of the pancake, handed it to his friend, and walked down the street munching away. After all that we'd seen during the day, it was good to end things with a few good reminders of the power of small actions.

Still, we found ourselves rendered speechless by the day's events, and our brief tuk-tuk ride back to the hostel provided many more somber reminders of Cambodia's brutal past and difficult present. Amputees seemed to grow from the streets like forests of disfigured trees. And, the unfortunate reality is, it's only going to get worse. There is a considerable effort underway to eradicate the landmine scourge, but there remains much work to be done. Officials speculate that there may be as many as 6 million (perhaps even more) active landmines left in the tiny nation, almost all of them completely unmarked. For a good time to come, lives and limbs will be lost and families broken because someone commits the unpardonable sin of stepping in the wrong spot.

A collection of landmines and other ordinance unearthed from Cambodian soil. Despite considerable effort to clean these up, there still exists an enormous threat.

Only three years after coming to power, Pol Pot's Khmer Rouge committed a fatal sin of its own. A series of foolhardy cross-border raids on southern Vietnam provoked the recently victorious, battle-hardened communists in that country to march on Phnom Penh. The Khmer Rouge never stood a chance. As the Vietnamese advanced, Pol Pot and his cronies fled to the northwest, where they remained for the next decade waging a low level guerrilla war against the Vietnamese sponsored government. In the early 1990's, a UN brokered cease-fire provided for the withdrawal of the Vietnamese and the establishment of a UN peacekeeping mission in the battered country. Elections in 1993, under the direction of the UN, set the nation on the long road to political recovery. Pol Pot was, to the chagrin of most Khmers and the embarrassment of the UN and the International War Crimes Tribunal, never convicted of the crimes he and his regime perpetrated. He died of natural causes in 1998. Like the Khmer Rouge, we also found ourselves fleeing Phnom Penh to the northwest, not because we were being chased by angry Vietnamese (we think we left most of the Viets with a good impression), but because we wanted to see the other, happier side of Cambodia: the fabled temples at Angkor.

Recent AP article on Cambodia's Khmer Rouge

Phnom Penh Photo Gallery 1

Phnom Penh Photo Gallery 2

So Long, Saigon. Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam: July 1-7, 2007

2007-09-13T20:58:00.000-08:00

Saigon (HCMC), Vietnam

When the United States withdrew from Vietnam in 1973, the nation's armed forces left behind approximately 1600 unaccounted-for servicemen. Since that time, efforts to find and bring home these MIA's have proven to be a considerable roadblock to normalized relations between the two countries. Over the course of the subsequent three decades, however, the relationship has improved to the point where droves of Americans choose to make Vietnam their temporary home. This burgeoning community of expatriates has thrived in resurgent Saigon, Vietnam's most modern and market oriented city. Many of you have probably been wondering if we hadn't fallen into one of these two categories. Not quite...

We've been home in Fairbanks for almost a month now, struggling to readjust to life in the states, life as students, and life plagued by familiarity. Now, as classes are starting, our cabin is furnished, and our cupboards relatively stocked, we can finally catch up with the blog and finish this thing off. Prepare yourselves for a whirlwind ride- the end of the trip seemed to fly by, and we're sure it will appear even more manic in the condensed version we have to offer you. Stay tuned for Cambodia, Thailand, Malaysia, and Singapore- for now:

AU REVOIR, SAIGON!

Saigon (correctly, yet far less colorfully known as Ho Chi Minh City) was a study in contrasts. For a variety of reasons, many of which we've already discussed, our time in South Vietnam's former capital was an emotional roller-coaster. One minute, we'd be laughing and joking with cyclo drivers who wanted nothing more than to share their stories of relatives living stateside. The next, we'd be face to face with double amputees, their limbs left behind on some distant battlefield three decades prior. The war we've all grown familiar with happened in the south. The north certainly felt the impact of the years of sporadic aerial and naval bombardment, but it was in South Vietnam that nearly all of the brutal ground combat took place. Agent Orange, the notorious defoliant used to unmask VC positions, was sprayed almost exclusively in the south. Of the approximately 5 million tons of bombs dropped on Vietnam from 1963 to 1973, 4 million fell on southern soil. Thirty years later, Saigon has only begun to recover from the war era. Adding to the already overwhelming collection of casualties are scores of recent victims, their injuries owing to the vast amounts of unexploded ordinance spread throughout the countryside. We were also struck by the noticeably high rates of mental retardation and birth defects in Saigon. Much of this has been attributed to exposure to Agent Orange and other similar defoliants. There's little doubt that other factors are at play here. Malnutrition, poor prenatal practices, and a host of other natural causes have surely contributed to this phenomenon. Still, one can't help but notice the direct correlation between the ages of the majority of victims and the war era. The Vietnamese estimate that as many as 400,000 people (most likely a bit of an exaggeration) suffer the effects of dioxin poisoning, a carcinogen found in the defoliants used by the U.S. during the war.

Two of the men we regularly encountered near our hotel. Both men, amputees, seemed determined to carve out a living for themselves without begging. We were constantly touched by this characteristic stoic determination.

These unfortunate reminders of Vietnam's terrible past sprung up at nearly every turn. Walking from our room, nestled in a bustling back alley, we'd pass a collection of barely functioning adults, some of whom seemed to not be able to speak, eat, or even stand up. Emerging into the main backpackers drag, we'd run into a serious looking middle aged man selling lottery tickets from his wheelchair. He had no legs. On most days, we would head around the block to a small bakery named Sozos, where we were served cookies, cake, and coffee by a young girl with oddly disfigured arms and one of Saigon's many street children. Nothing was more gut wrenching, however, than our visit to the War Remnants Museum. We walked across town on a slate gray afternoon punctuated by intense bursts of rain, our minds flooded with somber thoughts of the impending trip home. We stopped briefly at the old Presidential Palace, now a tourist attraction dedicated to the 1975 communist victory, and then carried on to our intended destination.

One of many "Tank 843's" immortalized across Vietnam, this one displayed on the very grounds where it made history. The Russian made T-54 broke through the Presidential Palace gates on April 30, 1975, a symbolic moment that signaled the end of the war.

Admittedly, we expected the museum to be a bit of a joke, another outlandishly propagandist display similar to the ones we'd seen in China and other parts of Vietnam. We spent a few soggy moments touring the static displays of captured American and South Vietnamese military hardware before moseying in to "The Hall of Historical Truths," a name that practically screamed "Beware, Propaganda Ahead!" Apparently, the truth is tragic enough on all sides for the government to step back. The devastating collection entitled "Requiem" showcased the last photos of international photojournalists who died or disappeared while covering the war. The photographs themselves, even without knowing the story behind them, showed clearly the horror of war for all participants. American Larry Burrow's famous series "One Ride With Yankee Papa 13" along with the work of hosts of other Americans, stood alongside the work of North Vietnamese, Japanese, French, British, Australian, and German journalists. Instead of portraying anyone as the Enemy, the exhibit showed the humanity of both sides. We paid our respects alongside a steady stream of other tourists, looking at these final frames with teary eyes. As if to showcase the act of reconcilliation and shared grief these photos epitomized, each caption was written by an acquaintance of the photographer. The lack of politics made the very real "historical truths" even harder to bear; we couldn't shield our emotions by boxing the exhibit up as propaganda.

A captured American A-1 Skyraider on display outside the War Remnants Museum. The displays inside were much more difficult to digest.

Walking back across the hardware strewn courtyard, we silently entered the main exhibit hall. Here, the displays were more one-sided. Yet, for the most part, they remained unembellished. We took exception (more from a scientific than human standpoint) to the fact that nearly all instances of physical or mental handicap were blamed on Agent Orange. Clearly, this is a gross exaggeration. The rest of the exhibit hit a nerve, however, reminding us in an all too lucid way that similar events were taking place at that very moment half a world away. Nary a word was spoken as we left the grounds of the museum and hailed a taxi back to our hotel. A similar, unspoken thought crossed both of our minds: Someday, maybe twenty, maybe thirty years from now, we'll be walking through that same damned museum in Baghdad. If we're lucky.

Even the most joyful of our Saigon experiences were somewhat overshadowed by residual sadness from the war years. We'd grown quite fond of Vietnamese city tours via cyclo. The three-wheeled contraptions are invariably driven by charming, knowledgeable men who tell stories of local history flavored by their own unique experiences. The cyclo drivers in Saigon have established a particularly good reputation. This is not at all surprising when one considers their backgrounds. Many of them are former professors, doctors, lawyers, or members of other highly educated fields who, because of their allegiances during the war, are no longer allowed to practice in their former occupations. Men who were once societal elite now struggle to survive. The cyclo drivers are under attack once again, as city officials are threatening to ban their use in favor of the far less charming motos that serve the same function. Tellingly, no such threats are being leveled in northern cities such as Hanoi.

A dying Saigon trademark? Cyclos are under attack in the city, as officials try to reduce street congestion and possibly fulfill political agendas. This particular driver took us on a memorable excursion through town, and then saw us off the next night with a huge grin and a handshake.

After turning down one driver and watching his thin face immediately fall beneath his bright blue Dodgers cap, we knew it was time to take our ride through Saigon. We chased after him as he peddled morosely away, and enjoyed the sheer pleasure of watching him perk up and settle the cushions for us as we caught up and asked to hire him. Weaving through some of the most congested traffic we've ever seen, he took us away from the city center and into Saigon's Chinatown. Nearly every person we passed, from the mechanics tinkering with motos to grandmothers sitting on the sidewalk, seemed thrilled to see us in their midst. The number of people who turned to wave at us or smile for a hurried photo in passing was mind blowing. These overt displays of friendliness reminded us once again that, contrary to popular belief, the world DOES NOT HATE AMERICANS!!!

Saigon celebrities! This motley crew of schoolchildren were just a few of the dozens of people who took the time to wave and smile at us on our ride through town.

The next day, we witnessed another reminder of this undeniable fact. We both had fulfilled lifelong dreams by filling up our passports, and needed to pay a visit to the relatively new American Embassy in order to get a few extra pages. We settled into line outside the compound walls, mingling with dozens of anxious looking Vietnamese citizens. Mothers nervously bounced babies in their arms and tired looking veterans leaned on their crutches while clutching official documents. Armed guards waved individuals through or shooed them away, depending upon the type of service being requested. We momentarily joined the latter group, but soon convinced the gatekeepers to let us through. We shared a waiting room with three families. The fathers paced with their folders full of papers, and young mothers tried to keep their babies quiet. Whenever one was called to the desk, intense anxiety swept the room. As their cases were dealt with, each family seemed relieved for the others, and everyone smiled. Those who had just braved the process of claiming citizenship for their child beamed. Our business was painless- we handed over our passports, waited 45 minutes, and left much the same as we entered. For these families, the business conducted in that room could determine the course of their lives. It was immensely humbling to realize how privileged we are to hold American passports, and how desperately other people seek that privilege.

Happy to know that we now had enough blank pages in our passports to accommodate the remainder of our travels, we went back to our hotel and began packing for what we thought would be a morning departure for Cambodia. Walking back from dinner, we were surprised to see our cyclo driver friend from the day before enjoying an evening date with the local bia hoi establishment. He sprung from his knee-high plastic table and rushed out to greet us, arms extended and goofy smile beaming. We thought it was an exceptionally fitting way to end our stay in Vietnam, a place where we had been overwhelmed by the warmth and friendliness of the people since the moment we crossed the border. Unfortunately, the most fitting endings aren't always the ones we end up with.

Our cyclo driver, who showed us the city and then bid us a genuinely warm farewell. Unfortunately, we'd end up spending one more in Saigon before embarking for Cambodia.

We woke up early the next day and caught a local bus across town. We were hoping to get to the border town of Chau Doc, where we'd then catch a boat traveling up the Mekong River to Cambodia's capital city, Phnom Penh. It was a debacle from the get go. When we reached the bus station, we were shoved into a tiny minivan that had no empty seats and no room for baggage. We still had 50 pound bags. We also needed seats. We weren't quite sure what our relatively expensive tickets had bought us, and of course, our non-English speaking hosts weren't offering any explanations. A series of gestures conveyed that we needed to go back and buy extra seats for our bags, an action we were especially unwilling to do since there were, to anyone with eyes, no such seats on the bus. After much storming about, loading an unloading of luggage, and near-violent, unintelligible arguments with unobliging ticket women, we refunded our tickets and took a taxi back to the hotel we'd just vacated. The taxi ride cost as much as our bus tickets had. Frustrated beyond words, cursing Vietnam's tourist infrastructure for the apparent advantage it was taking of us, we headed straight to the colonial era post office to ship our dead weight home. Perhaps we'd have better luck the next day if our packs were miniaturized.

We stopped by the French-era Notre Dame Cathedral on our way to the post office. The twin spired goliath is testament to the continued influence of Catholicism on Vietnam.

Saigon is a lot like most Vietnamese cities, yet at the same time, it isn't. Like all Vietnamese cities, it lacks the fundamental characteristics that mark major cities in other countries. Missing are the downtown high-rises and shiny commercial districts of Shanghai or even Ulaanbaatar. Residential neighborhoods aren't just apartment blocks, but twisty little alleys full of doors that open to the street, whose denizens operate small shops and stands on the sidewalk. Cities in Vietnam seem to grow organically as small villages spread out, intersect, and merge, amoeba-like. Urban planning and true city centers are unrecognizable. Saigon, for instance, looks almost exactly like Ninh Binh. It's just bigger and more crowded. But there is something noticeably different in Saigon, something made readily apparent by our frantic visit to the post office. We also mailed things from Dien Bien Phu and Hanoi, one a regional capital and the other the capital of the entire nation. Both times, our precious belongings were shoved unceremoniously into decrepit, rapidly dissolving cardboard boxes and tossed into a corner. In the Saigon post office's massive hallway, under vaulted ceilings and map-adorned walls, we encountered brand new boxes, rolls of tape, and helpful, well-informed postmistresses. It seems like a small thing, but that post office drove home what investors have known for years: despite 30 years of Communist rule, Saigon remains a market-oriented city prepared to meet the demands of international business. Consequently, it receives nearly all of Vietnam's Foreign Direct Investment.

Saigon's main post office, a government structure seemingly unrivaled in the country. Certainly a pleasant surprise after our post office visits in Dien Bien Phu and Hanoi.

Saigon is Vietnam's center of FDI, owing to its inherently capitalistic nature and its history of dealing with market based economies.

After a short but reinvigorating ride with a local taxi driver who energetically spoke to us of his relatives in the United States and his distrust of the former South Vietnamese regime (a diatribe that sounded canned and somewhat fake), we reemerged at our hotel and realized that, even after all of the effort, we still didn't have packs that would fit on the bus to Chau Doc. Reluctantly, we purchased bus tickets straight to Phnom Penh and repacked our belongings for our departure. The next morning, we bid our farewells to Vietnam. We had reluctantly set an end date for our trip while in Saigon, and knowing that the experience was coming to a close made us more pensive and reflective. We barely spoke a word as we rolled out of Saigon's suburbs and into the Kansas-like flatness of the upper Mekong Delta. Vietnam had captured our hearts, and Saigon broke them and patched them countless times in our brief stay there. The relentless hope and friendliness behind every desperate attempt to earn a living, and the stoic determination that kept every person, even those missing multiple limbs, begging not for handouts but for legitimate work, defined the people of the city and twisted our guts every moment of the day. For the smallest thing- just exchanging conversation instead of brushing off their offers of food or books- we were rewarded immensely with friendship. Children who belonged in kindergarten tried to sell roses and grew more downcast every time a tourist told them to scram ("Didi mau"), brightened up and giggled if we pretended to sneeze on their wares. This experience, more than any other, drove home the impact our smallest interactions can have. We can be rude and make a hard life more difficult and depressing, or we can be friendly and ease it even in a tiny way. It costs us nothing. Like our time at the embassy, these brief moments were, above all else, humbling.

Saigon (HCMC) Photos- Part 1

Saigon (HCMC) Photos- Part 2

Streets of Saigon

Rush Hour, Saigon

Friendly Faces of Saigon

This Week In Pictures

2007-07-15T03:21:00.000-08:00

Saigon, Phnom Penh, and Siem Reap

Hello from Bangkok! We're moving at breakneck speed right now, so we haven't had time to put together much in the way of writing. We thought you'd like a sneak-peak at what we'll be writing about when we have time, however, so here are a few of our favorite scenes from the last week and a half in Saigon, Phnom Penh, and Siem Reap. Enjoy!

SAIGON (HCMC), VIETNAM

Our time in Saigon was emotionally draining. The city is a study in contrasts. The displays at the War Remnants Museum brought us to tears and filled us with frustration and anger. Amputees and people with horrific physical deformities are commonplace, and the stoic desperation in the eyes of the cyclo and moto drivers is, at times, absolutely heartbreaking. Yet the people are perpetually friendly, smiling broadly at the slightest provocation. Vietnam is a fascinating riddle of a country that we'll miss- perhaps more than any of the others we've visited on this trip.

A shrine above one entrance to the labyrinth of alleys in the Pham Ngu Lao area.

An amputee sells lottery tickets in front of our favorite restaurant.

The War Remnants Museum has a collection of American aircraft, including this F-5.

Notre Dame Cathedral, near the center of town.

Moto drivers rest in the shadow of Notre Dame Cathedral.

We join the crowd taking refuge inside the main post office while torrential rain pours outside.

We felt like celebrities on our ride- everyone we passed grinned and waved at us.

Our cyclo driver in front of one of Saigon's pagodas. He was goofy, but we loved him.

A scene from our cyclo ride through less-touristed parts of town.

PHNOM PENH, CAMBODIA

Saigon was emotional- Phnom Penh was sensory overload. We only spent two days in Cambodia's capital city, but that was enough to leave us transfixed. The streets are abnormally quiet, the city at times feeling like a ghost town. In many ways, it is. So many of its residents perished during the homicidal reign of the Khmer Rouge, and the ghosts from that era of torture and murder are a constant presence. Landmine victims, most missing multiple arms and legs- some missing all four limbs- beg on street corners, while street children try their best to charm foreign visitors. The S-21 Museum, with its cells still stained by dried blood from its former occupants, is a spine-chilling glimpse at one of humanity's darkest moments. We were overcome by rage and sadness as we stared into the eyes of those who'd been detained at S-21, their black and white mugshots filling three rooms of the museum. From behind one of the stands, a beautiful young Khmer girl emerged. When she saw us, her face widened into one of the most genuine, gorgeous smiles we've ever seen. She put her hands together in prayer, bowed her head, and moved on. Cambodia in a nutshell- genuinely beautiful people, unfathomably horrifying past.

One of the cells at the S-21 Museum in Phnom Penh. Between 1975 and 1979, the Khmer Rouge used this facility as an interrogation and detention center.

Looking out from one of the S-21 cells.

The skull-filled stupa at the Killing Fields of Choeung Ek. Between one and three million Cambodians were indiscriminately murdered during the Pol Pot era.

An ox-cart on the road to Choeung Ek.

Wat Phnom, the highest point in town.

The wat is home to a clan of monkeys, who'll gladly take bananas from passerby.

They'll also take offerings from the altars at the wat. Cheeky monkeys.

Cambodian flags flap gently in the breeze above the roundabout at the city center. Like almost everything Cambodian, the flags proudly display the silhouette of Angkor Wat.

We had the opportunity to visit an orphanage in Phnom Penh. These girls were three of the over 120 kids who call the shelter home.

The scars of history are still incredibly visible in Phnom Penh, but the city itself is quite picturesque.

SIEM REAP, CAMBODIA

Siem Reap is quite possibly the luckiest city in Cambodia. It's the starting point for all expeditions to the famed temples of Angkor, and as such, is experiencing quite the economic boom. Downtown Siem Reap is dotted with trendy bars, expensive hotels, and touristy souvenir shops. Anxious tuk-tuk drivers wait for customers at the entrance to every guesthouse and on every street corner. The off-ramp at the bus station is absolute bedlam, with dozens of tuk-tuk drivers in virtual hand-to-hand combat vying for customers. It's the slow season, and tuk-tuk drivers are losing out to big, bus-driven tour groups from Northeast Asia. Siem Reap's economy is also losing out, as the money these tour groups generate is usually taken right back to the tour group's nation of origin. Still, the backpacker haunts on the outskirts of town, where rural Siem Reap meets the trendy city, are always full. It will be interesting to see how the city handles the incredible influx of tourists. It could be boom, it could be bust. Typically Southeast Asian.

Old tuk-tuks rest near our guesthouse in Siem Reap.

Sunset from the deck of our guesthouse.

One of Siem Reap's sidestreets, only blocks away from the trendy, bar-filled streets catering to backpackers and tourists.

Sunset near the trendy center of Siem Reap.

Tuk-tuk alley outside of our guesthouse. Tuk-tuks are the prefered method of transportation for backpackers in Siem Reap.

That's all for now! We'll have some photos from our three days at Angkor up soon, and full posts from these places as soon as we get home. Until then- laa kawn!

Bittersweet Emotions- Ho Chi Minh City (Saigon): July 1-7, 2007

2007-07-05T20:54:00.000-08:00

Saigon, the former capital of South Vietnam, fell to communist forces on April 30, 1975. By that point, the United States had officially been out of the conflict for about two years. As the South Vietnamese positions fell with incredible rapidity, a mass exodus of remaining American officials and fearful South Vietnamese refugees began. Most of us can easily identify the famous photo of the CIA UH-1 Huey lifting off from the roof of the U.S. embassy while hordes of anxious South Vietnamese clambored up the stairway to try to get onboard. Those who fought for the south and were left behind faced an incredibly bleak future. Many were sent to reeducation camps, intellectuals were forced from their prestigous positions and to the streets, and the relatives of lost soldiers received no compensation, no recognition, and no solace. The scars of war still remain in this bustling city of stunning contrasts. Disabled veterans hobble about the streets on crutches or in crudely constructed wheelchairs in front of elaborate shopping malls selling the best the west has to offer. Men who once worked as doctors or university professors now peddle tourists around on cyclos for pennies- if they can find work at all. Yet, the city itself is Vietnam's richest, the center of foreign investment and the hub of Vietnamese modernity. Hanoi is sleepy- Saigon buzzes with electricity and life. But behind it all lurks a thinly-veiled sadness. Hope tarnished by a brutal past. Bittersweet.

Our last stop in Vietnam has been emotional and bittersweet for us too- for these reasons and a few of the more personal variety. We arrived in Saigon (now officially known as Ho Chi Minh City after the cult-like leader of the Vietnamese independence movement) full of hope and energy. Our week of diving in Nha Trang had given us a renewed vigor that even another overnight bus ride couldn't spoil. We were in the midst of formulating new plans- perhaps a working holiday in New Zealand, farm work in Australia- the sky was the limit. Unfortunately, reality has a bad habit of rearing its ugly head at precisely the wrong moment. Our reality has changed quite a bit over the last several months. Our relationship has strengthened, our goals have changed, and our personalities have grown. We had to come to the unfortunate conclusion that this adventure had to come to a close in order to accomodate all of these changes. It's been one of the most difficult decisions either of us has ever had to make, but it's something we both feel like we needed to do- and now that the decision has been made, we're both beside ourselves with excitement at what the future holds.

Many of you already know that the two of us got engaged a few months back while exploring the thin air of Tibet. Even before the trip began, we were both pretty certain that if the adventure went smoothly we'd be getting married at some point. Ben had even concocted a grandiose engagement scheme involving Faye's birthday, Istanbul, and a romantic proposal in front of the Aya Sofia Mosque. Of course, our travel plans changed- as did the timing of the "romantic" proposal. While a dusty hotel room in Lhasa certainly lacks the flair of Sultan Ahmet Square, the engagement was no less fulfilling, and we've spent the past three months dreaming up as many schemes for our future domestic lives as our immediate travel plans. As our checking accounts dwindled and the credit cards became more and more relied upon, we began to see the dangers in continued travels. Neither of us wants to start this next phase of what is sure to be a beautiful life together in crippling debt. We did something atypical for us- we listened to our heads instead of our hearts. Of course, the heart had a lot to do with the decision as well. Neither of ours wants to be broken by circumstances dictated by an unrecoverable financial situation. We wanted the trip to last, but not at the expense of our future. It's time to come home.

We've also realized that the project itself has run its course. We've learned so much over the last nine months of working together, and we really feel that our writing and the websites have improved dramatically since those first clumsy posts from Maine and North Pole. We've had a tremendously positive response, and the blog has become a dual obsession of ours. We love doing what we're doing- it's difficult to think of doing anything else with our lives. It's been a life-affirming experience to take all that we love and value and put it into words and pictures for our followers- and to have all of you tell us you've learned from and been inspired by us. When summer vacation hit, however, we lost a huge part of our audience. Having the bright, curious, and inquisitive minds at Mahoney Middle School and North Pole Elementary following along made the project truly important. It still sickens us to think that an entire generation of Americans are growing up without geographic education. How can we be good citizens of the world if we refuse to teach our children about that world? To have had the opportunity to bring this small part of the outside world to the students of Mrs. Mingo's and Mr. Towle's classes has been incredible to the point of rendering us speechless. But now, those kids are out doing what they should be- playing, exploring, fishing, riding their bikes, and hopefully staying far from anything televised, computerized, or digitized. Unfortunately, if we keep travelling, it will be nearly impossible to reestablish those personal connections once school resumes in August. And that's what made this project different from similar projects- the personal connection between the students and us. So, we're coming home now so that we can begin planning the next outreach adventure. As soon as the wheels of the plane touch down, we'll be looking for teachers to talk to, grants and scholarships to apply for, and ways to make our next project even more interactive- hopefully incorporating live video chats with our student followers. We think this next big adventure will take place in and around the Mediterranean Sea over the winter of 2008-09. We're going to be building a homepage when we get home, where we'll keep you all up to date on these plans. This will also be where all of our blogs (including a new "Alaskan Adventures" edition) will be linked and archived. Stay tuned for that.

Finally, we realized that in order to accomplish all of this, we need to get our butts back to UAF and into class. We have so much left to learn if we want to pull off another of these projects and keep improving upon our methods. We've already started looking at geography, journalism, education, and multimedia classes to take this fall so that we're better prepared for our future outreach-based travels. The initial sadness that hit after making the decision to come home has been replaced by an ever-growing sense of excitement at the prospect of new classes, new plans, and new adventures to be had. Plus, we have a new life to start- finding a cabin, decorating that cabin, buying a new, energy efficient car, finding a way to make our lives more minimilist and sustainable, and planning a wedding...it's going to be a heck of a couple months!

We're not done yet though. We've still got five weeks of travel left- travel that's going to be hectic, exciting, and fast-paced. We bought our tickets home out of Singapore, the tiny, enigmatic city-state on the tip of the Malaysian Peninsula. That means we've got to make it through Cambodia, southern Laos, Thailand, and Malaysia (a new obsession of ours) before flying to Anchorage via Tokyo and San Francisco. To help ease our transition back into "real" life, we're going to spend a few nights in an Anchorage hostel and then take the train home to Fairbanks. Seems fitting, doesn't it?

Ben's been writing this post while Faye frantically tries to plan the next few weeks. She'll fill you all in now: With a newly set deadline, we need to maximize the time we have. For us, this means giving as much time as possible to the places we're most interested in- Cambodia's Angkor Wat and most of Penninsular Malaysia- while still getting a taste of Laos, Thailand, and Singapore. We're leaving Saigon tomorrow and heading to the Mekong Delta, where we'll catch a boat upriver to Phnom Penh. Another boat will take us from Cambodia's capital city, with all the scars of its tragic history, to the town of Siem Reap- the gateway to the celebrated temples of Angkor. We're giving ourselves three days to explore the area (recently in the news, by the way, for the floods of tourists that threaten to overwhelm it...)before getting back to the Mekong once again and following it up to the shaded islands, waterfalls, and highlands of southern Laos. Once we've crossed into Thailand it'll be a straight shot to Bangkok, where we'll be typically overwhelmed and out of element in the most famously crazy city in Southeast Asia. In addition to the streets of sin, temples, clubs, markets, and monkeys, Bangkok has a train station. We'll be fleeing there after a couple days, boarding a carriage, and riding it all the way to the Malaysian border. After catching our breath on one of the tranquil Perhentian Islands we'll cross the Cameron Highlands and check out the capital city of Kuala Lumpur. Just down the coast is the port city of Melaka, which exemplifies the blend of cultures that make Malaysia so fascinating. Two days or so there will leave us with just enough time to cut across the country to the east coast and Tioman Island, considered one of the world's ten most beautiful islands and home to some of the best diving in the region. It'll be a last chance for us to revel in the underwater world, and hopefully earn our Advanced Open Water certifications. It'll also be our last moment of tranquility before entering bustling Singapore, with its skyscrapers, back alleys, and ethnic neighborhoods, and embarking on a 33 hour journey back to Alaska. Whew. It'll be crazy and exhausting, but hopefully exhilarating as well. And now that we know we're coming home, we can step up the pace a bit. Like Faye's track coaches always said- "Finish hard!"

We're going to be cruising along pretty quickly, and won't have time to do the posts like we'd prefer. This is probably a welcome respite for those of you who have been trying to keep up with our increasingly long dispatches. Hopefully we'll be able to get something up from Bangkok, maybe even before... but maybe well after. Keep checking in! In short: we will be doing posts for every place we visit- they may just be delayed.

We'll be seeing you soon!
Ben and Faye

Going Under- Nha Trang, Vietnam: June 21-30, 2007

2007-06-26T00:28:00.001-08:00

Nha Trang, Vietnam, and our dive sites.

Many of you have heard the saying that we know more about the surface of the moon than we do about our own oceans, despite the fact that they cover most of our planet. As geographers, a profession dedicated to understanding our planet, we're particularly concerned about this knowledge gap. Many theories concerning the origin of life point to the oceans. Much of the world's protein comes from the oceans. Trade, exploration, sharing of civilizations- all oceanic. Huge parts of our climate are controlled by ocean currents, ocean reflectivity, and ocean temperatures. Our life on land, from physical geography to political, is all related to the oceans. They permeate our mythology and our livelihoods, yet evade our conciousness. Many of us can barely imagine what lies beneath their ever-changing surface.

The oceans near Nha Trang. Beneath their surface, a completely foreign yet critically important world thrives.

On our first day in Nha Trang we headed straight for the dive centers. Our second and last stop was Rainbow Divers, an outfit with one of the best reputations in southeast Asia. Walking into the atypically plush dive center, we were immediately met by one of the dive instructors, a Spaniard named Miquel. It only took a few moments of discussion for him to sell us on the idea of going on a discover dive- a brief, stress-free, and cheap introduction to the underwater world. Ben, in possession of an entire dive gear ensemble and with a couple dives under his belt, was already sold on the idea of doing a certification course. Faye, having spent about a third of her life in the water, was also leaning that way but feared committing without making sure. As we signed the waivers, Miquel (clearly more confident than Faye) assured us "You'll be back the next day to get certified. Maybe I'll be your instructor, eh?"

The next morning, we groggily rolled out of bed at 5:30 and trudged from our back alley hotel (ant-infested and prone to hourly blackouts- and overpriced)to the friendly confines of the dive center. After a quick breakfast, we caught a bus to the harbor where our boat waited in a line of identical dive vessels. We putted out to sea past the rusting hulls of container ships on their last legs, overcrowded ferries, and small fishing dinghies.

The Pha Lai, our top candidate for local wreck diving. Our captain had a better idea.

As we exited the harbor and began our 45 minute cruise to the first dive site, we passed underneath one of the most obnoxious and ghastly representatives of Vietnam's recent tourism boom. A series of giant beams rose from the sea like concrete waterspouts. Riding the cable that connected these towering eyesores were an endless procession of gondola cars gliding to an equally unattractive island resort, complete with a Hollywood-like sign announcing its presence. Despite the fact that "VINPEARL" was serviced by a more than adequate armada of ferries, some enterprising but misguided developer decided the trendy locale needed an alternative method of access. "Do you see anybody in any of them?" we asked each other of the gondolas that marched like flying ants above our heads. "Nope," we agreed in unison. "Does anybody ever use them?" "Nope," came the reply from a few of the opiniated characters on the boat. It's a bad habit that's become endemic in Vietnam-over-anxious developers turning natural attractions into amusement park-like obtrusions that repulse most tourists of western origin.

The aerial cable-car to Vinpearl Resort. Not only is it hideous, it's also mostly empty.

Turning our eyes from the ugliness above to the dive crew who'd gathered at the bow of the boat, we anxiously listened to the day's briefing. Soon, we were whisked away to the sundeck to don our wetsuits and learn about the rest of the gear we'd be using that day. Within minutes, we were back downstairs strapping into our weight belts and BCDs (Bouyancy Control Devices) and preparing to dive in with our Vietnamese guides. Faye went first, taking a giant step off the back of the boat and plunging into the glittering turquoise water. Her eyes flew open as she floated back up to the surface, taking in the perfectly round bubbles rising with her. The first few moments, as her guide Shu got her to duck her head in the water and breathe, were almost panic inducing. After spending her whole life learning how to keep her head above water or at least avoid inhaling while under, it went against every instinct to simply inhale and exhale.

Deep breath... we're going under for the first time.

Before she knew it, her breathing had steadied and Shu was slowly deflating her BCD, taking her deeper. Then she forgot to be scared, forgot to be uncomfortable, and forgot that she was a stranger in this place. The reef met us as we descended, its soft coral waving gently with barely perceptible currents. Brilliant angel fish, their irridescent scales gleaming, slipped by silently. Bold anemone fish darted forward to defend their nests. Bizzare sea cucumbers the size of baseball bats sprawled on the white sand bottom. We moved weightlessly through a world that Faye had never quite believed existed- the photos in her books or National Geographic magazines had failed short of convincing her such completely foreign beauty could exist mere meters from the surface world. Within minutes, she knew that one dive could never be enough.

Anemone Fish at Moray Beach. Photo by Miquel Sola.

From the boat, Ben watched a young Viet Kieu (Vietnamese American) girl struggle with her regulator and panic every time her head sunk under. Faye, however, was nowhere to be seen, and he knew this meant good things- we'd be going diving again tomorrow. When Faye finally emerged from the depths, eyes the size of silver dollars, he got a verbal confirmation of this prediction and took the plunge for himself. To him, the concept of breathing underwater wasn't quite as foreign, but the sights on the reef certainly were. 35 minutes of dodging jellyfish and sparring with clownfish was all it took to spark the addiction- to hell with our dwindling bank accounts, we were getting certified.

Ben took the plunge next, already knowing that we'd be back the next day for the certification course.

Content with the fact that we'd be spending the next several days similarly submerged, we decided to save $40 and skip the second dive of the day. We spent the afternoon lounging on the sundeck plotting all of the other dives we could do throughout SE Asia once we got certified and trading barbs with the decidedly un-politically correct dive crew. Miquel found us munching on slices of pineapple and chided us- "You coming back tomorrow? Ahhhhhh- see, I told you!"

We spent the second dive of the day snorkeling and enjoying views of Madonna Rock from the sundeck.

Of course, our plans almost got sunk- litterally- as fast as we made them. Coming back into the harbor, we discussed the lack of shipwrecks in Vietnam. "They salvage everything here," one of the dive instructors complained. We offered to do a little pirating in exchange for free dives, thinking we might be able to scuttle the new, Titanic-like leviathon owned by another local dive outfit. Turns out, our young Vietnamese captain had a better idea- save the hassle of scuttling someone elses rig and just sink our own. While attempting to park the wooden-hulled vessel, the poor (and now unemployed) guy mistakenly missed the crucial step of putting the boat into reverse. So when he hit the accelerator, thinking that this would slow our approach to the dock, the boat instead lurched forward and into the cement dock with a thunderous crash. The front of the boat crumpled and the rumor of an imminent sinking spread quickly. Customers were hustled off the stricken vessel while divers rushed to remove their expensive equipment. As we rubbernecked our way back to the van, we wondered if perhaps we should have been knocking on wood during the shipwreck discussion.

The docks at Nha Trang Harbor-the scene of our almost-sinking. The boat was saved, and so were our plans for the next week.

Thankfully, the integrity of the boat- and thus our plans- held true. We signed up for the PADI National Geographic Open Water certification course and began our confined water dives the next day. As luck would have it, Miquel was indeed our instructor. Energetic, talkative, intelligent, well-informed, and generally one of the coolest people we've met on the trip, Miquel was the perfect guy to spend the week with.

Miquel's the panicked diver on the right. Jack's the poor rescue diving trainee on the left who's got to save him. Miquel was an awesome dive instructor and soon became an even better friend. Jack probably disagrees with us at this stage.

To become PADI certified, the prospective diver needs to first complete five modules of course work and spend some time in the swimming pool practicing the skills they'll need to dive in open water. So, for the next two days, we'd wake up early and head to the dive center, eat breakfast, do some work in the classroom, and then meet up with Miquel at the swimming pool. The dive center instantly became our home away from home, and any time we weren't in the water, we were there enjoying good food, good conversation, free WiFi, and non-stop CNN International on the TV (love them or hate them, we can't live without current events). But none of this compared to being in the ocean, and we were thrilled when we completed our confined water work and headed back out to the reef.

Good food, colorful characters, free WiFi, and non-stop news made Rainbow Divers a fun place to hang out, but after two days of class and confined water, we were happy to get back to this.

Day three of the five day course, to our endless delight, had us doing exactly that. We hustled aboard the damaged but still serviceable dive boat (some typical feat of Vietnamese ingenuity saved it from a watery grave) and chugged out to Debbie's Beach, one of about a dozen favored dive spots near Nha Trang. We clumsily assembled our dive gear while bobbing up and down in a relentless three-foot swell and then, one by one, made the giant leap into the ocean. A pat of the head indicated an "OK" to the boat, the air hissed out of our inflated BCDs, and down we went...

Ben takes the giant step off the boat and into the waters near Nha Trang.

We began our dive in a sandy area. Giant blue starfish sprawled out on the sea floor, the black weaponry of long-spined sea urchins clustered in groups, and a new family of false clown fish darted out from lone anemones to challenge the intruders. Schools of shimmering fusiliers swept past as we rehearsed our skills. Soon, Miquel decided we were ready to visit the reef. We rose and fell gently (or not so gently, sometimes shooting up towards the surface as Miquel grabbed us, or drifting inevitably towards the bottom) with each deep breath. The reef appeared, magnified by the blue water, and we desperately tried to maintain neutral bouyancy so as to not go crashing into its fragile (and abrasive) surface. Coral, actually colonies of tiny aquatic organisms, is easily damaged by clumsy divers like us. Reefs are also very susceptible to climate change. They typically only form in shallow water in warmer climes. The range of temperatures in which they thrive is actually quite small, and fluctuations in water temperature can have severe impacts for the health of the reef and its surrounding ecosystem.

Coral Garden- Debbie's Beach. Photo by Miquel Sola.

According to the National Geographic Diver Almanac, conveniently included with our dive books, reefs contain "about one third of all known fish species and are the nursery grounds for about 25 percent of all marine species." It's not too hard to connect the dots in this picture- damaged reefs mean less marine life, which means not only the destruction of ecosystems and loss of resources, but also, most tangibly for human societies, less fish to catch and eat. Since fishing provides countless people with not just employment but critical protein they might otherwise lack, it's easy to see how damage to reefs can quickly become an economic and political issue.

Coral Garden- Mama Hahn. Photo by Miquel Sola.

On our second dive, Miquel led us to a giant crater where pieces of dead, white coral littered the sand and nothing colorful seemed to exist. This spot, so dramatically different from the reef that thrived around it, is the site of a dynamite fishing incident. Dynamite fishing has proven a major problem in Vietnam (and much of the rest of the developing world). It's a simple process- drop some dynamite in the water, wait for it to go off, and watch the dead fish float to the surface. Not so simple, however, are the effects- dynamite fishermen aren't just removing a few specific fish from the intricate web of their ecosystem, they're removing the ecosystem. Large numbers of fish, plants, corals, and other life forms are killed immediately; others die of starvation or are forced to compete in another area that may not be able to support them. Dynamite fishing in any one area can effectively destroy the fishery in one go, which then leaves local fishermen without a resource, resulting in either economic diversification, migration, or starvation. Implications can be widespread, especially since reefs act as a major nursery for migratory species. The dynamite fishing near Nha Trang could mean a very bad year for fishermen hundreds of miles away. Fotunately, the reefs around Nha Trang are now part of a marine park and theoretically protected from such devastating practices, while locals are still allowed to fish with poles and lines. Unfortunately, many of the world's most fragile reef ecosystems remain unprotected and vulnerable.

Coral Garden- Mama Hahn. Photo by Miquel Sola.

Our first two open water dives completed, we headed back to Rainbow Divers and giddily rehashed the day's events. We had seen a giant moray eel whose girth was that of Ben's upper leg and had ascended through a shimmering blanket of translucent, pulsating jellyfish. Our addiction was reaffirmed, and we couldn't wait to get back in the water for the final two dives of our basic open water certification course. Another early morning found us on the boat and headed towards Madonna Rock again, where we would perform a few more of the required skills and spend another twenty minutes exploring. We followed Miquel over ridges of reef and down into deeper bowls, gradually reaching a depth of 17 meters (almost 56 feet). The visibility was still phenomenal, and the bright colors of the coral belied our depth. As we explored, often pausing to hover over a craftily camoflauged lizardfish or to laugh at the completely alien nudibranches, we became more and more comfortable controlling our motion in the water (although Faye was still prone to rolling on one side unwittingly). That was one of the best parts about this particular course: we would go down, get our work done, and still have lots of time to go on a leisurely swim. Miquel knew how to feed the addiction, that's for sure. And that's one of the many reasons why we love him. He taught us well and made sure we were doing things right- and then he showed us a hell of a good time.

Angler Fish- Madonna Rock. Photo by Miquel Sola.

Nudibranch- Mama Hahn. Photo by Miquel Sola.

Giant Clam- Debbie's Beach. Photo by Miquel Sola.

After a few minutes sunning back on deck, we moved a whole 50 meters to the next dive site. Mama Hahn is a gently sloping beach/reef. We started deep, and wound our way up into shallower areas where the waters were brightly illuminated and teeming with life. Miquel is a pro at finding elusive creatures and brought us face to face with our first pipefish- imagine a seahorse uncurled, and expertly camoflauged. We were overwhelmed at the amount of life we saw, but know full well we missed a huge amount. Our untrained eyes stood no chance against the expansive adaptations inhabitants of the reef have made. The range of camoflauges, hiding spaces, and disguises are mind boggling, and drove home just how complex and amazing this ecosystem is. This dive was also our chance to shame ourselves horribly, as we were tested on underwater navigation. As geographers, you'd think we could use a compass to swim back and forth along a straight line. It's harder than it looks. Really.

Lizard Fish- Mama Hahn. Photo by Miquel Sola.

Frog Fish- Debbie's Beach. Photo by Miquel Sola.

Despite our sketchy performance in the navigation course, we emerged from this fourth dive as officially certified PADI open water divers. Our tickets to endless underwater adventures throughout the world had been punched. We were ecstatic. But, we still had one more day of coursework to complete. When we signed up, we were given the option of doing the regular certification course or taking on an extra day of class and two extra dives to get the National Geographic certification. As could be expected, the decision was an easy one- we signed on for the Nat Geo course without hesitation. Our fifth and sixth dives consisted of us practicing our bouyancy (a critical skill for the ecologically conscientious diver), doing a little more work on our navigation (much needed after the previous day's disaster), and taking an entire dive to simply observe the spectacles that surrounded us (absolutely thrilling from start to finish). The coolest part of the whole episode involved us stopping to observe a cleaning station.

Lion Fish- Mama Hahn. Photo by Miquel Sola.

Anemone Fish- Moray Beach. Photo by Miquel Sola.

Cleaning stations are one of the best examples of the intricacies of reef life. Bright blue and yellow fish as long as our fingers and named, appropriately enough, cleaner wrasse, waiting the shelter of fan coral. If a small fish stops by, one cleaner wrasse will circle it leisurely and remove any dead skin or parasites. If a larger fish shows up, two or more cleaner wrasse will share the job. If multiple fish show up at the same time, the wrasse will divide and conquer. At one station we observed not only the symbiotic relationship between the wrasse and their clients, but also the cooperation among wrasse themselves. A simple enough set of concepts, but one that applies to the entire ecosystem. The balance and interdependence we witnessed in ten minutes at the station exemplified the most important ideas of the reef (and, not at all coincidentally, of geography itself).

Anemone Fish at Mama Hahn. Photo by Miquel Sola.

Angler Fish- Madonna Rock. Photo by Miquel Sola.

As the regulators came out of our mouths upon our ascent, smiles of satisfaction creased our faces. Diving instantly became one of our favorite activities, and we spent the entire afternoon at the dive center looking at the other courses we could take and the other locations we could visit. About an hour into our research, we realized we still had one more day left in Nha Trang. "Do you want to go diving tomorrow too?" Faye asked Ben, already knowing the answer. So, we gave up the opportunity to sleep in and headed for the boat early the next morning, excited to be going for two stress-free fun dives. "Ah- you are just divers now, so I have to set up your gear for you!" said Miquel with mock incredulousness as he hooked our regs to our tanks. It was Miquel's last day on the job, and we felt fortunate to see him off. We started out on Moray Beach, a crystal clear, sandy bottomed stretch of ocean teeming with elongated trumpetfish, beautiful butterflyfish, and irridescent moon wrasses. This was probably the most satisfying of our dives. Our rapidly growing comfort in the water let us concentrate on our surroundings. Miquel made the most of it for all of us, spotting leaf fish, lumpy-looking red frog fish, small yet fearsome scorpionfish, a tiny, bright yellow boxfish, and a polka dotted eel slithering along the sea floor. Our final dive, back at Debbie's Beach (how about that for symmetry?), Miquel teased an ornate ghost pipefish from its hiding place in the coral. We returned his "okay" signal with huge grins and began our spiraling ascent, slowly circling a pillar of coral until our tanks ran low. We surfaced in a column of bubbles from our regulators and rested at the surface, unable to believe that we were done with this watery world- at least for the next few weeks.

Ornate Ghost Pipe Fish- Mama Hahn. Photo by Miquel Sola.

Wonderful experiences are a dime a dozen on a trip like this. We see so many amazing things on a day-to-day basis that the spectacular has almost become the norm. The events that truly standout are the ones that combine exciting experiences with great people. Evgeni and the crew made sure that our time on Olkhon was more than memorable. Claire and Andy made the Gobi adventure (at least the part they bothered to stick around for) more meaningful, and we continue to swap mutton jokes with Claire- and count her as a close friend. Our time in Nha Trang will stick with us always not only because of the new world we've been exposed to, but also because of the man who gave us our passport to it. Miquel was a fantastic instructor, but he very quickly became an even better friend. His intelligence, humor, and willingness to adopt us earned him a place in our hearts forever, and we can't wait to swing by Barcelona for some Mediterranean dining and diving. As our time in Asia nears its end (see the coming post), we become more and more appreciative of the friends we've made and the people who've opened their hearts to us. We're taking home three different tea sets, countless statuettes and icons, a few trinkets to show to the kids, and about 10,000 photos. None of it compares to the new friendships we'll be taking with us.

New friends and more reasons to travel...it's been a good trip.

Cheers to all of you- and we can't wait to visit or to have a vist paid to us!

Ben and Faye

Miquel's Website, complete with diving photos from around the world (and lots more from Vietnam!)

Our Nha Trang Photo Album

Who Are We? Why Are We Here? What is Geography?- July 1, 2007

2007-06-25T23:11:00.001-08:00

What do geographers study? This- and everything that happens there.

Hello everyone! After nearly two months, we’re finally approaching the end of our time in Vietnam. We just arrived in Ho Chi Minh City (Saigon) early this morning after a week spent underwater in the oceans near Nha Trang. Our time there was nothing short of incredible. We were exposed to an entire world we’d only heard rumors of, full of bizarre life forms, vivid colors, and strange shapes, all intricately linked to each other and to our world on land. While we’ve been brainstorming the post describing the aquatic events of the past week, we’ve realized something very important. In order to adequately explain the relevance of the things we’ve seen, we need to backtrack for a moment. From the beginning of this excursion, our primary goals have been to not only give our readers an outlet to improve their basic understanding of place-specific geography, but to also teach people about the field of geography itself- who are we, why are we here, what is it that we do? The first part is easy- we simply go places and tell you about the things we observe. The second part is a little more difficult, and we know that we’ve probably left a few of you shaking your heads in bewilderment, still wondering what it is we’re doing over here. That’s what we’d like to answer now- what is a geographer? What do we really do? Why is geography important? We hope this will make the next post, and all that have preceded and will follow it, a little clearer.

Let’s start by asking the question “What is a geographer?”

Walking into a geographers’ convention is like walking into an AA meeting. “Hi…ummm…My name’s Tom and ummm…I’m a geographer.” Round of hesitant applause. “Hi Tom! How long have you been a geographer?” “Ummm, well, I just found out last semester.” “Why don’t you tell us about it?” “Ok, well, I started out majoring in geology, but then I took a class in political science, and got hooked. I switched majors the next semester, but then I realized I really had an interest in anthropology. Before the end of the spring semester, I switched majors again. But then, one day over summer break, I was lying in the grass looking at the clouds and thought ‘Man, I should really look into atmospheric sciences.’ And that’s how it went for five years. Now I’m 24, and just found out our school has a geography program. I thought it sounded silly, but then I looked at the classes they offered and realized it was perfect.” And that’s how it goes for nearly every geography student- Faye perhaps being the only one on record to have actually declared it as a major before her first semester of university.

We thought about posting Ben's academic transcripts to illustrate this point, but that would have taken 10 extra pages. After majoring in Fire Science, Criminal Justice, Geology, History, and Political Science, Ben finally figured out he was a geographer. The crazy hair came later.

We’re short-sighted astronomers. We’re the poster-children for academic attention deficit disorder. We’re curious about everything, and therefore can be irrationally indecisive. We’re the jacks of all trades, masters of none. We think soil science is fascinating, but could never dedicate ourselves to that entirely. Likewise, political science, international relations, forestry, and agriculture can all get us excited, but none can claim our full attention for long. What really makes a geographer tick are the connections between all these disciplines. But before we get to the connections, let’s look at the most fundamental component of geography- space.

Faye's an anomoly. She figured out that she wanted to be a geographer well before university. She knew before most that geography was the best place for the perpetually curious academic who could be as easily amused by a cow as by the rigged elections in Transdniestria.

Geography is anything you want it to be, as long as that anything can be placed within a spatial context. Everything happens within a spatial context, so basically, everything is geography. The soccer match that just took place in Sao Paolo? That’s geography. The election that just occurred in East Timor? That’s geography too. A sockeye salmon swimming up the Gulkana? Geography. The nor’easter that just dumped three feet of snow on some poor New Englander’s driveway? Yep, it’s geography. And that tasty bowl of sheep fat a Mongolian family just woofed down? You guessed it- geography. This is geography at its most rudimentary level. You don’t really need to analyze these events in any more detail to be thinking geographically. They’ve all happened within a spatial context, and therefore can all be considered geographically relevant. But that’s just the tip of the iceberg, more an exercise in building your Trivial Pursuit skills than hardcore geography. It’s when you start looking for and analyzing the connections between disciplines and events (doing so, of course, within a spatial context) that geography becomes really interesting. Why did the soccer match just take place in Sao Paolo? Why did the elections in East Timor turn out as they did? Why does East Timor exist in the first place? Why isn’t the Mongolian family munching on something a little more palatable? How does a good geographer go about answering these questions?

Why is Faye making mutton dumplings instead of ravioli al'funghi? Because of geography!

Different geographers will give you different explanations on this, but here's what we think: Geography is like a pillar with multitudes of equally important, interdependent parts. This illustration is probably most relevant to regional geography, the branch of the field that focuses on a specific geographical area (a continent, a country, a valley, a city block- any defined geographical space) and analyzes that area from top to bottom- all the aspects of that space. Thematic geography is a little bit different, and we'll discuss that later. Literally translated, geography means "to describe the Earth." So, the base of our pillar needs to be a specific place on the surface of the Earth. Again, this can be anything- a city, a watershed, a province, a mountain range, the entire planet, etc.

Our geographical pillar. Geography is the study of the links between a defined space and all of the physical, biological, and human aspects of that space.

After determining the spatial context in which you’ll be working, the next step is to examine the physical and environmental make-up of that space- its geology, geomorphology, weather, and climate. Is it mountainous or flat, and why? Does the location have distinct rainy seasons or is it perpetually dry, and why? What are the topographic features like? What type of rock dominates the landscape? Where do the prevailing winds originate? It's amazing how, once you start to notice and understand patterns in physical geography, you can trace everything (politics, sports, religion, agriculture, biological distribution and diversity) directly back to it. But we're getting ahead of ourselves- the important point here is to simply understand that physical geography is the base of our geographic pillar- the point that all of the other dots are connected to.

Physical geography is the base of our geography pillar. For instance, to understand Tibet, you first need to understand the Tibetan Plateau and the Himalayan Mountain range, and how these affect local weather and regional climate patterns. Everything else will follow.

From here, you begin to understand the next few rocks in our pillar. In our illustration, we've used soils and hydrology as examples, but we could just as easily have used any number of others that directly follow from physical geography. In fact, these are technically still components of physical geography- but we thought they deserved specific mention because of the distinct intermediary role they play between the physical and human side of the discipline. For instance, soil type and quality are determined by geology (rocks provide the minerals necessary for plant development) and climate (for example, an area with a lot of rain will generally have poorer soils because the rain leaches nutrients into lower, unreachable levels of the soil). Watersheds, stream patterns, and hydrology are similarly tied to basic geologic and climatic factors. Streams will more easily erode weak rock, aquifers will more readily develop in specific types of rock, and (the most profound statement you'll ever read) more water will be available in locations with wetter climates.

Soil type and quality are determined by geology and climate (among a few other things). This Vietnamese soil is relatively poor because persistant precipitation leaches vital nutrients into its lower layers, and organic material decomposes in the hot tropical heat at a rate too fast to facilitate the growth of humus.

The next logical step in the progression up the pillar is to biology. After all, soil wouldn't be all that important if it weren't for the fact that it supports plant life- which in turn is necessary to support our lives. Same goes for water. The type and quantity of plant and animal life depend directly upon physical geography, climate, soil quality, and water availability. Human habitation patterns and lifestyles will depend directly upon the type and quantity of plant and animal life a specific environment can support. See how the dots are beginning to connect?

STARTING TO CONNECT THE DOTS... Mongolia's Gobi Desert is consistently dry, prone to extreme diurnal and seasonal climatic changes, and in possession of really poor soil...

...which determines the type and quantity of vegetation available. This saxual shrub is drought adapted and particularly rugged...

...and so are these guys. Bactrian camels are one of the few species that thrive in conditions as harsh as the Gobi's. They can survive on little water, and can digest the dense, spiny saxual...

...which in turn determines this man's lifestyle. He utilizes the camels for food and transportation, and would find life very difficult if he instead chose to use water buffalo (like the Vietnamese) for these purposes.

Our friend from the Gobi has brought us up to the second half of our pillar- the half devoted to human geography. You'll often hear geographers say that ours is the field that bridges the gap between the hard sciences and the social sciences. You'll also hear a lot of people making a distinction between physical and human geography- separating the two into distinct sub-fields. We're not sure if we agree with this separation. In our opinions, the thing that makes geography special is that it doesn't make this distinction. The physical side and the human side are inseparable. Geologists look at rocks. Geographers look at the rocks and tell you what they mean to the people who live on them.

The next step on the ladder is anthropology and ethnicity. In our Gobi example, we've shown that the man's lifestyle is determined by the physical geography of his home. Living in this place, he must be a nomadic herder- no other livelihood is sustainable. Looking then at his family and social life, it becomes clear that the limits of the landscape discourage large extended families or settlements, as the land can support so few. The Mongolian customs of living in traditional gers (which can be easily moved depending on season and available vegetation) or celebrating horsemanship (critical for life on the steppe) also go hand in hand with the place they originated. Just as in the Gobi, anthropological developments the world over are directly determined by physical geography.

One of our Mongol friends and his horse. Mongolians developed proficiency in horsemanship because their physical environment necessitated it. This allowed them to conquer much of the Eurasian landmass. Genghis' proficiency in the bedroom made the Asian ethnic landscape what it is today.

And how about the Mongols’ extreme proficiency in horsemanship? We've all heard of Genghis Khan and his expansive Eurasian Empire. How did that come about? Mongolian armies were the scourges of their era because they could advance and attack with lightning speed and remarkable efficiency while on horseback. As we stated above, they developed these skills because of their nomadic, herding lifestyle- which developed due to the limitations placed on them by their unforgiving physical environment. The expansion of the Mongol Empire has had a profound impact on the ethnic make-up of Asia. The Mongols were influenced by cultures as far away as Turkey, and they spread their own culture (and seeds) throughout the entire continent. Our notorious friends on Olkhon, although speaking Russian and living in Siberia, held a stronger allegiance to Mongolia than to their own motherland. Ethnicity is one of the major issues of our time, indeed, all time. The development and spatial distribution of different ethnicities are the direct results of geography.

Connecting the dots again. The Mongols developed extreme equestrian skills due to their physical environment, which allowed them to spread their seeds all over Asia. Our Buryat friend here is more closely related to the Mongols than to any Russian ethnicity, despite the fact that he lives in Russia and speaks Russian. History, as determined by geography, influences the spatial distribution of global ethnicities.

From the examples above, we can clearly see how history- the next stop on our pillar-influences and is influenced by geography. We'll use another example from our travels to illustrate this point. Shanghai is one of the contemporary world's most important cities. It is certainly one of China's, yet its very existence is due to the British. During the early 1800s, as world trade expanded and merchants searched for new materials and new markets, China attempted to remain isolated. Western powers, urged on by powerful trading companies, went so far as to fight a war for the right to sell their goods in the Middle Kingdom- actually more than one war, known collectively as the Opium Wars. As victors, they claimed a series of treaty ports where they could establish their own governments on Chinese soil. The British, as main members of the western coalition, quickly claimed a relatively small backwater at the mouth of the Yangtze River, recognizing its potential for controlling trade to interior China. They built the small port up into a monumentally important city- Shanghai. The city's modern geography, as a major port and a gateway for trade into China, is a result of its history. Knowing about this history, most geographers will want to go all the way back down the pillar and try to determine exactly why the Yangtze flows as it does and why it’s deep enough to allow the passage of large container ships.

Modern Shanghai by night. The city's geography is determined by its history, and vice versa. Geography (physical, economic, political, etc) determines history, which in turn influences current events and modern geography.

It's a pattern that's repeated throughout history. Tito's Partisans were able to harass the Nazis so effectively in large part because of the karst topography in the Western Balkans. Tito came to power because of these wartime successes. Yugoslavia was unified because of Tito's authoritarian, cult-like leadership. When Tito died, so did Yugoslavia. The wars that were fought throughout the 1990's and the current fiasco in Kosovo are the result of historical geography. Geography shapes history shapes current events. Connecting the dots.

Those of you who've been keeping up with the blog are intimately familiar with the next step on our pillar. Cultural geography is fascinating and fun to talk about- and really fun to explore. Who wouldn't want to eat their way through the Mediterranean, play soccer with a group of kids on a Vietnamese Island, or sing along with Genghis to a bad Russian pop song? Yet again, you can trace all of this back to physical geography. You eat what you can grow, raise, or trade for. What you can grow or raise, or your ability to trade is, as we've already shown, directly dependent upon physical geography and climate. Geography makes the difference between eating scrumptious seafood pasta in southern Italy or lake fish and black tea in Siberia.

A typical meal on Olkhon Island- soup made from locally grown potatoes (well adapted to cold climes) and fish from the lake, served steaming hot to ward off the chilly weather. Clearly, the climate and ecology of a region determines what food is available, and how it is served.

Another aspect of cultural geography, and one that we've encountered on the trip, is religion and ceremony. The spread and transformation of religions, while geographically fascinating, are just too involved to break down right here. Instead, we'll look at how geography is tied to the direct ways in which religion is expressed. Two places where we saw very direct relationships between place and religious practice were Olkhon Island and Tibet. On Olkhon, where much of the population practices Shamanism, individual sites take on spiritual significance. Shamanka Rock, for example, is an inherently captivating physical phenomenon that has come to symbolize the power of the natural world. To residents of Olkhon, Shamanka is a direct link between the physical and metaphysical. Tibet offers some really interesting examples as well. White, for instance, is a sacred color in Tibetan Buddhism. Why? White is the color of snow. The amount of snow directly determines the available water supply- in a low snow year, crops can fail and people will starve. So now, stupas are painted white, and white prayer scarves adorn nearly every cairn, mark every pass, and are given as spiritual gifts on special occasions. The number and significance of major festivals and ceremonies are also tied to geography- the Tibetan landscape, with arable, livable areas separated by huge mountains and treacherous passes, leads to physical isolation. In circumstances like these, people appreciate any excuse to come together- hence Tibetan Buddhism incorporated many of the indigenous Bon religion’s major festivals.

Shamanka Rock- one of the clearest examples you can see of the relationship between physical geography and religion. Most geographers will appreciate the religious and cultural significance of Shamanka, then wonder what geological processes made it look the way it does.

Why do Alaskans salivate when the latest snowmachine is unveiled, rush their kids to hockey practice at 5 a.m., and stay glued to the newspaper during the Yukon Quest, while Vietnamese people hover around T.V. screens to watch badminton and take to the streets to play soccer? Because Alaskans live in an incredibly cold climate, in a resource rich state, in the wealthiest nation in the world- meaning we have the money to buy a brand new 700 RMK, or purchase a $450.00 pair of hockey skates for our 12 year-old child, or own 25 energetic and hungry huskies, and the snow and ice to use all three. Our Vietnamese contemporaries, however, live in a warm climate in relative poverty. Badminton rackets and soccer balls don't cost as much as a new Polaris or an Easton Synergy, and it’s hard to harbor ambitions of NHL stardom when the only ice you’ve ever seen has been floating at the top of your glass of lemon juice. Geography (climate, natural resources and the resultant wealth) dictates what kind of sports we play or follow. For another clear example of geography in sports, take a look at the stars of the NBA. The majority comes from inner city neighborhoods where sport options are limited by money and by space- pick up soccer games aren't so feasible on a narrow back alley in the projects. But there's one sport that takes up very little room, costs almost nothing to play, and works great on pavement: basketball.

Why is soccer the most popular game on the planet? Because you don't need much to play it- any open area, a ball, and maybe two t-shirts to mark the goals. In poorer regions of the world (geography again- physical and economic) kids still have an opportunity to play the game. In places like Alaska, enough people can afford the expensive gear required for hockey or dogsledding that these sports can become popular. Also, it's pretty hard to kick a soccer ball around in a foot of snow.

That brings us up to the next level of the pillar (almost to the top now!): economic geography. Just as with all our other levels, this one can be brought right back to the landscape. Economists talk of stocks and bonds, equity and liquidity, bears and bulls, markets and capital. Good geographers know, however, that economics boil down to something far less abstract- you guessed it- geography! Take the United States for instance. How have we become so affluent and wealthy? A lot of it has to do with ingenuity, creativity, and good old fashioned hard work. But just as much of it is directly related to our fortunate geographic situation. We are a large country- meaning we have at our disposal a plethora of natural resources. We're also fortunate enough to be located at a mid-latitude location, meaning we've generally got a favorable climate to work with. We can also give thanks to the Canadians, who were generous enough to give us most of their best soils via glaciation (typical of the Canadians to be so giving, eh?).

From the fisheries of New England...

...to the oil of Alaska, the United States is an enormous country blessed with a plethora of natural resources.

How about Saudi Arabia? Talk about a country that's benefited from physical geography! The House of Saud is in possession of ungodly wealth- enough for Prince Bandar to have his own Airbus for personal jet-setting. Of course, some of that wealth is the result of kickbacks from British and American arms deals, but most of it comes via the nation's vast oil reserves. That's also true of one of the countries we've visited on our trip: Russia. Moscow is one of the world's most expensive cities, a glowing, neon caricature of affluence and wealth. Why is that? We've said it before, and we'll say it again- Moscow IS Gazprom. Russia's been blessed with vast oil reserves, and they've used them to bolster their economy and their geopolitical prowess.

Russia's also been blessed with natural resources, including the oil that's funding the growth of increasingly posh cities like Moscow.

Let's look at the flip side of the coin- how can physical geography render a country economically disadvantaged? Western China, for instance, has basically nothing. Southwest China (namely the Tibetan Plateau) has few resources, and the ones it has are nearly impossible to develop due to the rugged topography. Northwest China- Xinjiang Province- is a vast desertscape that lacks both natural resources and arable land. Collectively, these areas are exceptionally poor and dependent on the central government for things like road building and basic infrastructure.

It's rough going in Tibet. The few natural resources that exist are difficult to extract due to the prohibitive topography. Thus, the region is incredibly impoverished.

The final tie between economics and geography comes from the fundamentals of supply and demand. This pair of concepts lies at the very heart of economics, and is directly influenced by geography. As we've described above, physical geography determines the resources available to any given area- whether it is suitable for mining, farming, herding, or fishing- in short, the supply of goods originating in that space. It also determines much of the demand for a given commodity. In Mongolia, for instance, horses are very much in demand. In Siberia, heating fuel is a critical commodity, and is likely to remain so for some time (despite global climate change).

In frigid Siberia, heating fuel is a hot commodity. Supply and demand are fundamental concepts in economics, and a fundamental link between economics and geography.

Of course, nations no longer have to rely solely upon the resources found within their borders to sustain their economies. Globalization and the rapid improvement of global transportation infrastructures have made it so that nearly every country has access to the resources found in other countries- as long as they can provide a good or service in return. It's still geography, however- we've simply found a way to expand the spatial context within which we all operate.

OK- we've reached the pinnacle of our geographic pillar- political geography. Political geography can be any number of things- examining political boundaries, looking at how international relations work, formulating policy, or simply identifying the type of political systems in action in specific locations. In this example, we’ll use China and show how all of the factors on the pillar have led to the rise of the Communist Party of China (CPC). China is an incredibly large country, with many different climatic zones and landscapes. For this exercise, let's focus on the landscape. Almost all of the lands, aside from the eastern seaboard, are somewhat inhospitable- either jutting hills, towering mountains, or forbidding deserts. The soil situation is, predictably, equally as diverse. The river basins possess decent soils, but a lot of the rest of the country is lacking in arable land. The Tibetan Plateau is obviously not blessed with good soil, nor are the deserts of Xinjiang. The Gobi Desert is creeping ever southward, so a good portion of the north is also lacking quality soils. The areas in possession of decent soils are obviously going to be the places where civilizations spring up- they facilitate biological diversity, which means food. The country’s major population centers are going to be found here, and they’re going to be crowded. China's also a major component of the old Silk Road, the trade route that stretched from Europe, through Central Asia, and into the Middle Kingdom. International traders added to an already colorful kaleidoscope of ethnicities, including the Han, Kazakhs, and Mongols. With the incorporation of Tibet and Xinjiang, ethnic Tibetans and Uighurs were added to the mix. It's often been a volatile combination, however, and for most of its history, China has been at war with itself. Outside powers also played a crucial role in China's history, seeking to unlock the secrets and acquire some of the fabled wealth of the mysterious country. These outsiders were often viewed as meddlesome imperialists by the Chinese, who've justifiably sought to keep their natural sources of wealth to themselves. So, what we have is a large country that's physically and ethnically fractious, primarily agrarian and relatively poor, and historically prone to outside influences. This brings us to the current political situation in China. The fractious nature of the country means that weak governments need not apply. It's historically been only strong, centralized, authoritarian regimes that have successfully unified China. Mao seems to have known this, and the CPC has been one of the most brutally authoritarian political bodies of the last century. How did the CPC come to power? By harnessing the energies of the impoverished peasantry- impoverished because of physical geography. How has the CPC solidified its hold on power? By playing off of the nation’s historical xenophobia, a xenophobia that initially developed due to geography. Why has it had to use so much force to maintain its hold on the nation’s governing institutions? Because physical geography has divided the country into small sub-sections with competing interests and differing ethnicities, many of whom seek greater autonomy or outright independence. And what could happen should the communist party collapse? Could a weaker regime maintain the integrity of these inherently divisive lands? Who knows? It's never happened before. If you dig deep enough and know what you're digging for, almost every political system can be traced right down the pillar to basic physical geography. Amazing, isn't it?

Chairman Mao's CPC came to power in China in large part because of geography. The challanges to the regime, and thus the reason why it's remained so authoritarian, have also been due to geography.

Alright- those of you who've made it this far should have no problem with the next concept. In fact, you've probably already thought of it. In our pillar system, we've shown how each level can affect the one above it. But the connections run both ways, and don't always have to be in a linear progression. Let's think about how something like political geography can impact the physical world we live in. China is a great example for this too. In recent years, political decisions have led to an opening of the Chinese economy and a private consumer market. Living standards (for some groups at least) are rising, creating a demand for luxury goods like cars. This new demand has myriad effects: it creates a demand for steel, which creates a demand for ore, which increases mining activity. Mining directly modifies the landscape where it occurs. Modifying the landscape, of course, has ramifications all the way back up the pillar. In addition to this direct demand-result situation, the increase in cars means an increase in CO2 emissions, which then impacts the climate (and in turn, biology, human geography, and all the rest).

A geographer's playbook- now that we've got the pillar concept down, we can think about how changes at the top might change elements near the base (and in turn, everything else).

Hopefully, you're now thinking like a geographer and recognizing the myriad connections between people and place, between us and our environment, between steppes and stock markets.

That, in a nutshell, is regional geography- the style of geography we’re most interested in and the style that’s most applicable to this type of project. There are, however, a few other approaches to geography that we should briefly mention. Thematic geographers focus on one particular aspect of geography. For instance, one might specialize in political geography, watershed management, economic geography, or geomorphology. What makes a political geographer differ from a political scientist, or an economic geographer differ from a pure economist is that the geographers still examine their chosen specialty within a spatial context and focus on the relationships between that specialty and the other geographic factors we’ve discussed. One of our favorite thematic geographers is Thomas P.M. Barnett, the author of The Pentagon’s New Map and Blueprint for Action. We don’t always agree with his ideas, but we love his approach. Barnett is a strategic analyst who’s worked at the Pentagon and the Naval War College. Somewhere along the line, he’s learned to think like a geographer. He examines war within the context of everything else, as opposed to looking at war as an independent entity. He knows how to connect the dots. If, perhaps, there were more people like him at the Pentagon and in the current administration, things in Iraq and Afghanistan may have gone a little differently. Geographers as policy makers? Just a thought…

Tom Barnett's "New Map." We often find ourselves at odds with his ideas, but we love how he comes up with them. He might not even know it, but he is a thematic geographer specializing in geopolitics. He takes war and places it within the context of everything else. Most analysts (at least according to Barnett) don't do that- they look at war as an independent entity. They are simply analysts- Barnett is a geographer.

And finally, no discussion on geography is complete without mentioning mapping. We all love maps. We buy them, we stare at them, we cuddle them, we study them, and some of us even make them. Cartographers have been around for centuries; once upon a time, they even held prestigious public offices. For instance, Amerigo Vespucci, for whom our lovely continent (and the equally lovely one to our south) is named, once held the noteworthy post of official Vatican cartographer. We’re not sure if that gave him rights to the Popemobile, but it would’ve been a cool job either way. Nowadays, most mapping is of the digital variety. Cartographers have put away their pens and popped open their laptops. GIS (Geographic Information Systems) has become so hip that many assume that’s all we do as geographers- punch away at ArcMap or fiddle with Google Earth. It’s all a bit of a misconception, but it’s certainly a legitimate one. You’re not really considered much of a geographer anymore unless you can navigate your way around a digital map. It’s a terrifying development for a couple of un-tech-savvy bookworms like us, but we’re doing our best to stay up to date. We’ve even figured out how to get digital maps on the blog. Look at us go!

It's not really our thing, but we've had to learn how to ride the digital map wave too. GIS and digital mapping are the hottest things in geography right now, and you're going to have problems calling yourself a geographer if you haven't familiarized yourself with them.

We’ve posed a lot of questions throughout this tedious exercise. The question that most of you are probably asking at this stage is, “So what’s the point?” We’re not auditioning for jobs at a textbook company (but if someone’s making an offer, we’ll gladly hear you out. You see, we’ve got some pretty hefty bills to work off after this trip…), nor are we trying to bore or confuse any of you to death. Our next post is, we think, going to be one of the most interesting and important we’ve written thus far. But without this lesson preceding it, its relevance might be lost upon many of our readers. Sound might travel four times its normal speed underwater, but without the right mask, your vision won’t allow you to see how the dots connect (dots are hard to hear, even when they’re connecting- it’s much better if you can see them). With this rather lengthy dissertation, we hope we’ve given you an optically correct and snug-fitting geographer’s mask- one that will allow you to see how the dots connect even in environments where the connections aren’t so obvious. Without the “mask,” it would be easy to dismiss coral reefs as irrelevant- cool to look at, fun for divers to explore, but really having no bearing on our everyday lives (we’re not clownfish, after all). But, like all physical environments, reefs have a profound and direct impact on every stage of the pillar, including our terrestrial cultures, economies, and politics. In our next post, we’re going to do our best to tell you about this fascinating new aspect of geography we’ve been exposed to, and we want to make sure we adequately explain how what we’ve seen affects us lung-breathing landlubbers (we wouldn’t want you to think we’ve been slacking on our work while we’ve been off playing Aquaman!). And besides, isn’t it about time we made good on our promise and at least tried to explain what this silly subject is all about?

Alright- masks on, fins on, regs in- let's go check out underwater geography.

Stuck on the Circuit- Danang and Hoi An, Vietnam: June 17-21, 2007

2007-06-25T23:01:00.000-08:00

Danang and Hoi An, Vietnam

There have been points on this trip when we felt like intrepid explorers- the Gobi adventure, for instance, or while playing pick up soccer with kids on Cat Ba. There have also been times when we felt like nothing more than another couple drops in the giant tourist pool. Finding ourselves facing down hordes of other Americans, Canadians, and Europeans at a dinner table on China Beach or in the shop-lined alleys of Hoi An, we were dishearterned by the feeling of being stuck on the well-beaten path.

Lately we've been more likely to see a scene like this than the one below...

...Although this is also a sign of rampant tourism: she's smiling because she just made 10,000 dong (75 cents). Some particularly photogenic locals are cashing in on budding photographers' naivety. They don't display their rates.

This was something entirely unexpected. We knew that southeast Asia was a hotspot for western tourists, particularly Scandinavians, but had incorrectly predicted that most of them would be concentrated in trendier places like Thailand. Walking through the narrow streets of Hoi An and finding ourselves in the majority (or at least a plurality)for the first time on the trip shook these misconceptions from us like a coconut from a palm tree. Blessed with a plethora of sandy beaches, exotic natural environments, unique geologic phenomena, and pulsating cities like Saigon and Hanoi, Vietnam seems like a natural destination for sun starved vacationers. Yet, it has only been recently that the nation's tourism industry has started to break free from the shackles slapped on it by the often self-destructive and overly cautious government. The resource is untapped no longer, however. The busses that shuttle tourists up and down the coast are perpetually full, and hotels, restuarants, and travel agencies are unmistakable fixtures of every urban landscape. Almost every issue of the English language newspapers (another testament to the growing population of expats and tourists in the country) feature an article or two championing the tourism boom.

This has been an economic godsend for Vietnam. For us, it's been a mixed blessing. We like to fancy ourselves as pioneering explorers (although we know how silly this notion is), and our egos usually take a bit of a shot when we realize we're simply following the same paths worn down by other trekkers. On the flip side, it's incredibly nice to see so many extolling the same values we've been professing- get up, get out, and see the world. And let's be honest- it's nice to have a momentary repreive from the "foreigness" of the experience and share some deserved beach time with our fellow backpackers. We spent two days at Danang's famous China Beach (made so by the American T.V. show of the same name) doing exactly that, and walked away with baked skin and a much greater appreciation (questionable wording here) for the tropical sun.

We tried hiding under these umbrellas, but the sun was intense enough to penetrate their cover and turn us both bright red.

We tried to be cautious, slathering on sunscreen and spending most of our time under a rented beach umbrella. Even so, after an hour or two of reading in our shady retreat, we looked like a pair of lobsters plucked from a boiling pot and served up. Our unfortunate circumstance was, surprise, due to a critical geographic phenomenon- differing sun angles. In high latitudes, as we get closer to the poles, the sun's rays hit the earth at an angle. This reduces the intensity of the radiation we recieve. It's an easy phenomenon to see yourself- take a flashlight and shine it directly on the ground. Now tilt the flashlight so its beam is hitting the ground at a 30 degree angle. You'll see that it covers more space, but that the illumination is less intense.

Sun angles at the Earth's surface: direct sunlight is more intense, while sun at an angle is spread out and diffused.

Our planet is alligned with the sun so that the sun hits directly in an area between the Equator and the tropics, depending on the time of year. Simply put, the tropics are the lines of latitude at 23.5 degrees north (the Tropic of Cancer) and 23.5 degress south (the Tropic of Capricorn). They're important to us because they are the lines at which the sun is directly overhead on the respective solstices. During the summer solstice in the northern hemisphere, the sun is directly over the Tropic of Cancer. On the winter solstice in the northern hemisphere, the sun is directly over the Tropic of Capricorn. At no time during the yearly cycle will the sun ever be directly overhead at a point north of the Tropic of Cancer or south of the Tropic of Capricorn.

Summer solstice in the Northern Hemisphere, when the sun is directly overhead at the Tropic of Cancer.

Most of you are probably more familiar with the Arctic Circle or its cousin in the Antarctic. These boundaries are also directly related to sun angles at the solstices. In the northern hemisphere, we experience winter when the sun is alligned with the Tropic of Capricorn, and its rays reach us at a low angle. On our winter solstice, the Arctic Circle marks the area above which the sun will not reach. On our summer solstice, when the sun is directly over the Tropic of Cancer, the Arctic Circle marks the area that will recieve 24 hours of sunlight. At the fall and spring equinoxes, the sun's rays are direct at the equator, and everywhere in the world experiences 12 hours of sunlight and 12 hours of night. Whew. We know that's probably a lot to absorb, but these concepts have serious implications, determing the climatic zones of our planet.

Finally, at the Spring and Fall Equinoxes, the sun is directly overhead at the Equator and all points of the globe recieve 12 hours of sunlight. The intensity of the light however, still varies between latitudes.

What all this meant for us- sitting on a glaringly white beach at 16 degrees north latitude at noon only a few days from our summer solstice- was a very nasty sunburn. Despite our Physical Geography and Weather and Climate classes, we were unprepared for just how much difference the angle of the sun could make. We also failed to consider the effects of doxycycline, the anti-malarial medicine we were taking. As an antibiotic, it increases the skin's sensitivity to the sun. Unfortunately, malaria is a scourge that's hard to avoid when traveling in tropical or subtropical regions. Malaria is a virus that's transmitted by mosquitos, an insect that's as common in Southeast Asia as it is in summertime Alaska. We've really struggled to adequately weigh the costs and benefits of taking the meds as we've progressed through this leg of our journey. It's hard to avoid the sun, and we (sun-starved Alaskans) have no intention of dressing like Bedouins in an Arabian desert. But we also have no interest in coming home next week with a life threatening illness. Thankfully, malaria is far less common in urban areas, where we've had to spend most of our time. Although Vietnam's tourism industry has progressively become more open and hospitable, the more rural areas of the country remain difficult to access and in some instances, entirely off-limits. Thus, we've stopped taking the meds. When our journey takes us into Cambodia next week, we'll have to reevaluate the risk and make a decision as to whether or not we want to start taking them again.

Take the meds, hide from the sun, and dress like camel-herding Bedouins, or give up on the meds and hope for the best? Tough call.

At China Beach, we found another way to beat the sun: Night swimming! Of course, this wasn't entirely without risk. We had more than a few close encounters with beach-ball sized jellyfish that remained invisible in the blackened waters until it was almost too late. While keeping our eyes peeled for their translucent, pulsating forms, we had plenty of time to count the lights of massive container ships and tankers waiting offshore for their chance to access Danang's port. Danang, the fourth-largest city in Vietnam, is critically important for its harbor and central location. This was also the case during the war era, when Danang was a major point of entry for U.S. military equipment and men. It was also quite handy for the same reason we found it useful- the crescent shaped beach that stretches south for nearly 25 kilometers. China Beach was frequently used as in-country R&R, providing weary soldiers with a few relaxing moments of sun, sand, and surf before hitching a Huey back to the front.

Blindingly white sand and direct sunlight at China Beach did us in, but was a welcome reprieve for weary soldiers during the war.

We had to settle for a taxi (no Hueys available, unfortunately) as our method of transport out of town, but still found the half-hour journey interesting in its own right. Just outside of town (really right up the street from the guesthouse we stayed in) jut the Marble Mountains- a geographical feature whose name is as straightforward as any we've come across. The small community that sits at the base of these peaks has long utilized the quarry to make a living- carving elaborate marble statues. It's an incredibly clear-cut example of geography in action- the relationship between people and place is direct and easily observable. It's also a fine example of another of today's most important geographic concepts- globalization. The rock carvers who've historically used the Marble Mountains as their source of medium have been at it for so long that they're running out of material. Recently, local craftsmen recognized that the mountains would soon disappear. So, they came up with a creative solution: Import the marble from China. Today there are still plenty of marble artists at the base of the Marble Mountains, and the mountains themselves can retain their landmark status, albeit at the expense of a similar formation somewhere in China.

Close-up of the Danang, Hoi An region.

A few more miles down the coast road, we swung inland across a small river and into the bustling clothing mecca of Hoi An. The narrow streets, retaining much of their historical architecture, are a literal maze of tailor shops and restaurants. Women wander these streets in a collective state of rapture, popping in and out of establishments being fitted for custom-made clothing. Some men are equally entranced, raving about the full suit or coat they just had made, while others do their best to hide in one of the countless cafes and restaurants catering to western tastes.

Clothes, clothes, clothes! Hoi An is known among backpackers as the best place in Southeast Asia for custom-made clothing, and flocks of giddy shoppers pack the streets. We did not indulge.

A gaggle of moto drivers wait to take weary shoppers out of town for some beach time.

We'd come to Hoi An enticed by descriptions of its well-preserved history: small warehouses, temples, storefronts, and bridges built first by Chinese traders and added to by succeeding waves of international merchants. Hoi An is built along a river shaped like a bow, with two routes to the ocean. In the 18th and 19th centuries it was used by the Dutch, Portugese, Chinese, and Japanese, among others. There are over 800 buildings of historical interest here, making Hoi An a UNESCO World Heritage Site. These same buildings that once played host to international merchants now shelter deals between local shopkeepers and customers from Australia, England, Germany, and Sweden, etc.

Hoi An was built by merchants- two hundred years ago, these boats would have ferried traders from the Netherlands, Portugal, China, or Japan.

In Hoi An's waterfront market, salespeople target locals and tourists alike.

Hoi An was charming, but often resembled a themed shopping mall. From what we had heard from our fellow travelers, our next stop wasn't going to be much better. Nha Trang, another port city and a former base for U.S. operations during the war, has now developed a reputation as a top notch party city. By this point in the trip, we've heard enough bad karaoke to make us cringe at even the thought of singing in the shower (a former favorite pastime). A party town was not what we wanted. But Nha Trang was the only logical place to break up the trip between Hoi An and Saigon (a.k.a. Ho Chi Minh City). So, we jumped on another overnight bus and spent the next 10 uncomfortable hours having nightmares of an endless William Hung performance (remember the tone-deaf little American Idol hopeful? Yeah, we're embarrassed that we remember)at a cheesy nightclub. Thankfully, we found a pretty good way to escape the party scene and the tourist circuit, and thanks to Miquel and the crew at Rainbow Divers, have had a whole new world of geography opened up to us. We'll tell you about that soon.

Hope you're all having more luck avoiding the ills of the summer sun and heat than us!

Ben and Faye

Our China Beach Photo Gallery

Our Hoi An Photo Gallery

Profiles of Vietnam- Hue's Hue: June 14, 2007

2007-06-22T06:07:00.000-08:00

Hue's Citadel

Even before we crossed the border into Vietnam, we were hearing the rumors. “Vietnamese people are cold and unfriendly.” “You’ll get so frustrated by people asking you to buy things and asking for money.” “China is a warm welcome after a month in Vietnam.” “We got lied to so much by Vietnamese people- you can’t trust any of them.” We even have had one guy loudly proclaim, in front of three English speaking Vietnamese, that he thought “all Vietnamese people are (expletive deleted) holes!” There are quite a few reasons why we think our experiences in Vietnam have been so different than the ones we’ve heard about from these other travelers. A lot of it has to do with an inherent lack of friendliness on the part of these fellow trekkers. They see the Vietnamese as nothing more than service-providers, not human beings with lives, ambitions and perfectly legit motivations for their actions and attitudes. Thankfully, it takes little more than a smile and some friendly words to break the ice and peer into the world of a Vietnamese citizen. Recently, we’ve had the opportunity to have extended conversations with two incredibly fascinating men who’ve embraced us with warmth and openness and regaled us with stories from their lives in pre-war, war, and post-war Vietnam.

We left off our last post in Hue, a central city with a rich imperial history, and the site of some of the most vicious fighting of the war. Our fifth day in town, sufficiently recovered from the heat exhaustion, we set off to explore its famous citadel. Before we knew it we’d been swept up into the waiting cyclo of a man named- fittingly enough- Hue. He wore us down with persistent urgings to just take an hour’s tour, showing us a small notebook with the comments of past customers, telling us that he had been born and raised here and knew the city inside and out. Finally, he told us the price. For an hour of carting us around the city by pedal power alone, in the mid-day heat, he charged the equivalent of three dollars. We agreed.

The citadel is an ancient town within a town, encircled by a bullet-scarred wall with a 10 kilometer perimeter. In the first hour, Mr. Hue took us through its narrow alleys and the shadowed shores of its small lakes. We passed a school, and he told us about his two children, both in high school, and the costs of education in Vietnam (where school is not free). He was overjoyed to speak of his family. “I am very, very lucky with my family now,” he declared. “Before, not so much.” Hue was born in 1966, two years before the battle for Hue city during the 1968 Tet Offensive. His father, along with 3000 others, died fighting for the South Vietnamese forces. His mother raised him alone, but died of a heart failure when he was still a teenager. His attitude about his father was philosophical: “If he hadn’t died fighting, I might not be in Vietnam today. I might be in America.” After American troops withdrew from Vietnam, as South Vietnam fell, hundreds of thousands of South Vietnamese fled the country, fearing possible retribution and a communist future. Unlike many, Hue was glad of his fate. Despite the costs of education and the desperately hard work, he loves his city and is happy to be there.

Peddling the stiff rickshaw in the hot, midday sun, Hue took us further into the heart of the mighty citadel. Incredibly old, dilapidated houses contrasted sharply with the grand, imperial structures of Vietnam’s bygone era while the typical array of panting dogs, frantic chickens, and meandering water buffalo met us at every corner. Hue stopped the rickshaw along a silent lake densely covered by lotus flowers, pointing out the bright pink bulbs with a wide grin. “Everyone in Vietnam comes to Hue to buy lotus tea,” he explained. “It’s the only place in Vietnam where you can get it, and Vietnamese people give it out as gifts to their closest friends and relatives.” We were intrigued. We’d seen lotus flowers throughout Vietnam, and couldn’t figure out why Hue held such an esteemed status. Hue was more enthusiastic than intrigued, clearly proud of his home city’s geographical uniqueness.

Back on the rickshaw, Hue pointed out another of Hue’s (the city) famous floral arrangements. Throughout the city, beautiful bouquets of red flowers hang from trees along the streets. “They are called ‘vacation’ flowers,” he said to us as we commented on their elegance. “They only bloom in June, July, and August- the months when students are on vacation.” This brought the conversation back to a favored topic of discussion- Hue’s family. In Vietnam, parents must pay for their children’s schooling. There is no such thing as free public education. This can be quite a problem in a nation where so many are so impoverished. Hue, having been orphaned at an early age, hadn’t had the opportunity to complete his schooling and attain a well paying job. His status as the son of a former South Vietnamese soldier probably didn’t help him out much in a country where formal reconciliation has been incredibly slow in coming. Thus, Hue had to perform one of the most physically demanding, low paying, and unpredictable jobs available- cyclo driver.

Like most in Vietnam, cyclo drivers start their day incredibly early, usually before 7 a.m. Also like most in Vietnam, their days don’t end until well after 9 or 10 p.m. The plight of the cyclo driver is exacerbated by the style of employment, however. Hue was little more than 140 pounds, and we were asking him to peddle us (combined well over 320 pounds) on a gearless, rickety old contraption during the hottest hours of the day. We learned from Hue that these sacrifices seem rather small when compared to the rewards of providing his children with an education. “Before, I used to peddle sacks of rice back and forth- usually 600 kilos a load, all across town. I used to make four or five trips a day so that my family could have money.” Hearing things like this makes you understand why Vietnamese vendors and drivers approach you with such desperation at times. Imagine if your life and the lives of your children depended on the revenues you made from tourists. Mind you, not lives in the sense of “Can I afford a new ipod for my kid or those new rims for his truck?” but lives in the sense of “Will I be able to afford to send my daughter to fourth grade next year or even be able to give her a bowl of rice for breakfast tomorrow?”

Hue dropped us off at the old imperial city, a walled compound inside the citadel. We agreed to meet him after taking a look, and strolled through its ornate, brightly painted gates. Inside, the sprawling grounds rivaled the Forbidden City of Beijing. Renovated temples and terraces were flanked by smaller compounds devoted to mandarins- the suite of advisors every emperor required. Most of the buildings were built during the early 1800s, under the Nguyen dynasty. After a bit of wandering, we climbed to the top of the main gate, admired the views, and waved to Hue and his friends who were waiting in the shade of some nearby “vacation trees.”

Instead of the initial hour we’d planned on, we spent three doubled up on the bright velour cyclo seat. Hue took us to several more pagodas, including a district where nearly every other building was a Chinese temple. We were most interested in the backstreets he took us down, where old women sitting outside cleaning fish or plucking chickens would grin toothlessly at us, and small children would stare and then shout “hello!” to our backs. Later, back in our hotel, we got online and did some further research on the city’s wartime history. We stumbled across a few sites with photo galleries taken by U.S. Marines and reporters as they retook the city in 1968. Aside from the tanks and helmeted soldiers crawling through the back alleys, the scenes in the photos looked exactly the same as the ones we observed that day. It was eerie to see them and think that we had just ridden up the same streets where the fighting took place. How many of the people who smiled and waved at us that day had been impacted by the war? How many had lost children, husbands, wives, parents or friends?

A few days later we climbed off a morning bus to Dong Ha near the DMZ and into the tiny office of two South Vietnamese veterans who helped answer these questions firsthand.

Finally on the Hue South- Hue, Vietnam: June 8-15, 2007

2007-06-18T21:11:00.000-08:00

Hue, Vietnam

Hue- the city that “had to be destroyed to be saved.” During the 1968 Tet offensive, Hue (pronounced Hway), Vietnam’s ancient capital, fell to the Viet Cong. The city was a victim of its own geography. Only about a hundred kilometers south of the DMZ, it was the largest and most important southern city within easy striking distance of the north (although almost all of the south was in easy striking distance, thanks to the well entrenched networks of tunnels and trails leading south- and the ever growing supply of VC guerrillas willing to fight). It also had the distinct misfortune of being nearby to the besieged base at Khe Sanh, where most U.S. firepower in the region was being concentrated at the time. Thus, the communist armies faced little resistance when they walked into Hue’s Citadel- the fortress like compound that dominates the city’s center- and hoisted the VC flag. It took U.S. Marines 26 days of hellish, house to house fighting to retake the city. 142 of their own men were lost in the process. In the interim, the communists succeeded in butchering, in the most gruesome of manners, over 3000 civilians they found to be “uncooperative.” The battle for Hue (immortalized best in Michael Herr’s “Dispatches” and the Stanley Kubrick classic “Full Metal Jacket”) was one of the major turning points in the war. A tactical victory turned strategic nightmare, Hue (along with the entire Tet Offensive) showed the American public that, contrary to what the politicians and generals were saying, the war was not at all close to ending.

Inside Hue's infamous citadel, where some of the worst fighting of the 1968 battle took place.

Our journey to Hue seemed to us to be only slightly less hellish than the one made by the 7th and 5th Marine Regiments some 39 years ago (of course, we know this to be a gross overstatement now- it didn’t seem like it at the time!). Our bodies were suffering from heat exhaustion, a product of our activity in Ninh Binh’s blistering sun. Feverish, nauseous, aching, cramped, and- as the name implies- thoroughly exhausted, we boarded the packed overnight bus. Unlike the sleeper busses we’d ridden in China, this was a shabbier, more crowded, and far less comfortable version of a Greyhound. It also lacked shocks. Eleven hours later, at 8:30 in the morning, we rolled into Hue and were shepherded into one of the many budget hotels on the south bank of the Perfume River.

We arrived in the city with miserable headaches and wicked fevers, but still couldn't help appreciating the beautiful sights in Hue, such as the ubiqitous lotus flowers.

It took us two days of rest and rehydration (and plenty of writing) before we were ready to venture back out into the heat. On our third day in Hue we hopped on the expertly piloted motorbikes of Minh and his brother Than and sped away from the Café on Thu Wheels (named for their sister, who runs the place). A quick trip along the north bank of the river had us at the Thien Mu Pagoda just ahead of the crowds. Minh whisked us along, speed-walking to the baby-blue remains of an old Austin automobile. Thich Quang Duc, an aging monk from this pagoda, drove himself to Saigon in 1963, put the hood of the Austin up to take gas from its engine, and burnt himself to death in the street to protest the anti-Buddhist policies of South Vietnamese President Diem. The famous photo is displayed on the dashboard of the car, a color-enhanced enlargement hanging overhead. To the left is a smaller photo of a human heart. Minh explained to us that Thich Quang Duc’s entire body had been burnt near to ashes, yet his heart remained untouched. For the first time that day, he used his catch phrase: “You never go, you never know.” And then led us promptly off again.

The famous photo of Thich Quang Duc's self immolation. The fiery event was staged as a protest against South Vietnamese President Diem's (a devout Catholic) anti Buddhist policies.

We cruised across a train bridge (much to Faye’s chagrin) over the Perfume River and headed up to a hill-top vista where we could look down upon the gently flowing waterway. A sprawling graveyard greeted us as we ascended, the jutting headstones looking like the second stage of succession in a stone forest. Our drivers explained how the headstones of the rich are much larger and more ornate than those of the poor. Makes sense, we thought. We wondered how many of those graves contained occupants whose fates had been met during the war. Reaching the pinnacle of the hill, we pulled into an overlook and spent a few peaceful moments gazing at the Perfume River (Song Huong). Minh told us that most of the time the river is flanked by fragrant flowers that give off a perfume-like smell, thus the river’s name. Unfortunately, a typhoon last year wiped out most of these, and Minh didn’t expect them to grow back until sometime next year. “I call, you come back, I show you,” he said with typical bravado.

The Perfume river from Bunker Hill. The river gets its name from the fragrant flowers that usually line its banks. We weren't lucky enough to enjoy that aspect of the spectacle, however, as a typhoon last year wiped out most of the flowers.

The sight of the river below almost made us miss the three concrete bunkers that surrounded us. Built by the French during their failed escapade in Vietnam, the bunkers were squat little structures used to house artillery, machine-guns, and anti-aircraft weapons. It’s interesting to note how, even after the abysmal failure of the Maginot Line in WWII, the French still insisted upon using immobile, concrete defenses against the Viet Minh. The French seem to enjoy repeating their history as much as we do!

One of three concrete relics from the French era in Indochina on display at the hill Minh brought us to. Similar military dinosaurs lurk all over the countryside.

Cruising back down the hill, we began to smell sweetness on the breeze. A few minutes later we were flying past rows of brightly colored incense sticks, being sold along with conical hats by the roadside. The small village we were speeding through produces these crucial commodities- in a devout, hardworking country where almost every home has an altar and many people labor in the hot sun, offerings and shade are in high demand. Before we had time to register much more than the sticks of red, yellow, green, and purple incense and the pale, limpet-shaped hats, we were at the gates of Emperor Tu Duc’s tomb.

The hills around Hue are scattered with imperial tombs, the legacies of the Nguyen dynasty. Emperor Tu Duc, the longest reigning of the bunch, was in power from 1848-83. During his life of utmost luxury he lived among 104 wives and a plethora of concubines, many of whom are buried in his tomb as well. We spent an hour wandering along the pine-shadowed pathways of the park-like enclosure, glancing at relics from the emperor’s life.

One of the many gates to Emperor Tu Duc's tomb.

After a brief soda break, we were whisked away to a nearby pagoda where Minh lead us to front row seats to view the late-morning breakfast ceremony. A procession of yellow and orange clad monks marched stoically into the pagoda, grabbed their bowls, held them high over their heads, and chanted for several minutes. In the far doorway, relatives of the monks performed prostrations while throngs of other tourists gathered around the adjacent windows to witness the spectacle inside. Unlike their Southeast Asian neighbors, Vietnamese Buddhists are predominantly of the Mahayana sect. Mahayana is more typically associated with the more northerly Buddhist communities like China, Tibet, and Mongolia, while Southeast Asian Buddhists are more often practitioners of the less elaborate and more traditional Theraveda sects.

Buddhist monks walk from their living quarters to the room where they ate their ceremonial daily meal.

The monks of the pagoda sit down for their meal- a process which involves an incredibly long but equally mesmerizing series of prayers, chants, and ceremonies.

To the naked eye, Vietnamese Buddhists appear to have almost nothing in common with their northern neighbors. The color and ceremony is noticeably absent, and the animistic influences of the Tibetan Bon religion have obviously been left behind in the snows of the north. But Vietnamese Buddhists retain the central belief of the Mahayana sect- that enlightenment can be attained in this lifetime. Practitioners of Theraveda Buddhism hold true to the traditional belief that enlightenment can only be attained over the course of several lifetimes. Vietnam’s long (although often incredibly antagonistic) relationship with China is the main cause of this regional deviation. Many of the pagodas and temples in Vietnam are of Chinese origin, some of them still possessing their original Chinese characters (Vietnam now uses a Latin alphabet). A few parts of Hue contain so many of these Chinese relics that it looks as if you’ve stumbled into one of Beijing’s hutong districts.

Mothers of the monks prostrate at the entrance to the breakfast hall.

One of Hue's many Chinese style pagodas (in Vietnam, a pagoda is simply a place of worship). Chinese influence is noticeable throughout Vietnam, and the form of Buddhism practiced here is more similar to that practiced in China, Tibet, and Mongolia than the version common in the rest of Southeast Asia.

After a few more quick stops to visit a handful of less noteworthy attractions, Minh and his brother aimed us back towards the café. Coming back into Hue, we passed by several more fields devoted to rice and sweet potatoes. Back at the hotel, we cleaned up, had lunch, and took off towards the river for an evening drink and a seafood dinner at one of Hue’s floating restaurants. Women in traditional ao dai’s (a form of dress consisting of loose fitting silk garments) rowed small wooden dinghies from one side of the river to the other, and large “dragon-boats” shuttled tourists to other Hue hotspots. To the east, a towering thunderhead developed, its anvil shaped top drifting horizontally in the winds of the upper troposphere. Thunderstorms are incredibly common between the tropics, where the perpetual near-direct sunlight facilitates the development of large convective cells. By the time we returned to our hotel (after a stop to purchase a new camera for Ben, his trusty old Olympus being another casualty of the second motorbike incident on Cat Ba) the storm was directly upon us, and the violent forks of lightning branched out overhead at a somewhat alarming frequency.

A towering cumulus cloud develops to the east of Hue. The air inside the cloud is warmer than the air outside the cloud because the condensation process releases energy, so the cloud grows to towering heights before...

...vertical development stops and the winds of the upper troposphere catch hold of the clouds peak. When that happens, the cumulonimbus cloud develops the prototypical anvil shape we are familiar with. Soon, the cloud would drift over the city, bringing with it...

...Lightning! And lots of it. Storms in these parts of the world are nothing at all like the wimpy ones we see in Alaska. With so much energy available due to the abundance of condensing water vapor (a process that gives off heat and energy), storms grow to immense sizes and give viewers an incredible light show in the perpetually hot tropics.

Another day of writing was followed by dinner at a nearby Indian restaurant. We were seated next to a table full of other westerners- not an uncommon occurance in a country that has recently found itself firmly entrenched upon the tourist circuit. What was odd was the conversation this group of four atypically clean-shaven men and one woman were having. "So tomorrow, we'll get up early, load up the choppers, and head out towards the LZ. We need to make sure we've got a good headstart on clearing that other LZ, because the USO show will be here early next week." Had we entered a time warp? Was it 1968 all over again? A few more minutes of eavesdropping clued us in to the real situation. These men and women were part of a MIA recovery team, searching for American soldiers still missing after the war. The MIA/POW issue has been one of the most difficult to resolve and one that has placed roadblock after roadblock in front of normalized US-Vietnamese relations. Several MIA/POW advocate groups in the U.S. have maintained claims that the Vietnamese government is diliberately withholding information on the whereabouts of missing U.S. servicemen. Some have even claimed that living POWs are being held at clandestine locations throughout the country. Invariably, these claims have proven to be false- the Vietnamese government has been open and forthright on an unprecedented scale, and investigative teams have found no evidence suggesting that U.S. servicemen are still held against their will in country. Geography poses another challenge to the legitimacy of these costly exercises. Tropical rainforests aren't conducive to long term body preservation. Organic material decomposes at an incredible rate in the perpetually hot and moist tropics. It's one of the reasons we discussed earlier for why tropical soils are usually so poor, and it's the reason why prolonged recovery efforts are, sadly, a poor use of taxpayer dollars. That's not to say that the effort isn't incredibly noble, and we certainly understand family members' desires to have loved ones buried and honored in a proper fashion. But, at what point are we forced to acknowledge the futility of the exercise and move on?

After a few more days of hiding out in the room and writing, we went out to see Hue’s famous Citadel, where some of the heaviest fighting of the 1968 battle took place. On our walk to the gargantuan, moated fortress, we ran into an enthusiastic cyclo driver who wouldn’t take no for an answer. We hopped on to his three-wheeled contraption and settled in for a three hour tour of the city- a tour that would prove to be interesting more for the stories our driver told than the sites we saw. We’ll tell his story of south Vietnam’s post-war era in an upcoming post, along with another version from the mouth of a former Army of the Republic of South Vietnam (ARVN) interpreter. Both of them turned out to be incredible individuals with even more incredible stories. We think you'll enjoy. Until then,
Tam Biet!

A Hue sunset- always a stunning sight.

Faye and Ben

Our Hue Photos, Part 1

Our Hue Photos, Part 2

Our Hue Photos, Part 3

Video From An Evening Thunderstorm in Hue

Video: Monk Ceremony Part 1

Video: Monk Ceremony Part 2

Answer Time and A Little Discussion on Global Climate Change... aka On Thin Ice: Hoi An, Vietnam- June 19, 2007.

2007-06-18T20:05:00.000-08:00

The Places Affected by Global Climate Change: Everywhere

Xin chao! We’ve just passed the one month mark in Vietnam and have begun exploring the lands that once constituted South Vietnam. Already, we’ve had the opportunity to visit the DMZ and Hue City, two of the most important sites in Vietnam’s recent history. But before we tell you all about that, we thought we’d take a moment to answer a few questions and talk about something that’s been in the news quite a bit recently- global climate change. Starting it all off, we want to wish a belated Happy Father's Day to our dads, without whose support we'd still be sitting at home dreaming about this trip.

Cheesy, we know, but Vietnam doesn't have Hallmark cards. We thought this Shanghai storefront said it all.

The first question came from Cindy and regarded bird flu in Vietnam. As most of you are probably already aware, bird flu (H5N1 virus) is a considerable problem in China, SE Asia, and Asia in general. In fact, our travels seem to have us following outbreaks of the dreaded virus. Just prior to arriving in Moscow, an outbreak was reported in one of its rural suburbs. China, of course, has had several bouts with avian flu over the last few years. On our first night in Vietnam, we treated ourselves to dinner at Sapa’s Baguette et Chocolatte, a restaurant favored by western tourists. There, we got our first chance to read one of Vietnam’s English language newspapers. The headline story was about an outbreak of bird flu in one of Vietnam’s southern provinces. In hindsight, this isn’t at all surprising. Since arriving in Vietnam, we’ve spent more than our fair share of time mingling with poultry. Chickens roam the streets freely and often pop in to sidewalk cafes to visit during lunch. Domesticated ducks waddle along the road and paddle around in flooded rice paddies. In the countryside, poultry is everywhere, and all of it appears to be almost 100% unregulated. The most recent outbreaks have occurred in larger farms dedicated to commercial endeavors. Thankfully, these seem to be more regulated, and the outbreaks have been detected, contained, and announced without delay. To us, this is fairly noteworthy. After two months in China, where all information deemed unfavorable to the state’s image is censored, hidden, or at the very least delayed in being reported, the candor of Vietnam’s government and media regarding health crisis such as this is refreshing and unexpected. Of course, all of this is probably of little comfort to the rural farmers whose birds go relatively unscreened. As for us, the bird flu marathon looks to continue. An outbreak was reported in one of Kuala Lumpur’s suburbs a few weeks ago at just about the time we started plotting a visit to Malaysia. Hopefully this trend doesn’t continue. We have to come home sometime, and we’d like to leave the virus behind.

P.S. on the bird flu question- We posted this at about 11 a.m. today, and then went for a walk around town. At about 8:30 p.m., we settled down to have dinner at a secluded little cafe off of one of Hoi An's main drags. Being somewhat sick of seafood, Ben started salivating when he saw sauteed sweet and sour chicken on the menu. When he ordered, the waitress shook her head and said "sorry, no chicken now." One of the restaurant's managers instantly appeared and explained the situation. "Haven't you heard? There's been chicken flu in this province. There are no chickens anywhere. It's really bad!" What timing! Clearly, bird flu is going to continue to pose a substantial challenge to the Vietnamese for some time to come. We had pizza instead.

A close encounter with a couple of chickens near Bac Ha, Vietnam. Throughout rural Vietnam, domesticated chickens and ducks roam freely in people's modest dwellings, in the rice paddies, and along the roads.

Another question came from Joe. He wondered about the impacts of storms on the floating villages of Halong Bay. While tropical storms do hit the region throughout the summer, the villages are fairly protected by the tower karst forest surrounding them. Waves are a combination of several factors, the most important in this case being fetch. Fetch is simply the distance waves have had to travel- growing as they do so. More specifically, fetch is the distance of water that the wind (which is the principle cause of surface waves) has blown over. This is why small lakes don't generate large waves- there simply isn't enough open water for the wind to travel over. The walls of limestone jutting out of Halong Bay’s waters serve to interrupt this fetch, keeping waves to a less threatening size. Also, the strong winds associated with storms in this area are coming from the east. The villages are on the leeward side of Cat Ba Island, sheltered from the worst of the winds by its bulk. We are more concerned with the fate of the low coastal villages on the southern coast of Cat Ba. They seem to be virtually unprotected from winds and waves, putting their homes, boats, and rice fields in jeopardy. There is no tower karst to break the waves, and no hills to redirect the wind. Considering how vulnerable these coastal villages are to storms, we wondered about their fate given the current trends of global climate change- something we’d like to discuss here.

Halong Bay's floating village is protected from storms by Cat Ba and the other islands in the archipelago.

GLOBAL CLIMATE CHANGE
During our recent bouts with illness, injury, and heat exhaustion, we’ve had to spend more time than we’d like within the air conditioned confines of our hotel rooms. If this had happened in China, we would have lost our minds. It hasn’t been all that much fun in Vietnam either, but the experience has been made more tolerable by one thing- uncensored satellite television. Most Vietnamese T.V. is brought in via Thailand, meaning we’ve had access to our beloved BBC News. So, we’ve gotten to catch up on current events. Our downtime corresponded directly with the most recent G-8 summit, the annual meeting between the leaders of the world’s top eight economic powers (U.S.A, Germany, U.K., France, Canada, Italy, Russia, and Japan). Germany hosted this most recent summit, and German Chancellor Angela Merkel made global climate change the primary focus. Her goal, along with most of the other participating nations, was to establish concrete targets on reducing CO2 emissions by the middle of this century. Standing in the way, as usual, was the United States.

A few months ago, we referenced an article that claimed 13% of U.S. citizens hadn’t even heard of global climate change. This disturbed us. As frightening as that was, it didn’t bother us nearly as much as this recent episode of mind-blowing stupidity at the G-8 (we know that an agreement was reached, but from what we understand, it was far less substantial than the one originally proposed by the European nations). The scientific evidence suggesting a manmade component to this unprecedented era of climate change is irrefutable. All that’s lacking at this stage is a written confession from the atmosphere and your car’s exhaust pipe. Still, there are those in high places who choose to ignore this evidence in order to pursue their own or their nation’s agendas. Most of these people have ties to the oil industry: the industry that has the most to lose from a turn away from fossil fuels (can any of you name someone in a position of power who has ties to the oil industry?). The main arguments against capping greenhouse gas emissions (more on those in a moment) stem from the desire to maintain economic growth. On the surface, this seems to be a more benevolent and justifiable reason for questioning the need to take such measures- that is in comparison to the desire for personal gain. But it doesn’t take a genius to find the flaws in this argument. Over the short term, caps on industrial emissions will have a detrimental impact on the economies of developed nations. Over the long haul, a failure to act now will be absolutely devastating. The flooding of financial centers like New York and Shanghai can’t be good for the global economy. The displacement of hundreds of millions, if not billions, of people from coastal population centers will be environmentally, economically, and politically nightmarish. Huge portions of the world will go without water, while others will be inundated with so much that floating villages like the ones we saw in Halong Bay will become highly profitable real estate. And if something isn’t done soon, it will all happen. Climate change (more often referred to as global warming, an unfortunate and inaccurate misnomer) is not some grandiose communist plot dreamed up by liberal academics and designed to squash good ol’ American industry. It’s real, it’s here, and it’s happening right now as we write this post. But what is it?

A floating home in Halong Bay- the Hollywood Hills of future real estate?

Climate change is a fairly simple concept, with a hugely complex set of causes. Throughout long-term global history, the Earth has undergone a series of climatic changes- things like ice ages and inter-glacial periods. The average global temperature has been both several degrees warmer and several degrees colder than it is today. There are multiple reasons why historical climate change has happened. At times, the sun itself gives off less energy. Periods of exceptionally high volcanism can also have an impact. For instance, the eruption of Krakatoa in 1883 made global temperatures fall for several years. There is a litany of other natural causes affecting historical global climate fluctuations. Save for a few traumatic episodes following meteor collisions and the like, these fluctuations have been incredibly gradual, only measurable over the course of geologic time. What is terrifying is when, like now, it occurs at such a dramatic rate. Species, including humans, have almost no time to adapt to their new environment, and large-scale extinctions occur. Doesn’t sound too pleasant, does it? There are a few reasons why climate change is happening so rapidly today, but the one we have most control over is the influx of greenhouse gasses into our atmosphere.

One of the industrial dinosaurs still belching out greenhouse gasses in central Russia.

At normal levels, greenhouse gasses serve the critical role of insulating our planet, trapping long-wave, infrared radiation at the surface. This keeps us from losing too much heat into the atmosphere and becoming a frozen wasteland. When we burn fossil fuels, however, we are adding drastically to the level of greenhouse gasses (carbon dioxide, methane, and water vapor, among others). This increased insulation traps too much radiation, and our planet warms. In addition to higher temperatures on land, glaciers and polar ice caps begin to melt- reducing the reflectivity (or albedo) of the Earth and absorbing more radiation from the sun (albedo could also help us out a bit- most projections show an increase in cloud cover as temperatures warm. Cloud tops are white and reflective, and will thus bounce more insolation back into space, thus acting as a negative feedback mechanism). The influx of cold, fresh water from the melting ice disrupts currents in the oceans, and can interfere with such crucial patterns as the Gulf Stream. One of the reasons the term “global warming” is considered inaccurate is that several parts of the globe could potentially become much colder. If the Gulf Stream stops, northwestern Europe would get substantially colder- even though they are currently experiencing one of the warmest summers on record.

How the system normally works: Short wave radiation from the sun warms the Earth's surface, and long wave radiation is emitted from the Earth and back into space. Greenhouse gases (CO2, water vapor, methane) in the atmosphere trap some of this outgoing radiation, thus keeping surface temperatures warm and pleasant. But when greenhouse gas levels rise as they have over the last several decades, less of the long wave radiation finds its way back into space- thus, Earth's temperature increases to unnatural levels. This causes a variety of other things to occur (melting glaciers, ocean current disruption, excessive cloud formation) that act as positive or negative feedback mechanisms.

But how can we be relatively sure that man is the primary cause of recent climate change? In our opinions, there are two crystal clear lines of evidence that prove it beyond a reasonable doubt. First, you can see a direct correlation between rising temperatures and the development of modern industry. As soon as man started utilizing carbon based fossil fuels, atmospheric CO2 levels and global temperatures started to rise. Of course, doubters point to a few deviations (caused by other variables) in the trend to try to prove that climate change is all a myth, but the long term chart shows an undeniably dramatic increase in temperatures and CO2 levels since the beginning of the industrial revolution. The second reason is even simpler. Anyone with an ounce of logic can figure it out. If greenhouse gases trap heat within the Earth’s atmosphere, and we are pumping incredible volumes of greenhouse gases into that atmosphere, then doesn’t it logically follow that we are at least part of the cause of the problem? A+B=C. It’s a simple equation. If we can all agree on A, and we all know B to be true, then how in the hell have we not reached a consensus on C? Baffling!

WHAT WE'VE SEEN SO FAR

But alas, the point of this whole exercise isn’t to editorialize. We are clearly quite passionate about the issue, so it’s difficult not to throw our two cents in. Maybe that’s because we’ve seen so much on this trip that has awakened us further to the perils that lie ahead. That’s what we really want to talk about now- specific examples of the causes and affects of climate change from the places we’ve visited. We’ll start with Russia, our partners in reluctance when it comes to addressing this frightening trend.

RUSSIA
One of the many inefficient power plants dotting the Russian landscape.

Russia is a nation built on oil. Moscow’s neon lights glitter in the cold night air because Gazprom, the state-owned gas giant, has control of the gas taps throughout Central Asia, Eastern Europe, and the Caucasus. Oil and gas are Russia’s chief geopolitical weapon, and any country within their sphere of energy dependence can expect to have the pipelines closed should they fall out of favor with Papa Putin. It’s little wonder then that Russia has been nearly as reluctant as the United States when it comes to institutionalizing CO2 emission caps. The nation’s economy and the posh livelihoods of Russia’s oligarchs depend on Gazprom’s revenues, and those in power are predictably unwilling to take the measures necessary to stave off environmental catastrophe. It’s easy for the Moscow elite to ignore the encroaching crisis from their high rise apartments and luxury SUV’s. It’s not so easy when you are living a subsistence lifestyle on an island in the middle of a Siberian lake.

St. Basil's Cathedral, a symbol of Moscow, illuminated at night. Russia's big cities (and elite citizens) have built themselves on oil money, while more fragile areas face the immediate consequences of climate change.

Olkhon Island is one of the many places already feeling the effects of climate change. The island’s residents depend upon fishing and farming to sustain their lives. Lake Baikal is the source of life, and if it becomes inaccessible, the residents of Kuzhir, Karantzi, and the island’s other settlements are in serious trouble. During the summer, the lake and the mainland are easily accessible via boat. People can fish and make it to nearby Irkutsk to stock up on other supplies with relative ease. During the winter, though, such endeavors are dependent upon the thickness of the lake’s ice. If the ice doesn’t reach a certain thickness, than the heavy trucks and vans favored by the locals cannot venture out to ice fish (a very important part of the local lifestyle) or to cross over to the mainland village of MRS and Irkutsk. This is precisely what happened this past year.

A pair of ice fishermen head out onto Lake Baikal. Residents of Olkhon Island depend on the thickness of ice for transportation during the winter.

The lake had iced over, but never attained the desirable thickness until later in the season. The lake was inaccessible via boat because of the ice (Russia is famous for its icebreakers, but not too many of them are cruising the frigid waters of Lake Baikal), but the ice was too thin to accommodate wheeled vehicles. By the time we arrived in late February, the ice was already showing signs of significant weakening. In fact, many of the routes onto and off of the lake had to be abandoned because of unseasonably thin ice. It’s been like that for the last few years, we were told by some of the locals. In the past, it had never been a problem. The lake had always frozen over early in the winter and had remained solid well into spring. Now, with increased temperatures, the ice is unpredictable and often inadequate, and people on the island are left stranded and without access to the lake or the rest of Russia.

Ice along the shore of Olkhon Island. This past year the lake froze up late in the winter and began to break up early in the spring, leaving residents stranded for weeks while the ice was too thin to cross safely.

MONGOLIA
Nomads in the Gobi Desert are barely surviving in their harsh climate, which stands to get far harsher if current trends continue.

From what we could see, Mongolia’s main problem is also water related. Mongolia’s pastoral nomads have proven themselves resilient in a water-scarce environment for thousands of years. Environmental hardship is nothing new to those who call a ger in the Gobi Desert home. They have found ways around water scarcity. They utilize drought adapted animals such as camels and they live lifestyles that inherently conserve water. Indoor plumbing, flush toilets, and personal showers are non-existent commodities even in the larger Gobi settlements such as Dalandzadgad. They’ve found a way to make it all work. But their lives teeter precariously upon a very fine line. They’ve carved out a livelihood (albeit a rough one) in an extremely sensitive and forbidding environment, but what happens if things change just a little bit? Can Mongolia’s nomads survive if levels of precipitation fall, even if the fall is incredibly minute? What happens if they can’t adapt to an altered environment? Do they all migrate to Ulaanbaatar in search of employment?

Even with drought-adapted animals like goats and camels, Gobi herders are living on the edge of survival in their harsh environment.

Children at a communal well in Dalandzadgad. Residents of the Gobi already limit their water usage to the bare minimum- what happens when there's even less available?

From what we saw of Ulaanbaatar, the city wouldn’t be able to accommodate much of a population boom. The homeless and unemployed already make up a startlingly significant proportion of the urban population, and the ger shanty towns on the outskirts of the city don’t have much room to grow- they already extend to the base of the surrounding mountains. And what would fill the economic vacuum should the predominant lifestyle shift from nomadic to urban? Mongolia could, in theory, become a miniaturized Asian Tiger (an Asian Gobi Bear?), utilizing a cheap labor force to crank out consumer goods and textiles. But Mongolia’s population is small, and the industrial and transportation infrastructures are severely lacking. If they do intend to build up their industrial base, they will most likely do so in the manner of most other third world nations- with little to no regard for environmental considerations. In essence, the problem could very well cause them to be a greater part of the problem.

Ulaanbaatar- there's no room for this capital city to grow, as it's already crowded to the edge of its valley and facing high unemployment rates. If rural people are forced to migrate to the city, how will they live?

CHINA
The streets of Shanghai- the largest city in the most populous country in the world. As China's population grows and its standard of living rises, its energy needs multiply.

It’s highly unlikely (nay, impossible) that Mongolia will ever be as much a part of the problem as China, however. New York Times editorialist Thomas Friedman once said of China (paraphrasing here) that he didn’t think we had much to worry about from a country that censors Google. For the most part, we think he’s right. We had the opportunity to visit and listen to the goings on in Chinese schools, and can attest to the fact that ingenuity and free-thinking are discouraged, while rote memorization and blind loyalty are encouraged. They might own a ghastly proportion of our national debt and be a budding economic powerhouse, but the overall standard of living and quality of life is abysmal. The country is politically and geographically fractious and only held together through brutal political repression. Militarily and politically, we simply have no reason to feel threatened by China. No, we don’t have much to worry about in those respects. But we should all be scared to death of what they are doing to the environment. China’s incredible economic growth has been fueled by coal. All along the Yangtze, ships are loaded up with the little balls of carbon and sent up and down river to smoke-belching power plants and factories. The perpetually grey, smoggy skies throughout the entire eastern half of the country (where most of the industrial growth has taken place) provide a visual testament to this phenomenon. The Chinese thirst for oil is also insatiable, and they’ve staked claims in places as close to home as Alberta. As more and more Chinese citizens pull themselves out of poverty and into the middle class, more and more cars start showing up on the roads. In Kunming, for instance, it often took us half an hour to travel three miles by taxi. The situation was similar in Xi’an, Beijing, Shanghai, and even Lhasa. The traffic jams are incredible, as are the amounts of greenhouse gases released by the automobiles involved in them.

A coal ship loads up near Maoping on the Yangtze River. Coal is one of China's primary sources of energy, and the reason why this picture, and almost all of our others from China, look as if they were taken in a steam room. The air in eastern China is nearly always smoggy, grey, and miserable.

Ironically, China stands to be one of the greatest victims of climate change. Again, water is one of the principal factors. Let’s start in Tibet, high on the Himalayan Plateau. On our failed excursion to Namtso Lake, we were told that we were going to be visiting a glacier. On the way back to Lhasa, we began wondering where this alleged glacier was hiding. We asked Denzig where it was. He pointed off towards a row of mountains nearby. We squinted, strained our eyes, craned our necks, and looked at each other completely perplexed. As Alaskans, we felt somewhat qualified to identify a glacier, but we didn’t see anything but hills with a light dusting of snow. Finally, we saw it nestled into a tiny cirque near the top of one of these mountains. That’s how it is throughout the Himalayas- the glaciers are disappearing with alarming rapidity. This is somewhat annoying to a gaggle of tourists with altitude sickness, but it’s a major crisis for a huge proportion of the world’s population.

The Tibetan Plateau's well runneth dry. The plateau is the source of much of Asia's fresh water, but diminishing glaciers and low snow years are causing rivers such as the Yangtze to run progressively lower. When we arrived in Tibet in early April, the mountains were nearly devoid of snow and glaciers were almost non-existent.

It's already rough going in most of Central Asia. It will only get worse as temperatures warm and precipitation levels fall.

Asia’s most important rivers have their headwaters in the mountain snows of the Himalayas. The Yangtze, China’s longest river and a major transportation network, a vast source of fresh water, and the home of the Three Gorges Dam, has its roots on the plateau. So does the Brahmaputra, a major source of fresh water for India and Bangladesh- two of the world’s most populous countries. Southeast Asia’s Mekong is also a product of the Tibetan Plateau. Himalayan glaciers provide the water that keeps these rivers flowing. Thus, if the glaciers go away, so do the rivers. That leaves the world’s two most populous countries (China, India) without two of their major sources of fresh water, a situation that could easily lead to a humanitarian disaster and regional conflict. Don’t believe us? Examine the Israeli/Palestinian conflict in the West Bank from a perspective divorced from religion and see what you come up with. The root of that conflict really lies in access rights to the water from the Jordan River. Now think of what could happen in a region where 2 billion thirsty people (whose governments have large militaries with nuclear weapons) are fighting for limited water resources. It’s already happening along the Indian-Pakistani border, where five major rivers flow from the Indian side into water-scarce Pakistan. As the Indians use more and more of the water, less reaches Pakistan- encouraging them to seek greater control of the borderlands (and hence the rivers) and spawning numerous violent clashes. On our cruise down the Yangtze, we noted with alarm that the river was several meters below the normal waterline. This could have something to do with the dam- but we think it’s most likely the result of glacial retreat in the Himalayas. If the river runs dry, what happens to the Three Gorges Dam? That’s clean energy the equivalent of 18 nuclear power-plants that’s no longer available. How does that energy get replaced? By the burning of more fossil fuels?

China's Yangtze River, whose headwaters lie in the mountains of the Tibetan Plateau. Note the low waterline- where the trees stop and the white, polished rock begins. We're not sure if this is a result of something going on at the dam, or a dry year in Tibet. Given what we saw earlier in Tibet, we're inclined to believe the latter.

China's Three Gorges Dam on the Yangtze River. The dam is projected to generate power equivelant to 18 nuclear power plants, but how will decreasing water levels on the Yangtze affect those projections?

Let’s shift our attention to China’s lucrative and heavily populated eastern seaboard. Our only stop over there was in Shanghai, “new” China’s showcase city and home to over 20 million people. We’ve all seen computer derived projections of sea level rise should the polar and Greenlandic ice caps melt (it’s happening right now). It’s pretty alarming stuff. New York City, San Francisco, New Orleans, southern Florida, all kinds of places right in the United States flooded and made uninhabitable. It will happen in China as well. Significant portions of the eastern seaboard could end up underwater, thus forcing hundreds of millions of people west. But where do they go? Tibet appears to be nearing its carrying capacity already, and Xinjiang and the Taklamakan Desert don’t seem to be environmentally friendly options either. This isn’t even taking into consideration the political difficulties of greater Han influxes into these already unstable provinces. We also shouldn’t forget that, should sea-levels rise as projected, many places in southern Asia like Bangladesh (what a geographical nightmare of a country) will also be flooded- thus sending a hundred-million-man pool of refugees north into the same places the displaced Chinese will be heading. It’s a nightmare waiting to happen, and it’s not going to wait much longer.

We've posted a few pretty pictures of Shanghai's Pudong New Area, but more often than not, this is what the skyline looks like- grey, miserable, and polluted. It won't look much better if it's underwater.

VIETNAM
The entrance to Cat Ba Town's fishing port. Vietnam's coastal fishermen stand to lose a great deal from climate change.

On the surface, Vietnam seems to be less a cause of climate change and at less risk than its Asian contemporaries. At least in the places we’ve been so far, industry is minimal and energy needs negligible. Personal cars are nearly non-existent, as most people use public transportation, motorbikes, or old fashioned bicycles to get around. Dig a little deeper, however, and you see that Vietnam is not immune from the pitfalls of climate change. Most of the coastal communities are dependent upon fishing. Many of the people are living near-subsistence lifestyles- eating the fish, shrimp, crabs, and octopi they catch and selling the excess to make a few spare dong (Vietnamese currency). Most of these mouthwatering aquatic specimens live near Vietnam’s coral reefs. Reefs are ecologically lucrative, but also incredibly sensitive. The world’s reefs have been one of the hardest hit commodities during the era of rapid warming. As the reefs die, the diverse marine ecosystems they support are also put at risk. That means that coast-dwelling Vietnamese are soon going to have to dramatically alter their lifestyles. If fishing becomes unprofitable, or doesn’t put food on the table in the kitchen of the floating shack, then tens of thousands of Vietnamese are going to face starvation and impoverishment.

Fishing boats on Cat Ba Island's southern coast. Fishing is an essential part of the Vietnamese lifestyle, and coastal communities will suffer as reef ecosystems diminish in the wake of a warming climate.

They won’t be the only ones threatened by starvation due to climate change in Vietnam. Vietnam is the world’s second largest exporter of rice. Since the doi moi reforms of the mid 1980’s, rice production has been put back in the hands of the farmers with obviously impressive results. Many of the rice paddies responsible for this surge in production are located along the low, coastal plains of the east coast. Recently, scientists have engineered a salt water resistant strain of rice, but we don’t think it’s gone into widespread use in Vietnam (or anywhere else for that matter). We think they’d better hurry up though, because if sea levels rise as projected, much of coastal Vietnam could be flooded. That definitely won’t be good for the rice. How much will be lost? We don’t know. Our observations tell us that the damage could be devastating- not just for Vietnam, but the other nations that import Vietnamese rice. Rice is one of those wonder crops- one that keeps a good portion of the impoverished world from starvation. Unfortunately, we’re not sure how much of Vietnam’s rice harvest is being exported, or where it’s being exported too. But we’re pretty confident in saying that the reverberations of a series of failed Vietnamese rice harvests would be felt throughout the stomachs of Asia.

Rice paddies on the coast of western Cat Ba Island. Many of Vietnam's rice paddies are located on low coastal plains in the east and south. Will a rise in the sea level cause failed harvests in the world's second largest exporter of rice?

THE UNITED STATES
All of this is pretty frightening stuff, and it’s really difficult to understand why we (the U.S.) haven’t jumped on the bandwagon and taken the lead in combating such climate change. It seems to be the type of thing we’d be good at. The battle will require ingenuity, creativity, hard work, and more than a few sacrifices- all of the qualities we’ve historically prided ourselves on. China is not going to lead the way. Neither is Russia. Europe is trying, but they can’t really do much until the U.S. signs on. The United States is the single largest emitter of greenhouse gases, and no treaty, ban, or target can be met without our cooperation and active participation. Our travels have made it even more apparent to us that things must change very rapidly, and that the U.S. must stop ignoring the evidence and lead the way towards this change. Don’t believe us yet? Come over and see for yourselves. We’ll leave the light on for you.

Heat- Ninh Binh, Vietnam: June 5-7, 2007

2007-06-09T22:52:00.000-08:00

Haiphong and Ninh Binh

Ninh Binh closeup- note the tower karst to the west of town.

We decided to leave Cat Ba just in time. Not only were we both too bruised and battered to go on, the weather also was changing for the worse. On most of our evenings on the island we were treated to quite a nocturnal light show. Towering thunderstorms would further darken the already black night, with incredible displays of lightning providing intermittent bursts of brightness. We usually watched these from our hotel balcony or a similar perch at a nearby café, enjoying the show and also the fact that the rain was concentrated well offshore. On the morning we left Cat Ba Town for the distant dock where we would begin our cruise back to the mainland, this wasn’t the case. We ascended the same seaside pass where we had driven our motorscooter two days prior- on a day when the sunlight glinting off the water nearly rendered us permanently blind- and watched the rain squall approach, its line of advance marked by tiny splashes in the gently rolling ocean. By the time we rolled up to the dock, the rain was coming down in force. Rumblings of thunder punctuated the multilingual conversations taking place in the van amongst its American, Vietnamese, Korean, and Swiss occupants. Luckily, the rain let up when the ferry to the mainland finally pulled in, and we all raced to get aboard before the next deluge hit. Half an hour later, we pulled up to the dock on the opposite bank, boarded another bus bound for Haiphong, and headed south.

Haiphong as it appeared when we arrived. The storm that we had watched the night before must have scored a direct hit on this economically important port city.

Arriving in the economically important port city, we got a first hand look at the aftermath of one of these storms. Apparently, they had taken a direct hit the night before. Water at least six inches deep flowed through the streets- it looked as if we were in Venice, not Vietnam. The city residents, apparently used to such events, went about their business unfazed. Barefoot and pant legs rolled up, they hopped on their motorbikes and plunged into the waters as if they were on jetskis, and shops opened for business as usual despite the mini tidal waves that flowed in and out of the establishments with each passing vehicle. Switching to a local bus, where the driver immediately dropped a woman’s luggage onto Ben’s injured toe, we continued to Ninh Binh.

Business as usual in Haiphong- the streets seemed only marginally less crowded in the aftermath of the storm.

Ninh Binh is not known for any sights of its own, but rather the parks and landscapes nearby. It is touted as the ideal base for exploring Cuc Phuong National Park and Tam Coc- the “Halong Bay of the Rice Paddies.” It is also one of the stops on the jump-on, jump-off open bus ticket between Hanoi and Saigon, easily accessible to casual tourists looking to break up their trip down the coast. In recent years, the city has developed a reputation for hospitality services above and beyond the norm.

Ninh Binh, a town not known for much other than its hospitality and a few surrounding sites. It's clearly not immune from the rain.

We chose to spend our time in the area heading out to Tam Coc and the National Park, although the later plan was scrapped for reasons we’ll get to later. As its nickname implies, Tam Coc is a shocking burst of tropical karst jabbing out of the serenely flat rice fields. Our second day in town, we clambered on the backs of motorscooters- piloted by pros this time- and headed out to see the spectacle for ourselves. The day began winding through the backstreets of Ninh Binh, which became remarkably rural within mere blocks. Soon, we were driving over piles of hay spread across the pavement to dry, dodging chickens and being caught in water-buffalo traffic jams.

A herd of water buffalo crosses our path just outside of town in Ninh Binh. A common sight, our drivers avoided them with ease.

Making a right turn off the narrow blacktop, our guides pointed to a set of stone stairs leading uphill to a set of pagodas and asked if we wanted to walk up. Riding on the back of the motorbikes, enjoying the breeze that naturally accompanies such a pursuit, one can easily forget about the stifling heat. That’s exactly what we did. About thirty seconds after we agreed to make the climb, we remembered. By the time we reached the first overlook, we looked as if we’d gone swimming. By the time we reached the second, we felt like we were melting. At some point, like true geography nerds, we thanked the heavens for the environmental lapse rate. The environmental lapse rate (ELR) is, more or less, just a pretentious way of saying that temperatures generally get cooler (by about -6.5 degrees per kilometer of elevation gain) as you go up. Our thought at the time was “good lord, am I ever glad this isn’t Tibet- could you imagine trying to climb in this heat at that elevation?” This got us to the ELR, which will obviously keep things at Tibet’s lofty elevation much cooler than down here near sea level. In the end, it really didn’t do us much good to give thanks to the ELR- it wasn’t helping us at all down here, and we were still frying like bacon on a skillet. It made us remember the chilly (but thin) air of Tibet more fondly though.

100 degrees? 80% Humidity? Midday sun? Sure, we'll climb that!

The view from the first landing. It's beautiful, but we're already melting at this point.

From the top of the climb, we shared a panoramic view with a shrine to the Goddess of Mercy and the winding spine of a dragon. Hundreds of feet below, a muddy river wound through rice paddies and the karst towers, carrying tiny boats along in its barely tangible current. Soon enough, we’d be seated in one of these tub-sized vessels, being rowed along by Mrs. Ninh and her silent assistant. Hot as it was, many of the other tourists carried brightly colored umbrellas along on their boat rides, trying to bring a bit of shade with them. Our guides produced a pair for us, but they seemed to just trap hot air even closer to our dripping bodies while getting in the way of photos. We quickly abandoned them. Heading out into the river, we passed more of the same small dinghies- most carrying other tourists, but some ferrying families and cargo from the small huts along the bank to the little settlement where we’d embarked.

View from the top of our hike.

The canoe caravan at Tam Coc.

Tam Coc’s star attractions are the many fine examples of tower karst scattered along the banks of the meandering river. Tower karst is unique to tropical and subtropical regions- it is far different than the type of karst landforms you’ll find in more temperate and less wet regions such as the Balkans or parts of the United States. Tower karst forms exclusively in regions that receive well over 40 inches of rain annually and that have annual average temperatures above 65 degrees F. Remember that karst is formed due to the weathering of limestone by the weak carbonic acid solution found in ground and rain water- therefore the amount of precipitation is important to the development of certain types of karst landforms. Temperature is also important, as different temperatures of water contain different levels of carbonic acid solution (cold water holds more than hot). Also affecting the development of these landforms is the amount and type of vegetation available (vegetation acts as an anti-erosion agent, and its decomposition adds more carbon to ground water solutions), and the thickness and permeability of the rock. A full, detailed account of how and why tower karst forms would take us two more pages- so we’ll spare you from that. But we encourage you all to check it out on your own- it's pretty fascinating stuff.

Tropical karst from the river. These specific landforms are unique to the tropics for a variety of reasons relating to temperature and precipitation.

As we mentioned in the last post, another type of karst landform is caves. The people who live in Tam Coc take full advantage of the caves through which the river meanders. Three times, Mrs. Ninh steered our little dinghy into the calm, cool shadows, where numerous boats were tied to the stalactites. Their owners slept, feet dangling off the side of the boat, protected from the intensity of the noonday sun and rocked gently by the small movements of the river. We paused in the semi-darkness while she sipped a Coke and chatted with one of the fruit vendors in a neighboring dinghy.

Another common karst landform in the tropics, caves along the river offer much needed shade.

A local takes advantage of the cave's shadows for a noontime nap.

On the return to the dock, Mrs. Ninh became more talkative, selling us bits of embroidery and wishing us three children. She had three of her own, and was convinced that it was the perfect number for any family. We laughed and demurred, but she persevered, even whipping out a dilapidated phrase book to threaten poor Ben with. “I wish you much happiness,” she pointed out, “With three babies!” Even in the non-agricultural areas of Vietnam, family size remains important. The deep cultural belief in ancestor worship fuels a demand for children, to look after aging parents and ensure their comfort in the afterlife. It is an extremely powerful concept, spawning a litany of superstitions related to fertility. Mrs. Ninh made sure to point out the “Madame” and “Monsieur” rocks rising from the riverside- their symbolic shapes left no doubt to the blessings they’re thought to endow. Of course, superstitions aren’t just related to fertility here. Astronomers are consulted to learn the most auspicious day to buy a new motorscooter, open a shop, or get married. It’s all rather charming, but we wish they’d stop concerning themselves with our non-existent children. How’re we going to travel if we have three bloody kids?!

A riverside tomb. It will be well looked after by devoted relatives.

After lunch at a nearby hotel, it was back on to the motorbike and off to a dizzying tour of Ninh Binh’s other nearby sites. Coming back through another smattering of rural villages, we dodged dogs, water buffalo, and piles of burning hay. When rice is harvested here, most of the plant is spread to dry, producing hay to feed the buffalo. The extra hay is piled by the paddies and burnt, sending tendrils of smoke lazily skyward for hours. While this disposes of the unwanted surplus, it also releases carbon into the atmosphere, instead of returning it to the soil where it can be used by new crops. It doesn’t make for a pleasant breathing experience when passing through the clouds of acrid smoke at 35 miles per hour either.

Thankfully, most of the hay we encountered had not yet ignited, instead only posing minor obstacles to our more than adept drivers. For the rest of the afternoon, we sweated it out at a handful of quaint but non-descript pagodas and temples. At each stop, opportunistic vendors would rush out to greet us, hoping to sell us a warm bottle of water or a soda. We usually acquiesced, knowing that we were losing large quantities of fluid through our restless sweat glands. No matter how much we drank, we couldn’t cool off or quench our thirst. The innards of the pagodas offered no solace, as they too were like Buddha adorned brick-fired ovens. The heat was really starting to take its toll on us, and despite the overwhelming abundance of things to see, we really just wanted to get back to the air conditioned sanctuary of our room and prepare for the next day’s journey to the Cuc Phuong National Park. As the sun began its hasty retreat, we finally turned back towards downtown Ninh Binh and our hotel.

A few scenes from the pagodas.

Eating dinner, we discussed our plans for the next day. Cuc Phuong’s main attraction, in our eyes, was the Endangered Primate Rescue Center it houses. Vietnam has about 20 species of primates living in the wild today, most threatened by habitat destruction, poaching, and a demand for exotic pets and bizarre medicinal remedies. The center in Cuc Phuong has responded by rescuing threatened animals from capture or illegal traders, breeding, and preparing their residents for rehabilitation. The park itself attempts to protect its native species, including hundreds of avians, mammals, and reptiles, and thousands of plants. Unfortunately, conflict with locals over resource use has led to a decline in some of these species. Hopefully, the park will be able to bridge this gap in goals by providing employment and education for the people who otherwise depend on hunting and logging in the area.

Unfortunately, we weren’t able to go see all of this firsthand as originally planned. When we woke the next morning, our bodies told us in no uncertain terms, “NO!- We’re not going back out in that again!” It’s hard not to listen to your body, no matter how unreasonable it’s being. The day before had taken it all out of us. The unfortunate thing about climates like these is, the body simply has no way of cooling itself off. Hot air accommodates more water vapor than cold air. When hot air nears its saturation point, it is holding a lot of water in vapor form. It makes walking feel like taking a stroll through an atmospheric bathtub. When the air nears its dew point (the point where it can no longer hold any more water in vapor form), sweat no longer evaporates from the body. Sweating, as most of you know, is the body’s way of cooling off. Evaporation is a cooling process, taking heat from the skin surface to occur. The body knows this, and sweats in anticipation of the beads of water evaporating into the surrounding air. If the surrounding air is already at or near saturation, it can’t accommodate anymore water vapor. Thus the rivulets of sweat crawling down your forehead and arms don’t evaporate as normal- they just stay there, get in your eyes, and make your hands all slick and nasty. Sweating then becomes nothing more than an efficient water-loss mechanism, exacerbating the speed at which you dehydrate. That’s what happened to us, and our bodies punished us for it. When we awoke on the day of the planned Cuc Phuong adventure, we did so with fevers, headaches, bodyaches, and dehydration (the morning visit to the toilet made this readily apparent). Already afflicted with a never-ending stomach ailment and a series of recently won injuries, we decided to take a day of rest instead of visiting the monkeys.

An anvilhead forms at the top of a cumuloform cloud. Soon, it would turn into another of the awesome thunderstorms we've grown accustomed to watching at night.

Even though we still hadn’t recovered from our journey into the inferno, we knew we needed to get moving towards Hue, Vietnam’s ancient capital and the site of one of the most notorious battles of the Vietnam War. We spent the day in bed, wondering if perhaps we hadn’t caught malaria too (don’t think so now, but it felt like it at the time), and then prepared for our 9:30 pm bus south. It would end up being one of the longest nights of our lives. After 11 hours sitting upright with cramps, fever, muscle soreness, and insomnia on an overbooked bus with no apparent shocks, we cruised through one of the most spectacular sunrises (good for the heart, not good for the headache) we’d ever seen and on into Hue.

Ninh Binh Photo Gallery

Motorscooter Diaries: The Sequel I

Motorscooter Diaries: The Sequel II