Vietnam - The North

Over the years, I’ve learned that my travel bias is in favor of remote beauty. I am drawn towards areas or regions that are somewhat difficult to reach, resulting in a sparse tourist presence, perhaps lacking on luxuries, but making up for it in simple pleasures and views that make up the daily life of the local population. While Vietnam’s north does have its fair share of the antithesis of this type of travel locale, with bustling Hanoi and over touristed Ha Long Bay, there are a myriad of treasures waiting to be unearthed throughout the windy, mountainous roads on your way to China.

Before heading remote, we made plans for the obligatory sights, spending a couple days in Hanoi and Ha Long Bay. Hanoi was more enjoyable that I’d remembered, with its myriad of alleys and markets in the old quarter, and delicious dining options spread out either on the street or in tiny hole-in-the-wall type restaurants, or perhaps right on the train tracks. What might seem like chaos is actually a well-oiled machine, with the freshest of foods and variety of services all at your fingertips. I took some time to purposely get lost one afternoon, walking through alleys filled with birdcages (the Vietnamese love their birds), stopping for a quick bowl of pho while avoiding having my toes run over in the street, bargaining for the best Ha Long Bay tour I could find, and relaxing under an overpass on tiny chairs while I waited for my Bia Hoi (fresh brewed beer) and peanuts to be served. I was most definitely out of place everywhere I sat, but, as is the case anywhere in the world, sitting down over a beer brings people together. The streets of Hanoi are a wanderer’s dream, it really is a crapshoot as to what you might come across, be it frogs in a bucket or the best tasting soup you’ve ever had.

Cruise booked, we opted to spend a couple days in Lan Ha bay, the less-visited neighbor to the famous Ha Long Bay. With many reports of trash and murky waters in Ha Long Bay, we were hoping for a bit more serenity, away from the party boats and general abuse of the pristine nature that can be found in the waters off the northern coast of Vietnam. While the weather didn’t exactly cooperate, it felt like the misty fog and rain added to the ominousness of the waters and the thousands of limestone karst islands that make up the scene. So, while there was no sunbathing on the deck to be enjoyed, the environment was more than conducive to a little rest and reflection. We passed floating fishing villages and remote beaches, stopping for an afternoon on Cat Ba island, sampling some local snake whiskey and sticking our feet in the river for a fish-eating frenzy.

The cruise itself was a comedy of errors. With the Coronavirus fears in full effect, demand was down and staff was low, leaving us with one cruise manager (Eagle) who played the role of formal host, kayak guide, happy hour party starter, tableside slam poetry reader (in Vietnamese), and morning Kung-Fu instructor (the Tai Chi instructor was gone, so we got Kung Fu instead). Eagle wasn’t particularly good at any of those roles, and he must have changed outfits at least 5 times, but we were along for the ride and couldn’t help but laugh at how seriously he took himself. The next day at dinner, a failed flambe attempt left one cruise guest completely on fire as everyone swarmed to put her out. Thankfully, no serious injuries occurred, but the mishap seemed to fit right in with the rest of the experience. By the time late night squid fishing rolled around, we were certain somebody would be lost at sea, but surprisingly it all went off without a hitch. As was the case the last time around, Ha Long and the surrounding bays are stunning, and should not be missed, just remember to bring your sense of humor.

Bidding farewell to our temporary travel friend, we left the city and headed for the hills in the far north of the country, arriving to Ba Be Lake as the sun was setting behind the mountains and a blue haze began to settle on the lake. A small agricultural village sits at one end of the lake, with almost every family home turned into a homestay in the hopes of attracting the tourist dollar. Our basic homestay came equipped with a dining deck overlooking acres of bright green rice fields running right into the lake. The combination of the geometric shapes and lines of the rice fields, the calm waters of the lake, the backdrop of densely forested mountains, and the complete silence (save for the incessant rooster crowing), did nothing but reinforce my biases for this kind of travel. A family style home-cooked meal and some strong rice wine capped it all off.  We spent the following day in a boat exploring around the lake and, while no site in particular was anything to write home about, we enjoyed a relaxing ride in yet another idyllic setting tucked away in a remote corner of an underappreciated travel destination.

Leaving Ba Be, we moved closer to the Chinese border, grabbing a motorbike and making the journey to Ban Gioc waterfall, on the border of Vietnam and China. It’s a spectacular, multi-level set of falls, with turquoise waters tucked between more limestone mountain formations. The ride itself may have been even more beautiful than the waterfall. Rolling hills, rice fields, and mountains, an environment as rural as it gets, we took detour after detour to find beautiful vistas, friendly faces, and scenes you wouldn’t believe were real unless you were looking at them. I’ve run out of words to describe the scenery and experience at this point, I just know the feelings evoked: freedom, awe, excitement, appreciation, disbelief, and the desire for more. I will go back to this region of the world over and over again and never grow tired of it. Vietnam may not be the easiest place to travel, but the rewards are unmatched.

I can’t wait to go back.

Vietnam - Caves & Karsts

Continuing our adventurous transport in Laos, we found ourselves crossing another remote border in an iffy bus that may or may not have been smuggling dozens of sacks of illegal charcoal into Vietnam. After nervously waiting while our passports were taken away for inspection for just a bit too long for comfort, we were finally relieved to hear the clicking of another stamp press as we made our way into the last country on our Southeast Asian itinerary. While Cambodia and Laos contain pockets of serenity and natural beauty between plenty of dusty, arid, and bleak landscapes, Vietnam seemingly contains nothing but lush jungle covering striking mountain landscapes and endless coastline. Colors change from bland to bright seemingly at the border.

After another 12+ hour day of travel, we arrived to my favorite of Vietnamese cities, Hoi An. Colorful walking streets filled with hanging lanterns, tea houses, coffee shops, restaurants, and, of course, the famous tailor shops, make Hoi An tough to top when it comes to charm. Meandering through the pastel alleys in search of homemade banana ice cream, coffee ice cubes, sweet herbal tonics, miniature snacking snails, local noodle and dumpling dishes, daily Banh Mi sandwiches, and historical shophouses, I was pleased to see Hoi An was just as enjoyable as I’d remembered. With the coast nearby, we spent a day lounging on white sands after exploring a few temples built into existing caves in the surrounding mountains. With some new found company from California, we rented bicycles and made our way across the river to a more rural island, with verdant rice fields and palm trees guiding our way through various villages, boat docks, and canals…leisurely exploration at its finest.

The country of Vietnam is much larger than you might imagine, with so many sights to see that one trip, even five trips for that matter, is not enough to enjoy all it has to offer. On my previous motorcycle adventure through the country, I’d skipped the region of Phong Nha, famous for its enormous cave systems, one of which is the largest known in the world. The train ride from the Hoi An area passed over the Hai Van pass, part of the old Demilitarized zone during the war. As if Vietnam hadn’t shown off enough already with its scenery, the slow train ride was nothing short of majestic, carving around and through the mountain range, revealing hidden beaches along the coast and rivers flowing from the mountains above, all with a backdrop of every shade of green you can imagine. The one-hour drive from the train station to our final destination was just as serene, with ominous limestone karsts in the distance and endless green rice fields lining the road and the rivers. Arriving in our bungalow for the evening, we made our way to a bench down by the river and enjoyed a refreshing beer while the fisherman came to shore and the smoke from small fires slowly billowed from the few houses along the opposite river bank. Idyllic to say the least.

We spent the next day in the hands of our trusty hotel owner turned chauffeur as he took us around to 3 of the most famous cave systems in the area. The first cave was the largest, with nearly a mile-long platform leading us deep into the earth. Massive formations growing from both the ceiling and floor, all lit up with different colors to accentuate the mineral rich contents, had us forgetting the reality that we were way further underground than we’d normally be comfortable with. Some ceilings looked as though they were painted in the Vatican, while small pools hidden from light sources looked so dark that I thought they might lead all the way to the center of the earth. It’s possible to follow the cave for 5 miles or so past the wooden platforms, but we opted to save that adventure for another day. The second cave required a zipline over the river to access, and more than our fair share of mud crawling to get through in some places. We were brought to a mud pool of sorts, with the softest mud you can imagine tickling our toes and making for a nice face scrub after months on the road. Overcoming a fear of small spaces, our crew squeezed through the darkness and made our way out of the cave, where an overwater obstacle course lay at our disposal. Rope swings, zip lines, American Ninja Warrior-type ropes courses, you name it. The views upstream and downstream were spectacular, with giant limestone karsts towering over the turquoise water of the river. Paradise found once again. The final stop of the day required a boat ride straight into another enormous cave, with more intricate formations and colorful walls waiting for us. Thinking about the random farmers that happened upon some of these caves had me daydreaming, as I often do, of discovering something which no eyes had ever been laid on until then. Throughout my life, the settings of these faux discoveries have changed from ruins in South America to some crater on the moon to an island on the high seas. Having not yet discovered any new frontier, I am resigned to accept that it’s all about the journey blah blah blah…

After enjoying another evening of smoky serenity on the shore, we decided 3 giant caves were enough and spent the following day back on motorbikes, two this time, to explore the countryside and visit the local hotspots, which did not disappoint. Our morning was spent at “The Duck Stop” where a local family has turned their Aflac white ducks into an obligatory stop for anybody looking to have a hundred ducks follow you around, give you a foot massage with their beaks, and ravenously eat from your hands while you hold them. Nearly the entirety of the 15 minutes with the ducks was spent laughing hysterically at their mannerisms and massaging skills. Further down the rocky dirt road, we found ourselves at another café overlooking the river below, this time fully equipped with a giant tree swing that was definitely safe. For a few dollars, we enjoyed a coffee, laid out on some hammocks, and braved the adventure swing out over the valley below. The ride back across narrow bridges, past a beautiful church, and through winding rice fields brought us to quaint little lunch spot, where a local family whips up everything from scratch (you can pick your chicken while it’s still walking around, if you’d like). The family spoke no English, but had a translated menu to choose from. The genuineness and welcoming environment were yet another reminder as to why I, and many others, are so drawn to this country. Here we were, sitting on low, open air tables next to a field of crops against a mountain backdrop, staring into a bare bones kitchen watching an entire family cook up our meal from items they’d just picked from their farm, smiling and gesturing with us as the sole means of communication between two groups full of gratitude for entirely different, yet intertwined, reasons.

We took a detour for the final leg home, passing along the riverbanks at dusk, waving to the young children outside on their porch, maneuvering our way between cows and water buffalo, catching glimpse after glimpse into homes right as dinner hour had come. By now I was used to seeing families sit down for dinner just inside their open front door, and no longer felt like I was intruding by letting my gaze linger. With each passing wave from families and children, we were invited further and further into a world that we knew was not ours, despite how graciously we were made to belong.

Si Phan Don, Laos

Often overlooked on many Southeast Asian travel itineraries in favor of Thailand or Vietnam, Laos is sandwiched between the two countries, along with Cambodia, its neighbor to the south. While every aspect of travel in Thailand comes with ease, there was no shortage of situations in Laos in which I found myself simply shaking my head and laughing it off because, well, what else could I do?

The adventures started with our arrangements from Siem Reap, Cambodia, the jumping off point for Angkor Wat. We were meant to take one bus to the remote Laos border, then another from the border to the edge of the Mekong River, where we’d cross by boat to Don Det, a backpacker-filled island within the region of Si Phan Don (translated to Four Thousand Islands). What really happened was we took one van, one bus, one 2-hour rest stop, one kilometer-long walk across the border, one covered truck-bed crammed with 15 backpackers and backpacks, and finally, one rickety boat across the river to reach our island home for the next 3 days. The trip became progressively less comfortable, capped off by the 30-minute walk in the dark along the dirt path to our accommodation. While the road was rigorous, we reached the beach / boat dock just in time to watch a blood-red sun sink into the river behind the hazy skies of the remote paradise of four thousand islands, a reminder that the trip was well worth the trouble.

There’s not much to do on Don Det, with no cars or other transport options, bicycles become the preferred mode of transportation, assuming you can navigate through the soft sands and potholes around. Simple guesthouses line the shores, each with their own small restaurants and coffee shops and hammocks. There’s a sunrise and a sunset side of the island, best enjoyed with a coffee or a beer, depending on which side you find yourself. While there is a small amount of debauchery and hippy-ish life going on, the island is very mellow compared to many of the party islands in Thailand. We spent our days cycling around Don Det and the neighboring island, enjoying the calm river views, the small hikes to waterfalls, and the overall sleepy vibe of an oasis in the middle of nowhere.

Si Phan Don’s famous residents are the Irrawaddy dolphins, who live in the waters of the Mekong River between Laos and Cambodia. While quite shy compared to other dolphins, and with their populations currently on the decline, we were fortunate enough to be able to catch a glimpse of a small group while in the area. They proved to be too quick for the camera lens, however. It takes no more than a day to check off all the must-dos in the region, leaving plenty of time for watching the sun make its way from one side of the island to the other, hammock hopping between riverside restaurants and juice shacks, and reflecting on the simplicity of a so-called travel adventure.

Once bicycles could no longer cut it, we traded pedals for gears and found ourselves atop a motorbike once again, this time headed for the Bolaven plateau, the coffee growing region of Laos, where homestays and coffee plantations are nestled between waterfalls and roaring rivers, for another few days of getting lost off the tourist trail. Our first stop, after passing by quite possibly the longest string of watermelon stalls on earth, was at a local coffee plantation turned homestay, where we received a makeshift tour of the crops and coffee processing facilities by Mr. Vieng. We were also treated to a tasty appetizer of tree ants smashed between the leaves of the coffee trees. They actually tasted delicious, just the right amount of zest! We enjoyed a home-cooked meal under a thatched roof that Mr. Vieng had slowly built up from a roadside stop to a full-blown compound, basic bungalows and all. We walked the roads, admiring the adolescent’s skills while they played a game that looked like volleyball, with the use of feet instead of hands, and the thousands of cassava roots drying out in the evening sun after a hard day’s processing. We awoke to fresh roasted coffee from the plantation, and stocked up for future brewing before heading out to our next homestay, the infamous Captain Hook’s.

Captain Hook’s homestay was an eye-opener, in both the best and worst way. The small village consists of a few hundred people, and since Hook wasn’t keen on the normal agricultural duties that make up life in the village, he began taking in tourists a few years back, giving them tours of the village and coffee plantation, and offering affordable homestays along with home cooked meals. What we soon found out, though, was that we were about to receive a whole lot more than we bargained for. Upon arriving to Hook’s home, we gathered in area underneath the stilted house, home to 20+ of Hook’s relatives. Hook was roasting fresh coffee beans, while his young helper was smoking out of 3-foot long bamboo bong, eyes glazed and bloodshot. The tour started simply enough, as Hook walked us through the coffee plantation, telling us all about the origins of coffee that he’d Wikipedia-d over the years. Most of the information seemed legitimate, but after 45 minutes without much walking, we were ready to move on. Meandering through the village surrounds, we found many foreign plants used for medicinal purposes, and even a leaf and nectar we used to blow bubbles. Throughout the walk, we saw many locals picking coffee beans, large bamboo bongs by their side. We learned many a disturbing fact about the village along the way, ranging from 5-year old smokers to unattended forest births, from child marriage to family banishment into the jungle whenever accidents occurred. The most disturbing were the animal mutilation and sacrifices, too graphic to mention here. The animist beliefs and practices of the village were enlightening, if not disturbing. There’s a dance the governments are forced to play with many of the indigenous groups, a balance between allowing traditions to remain, while ensuring everyone is playing somewhat by the rules when it comes to health and safety, particularly for the children.

It became apparent that the villagers don’t exactly take too kindly to Hook, as we were not introduced to anyone outside his family members, and our lodging for the evening was far outside the village. I imagine they allow him to continue the tours solely because it brings a steady stream of income to the village. Nevertheless, the basic bungalows proved to be a peaceful place to reflect on all the craziness we’d experienced during the tour, as we watched another blood red sun fall behind the mountains and valley below. When the time for dinner came, we gathered in the large family room while naked babies ran around, kids smoked from the bongs, and the rest of the family gathered around the small television to watch Muay Thai fights. We traded stories with the English-speaking young adults, and chowed down on some delicious dishes, family style. Following dinner, we went dessert hunting, catching as many crickets, grasshoppers, frogs, and even catfish as we could. It was hilariously awkward, as I think our young guides waited anxiously every evening for this event. We ended up with quite the haul, and watched them clean and cook our findings with some lemongrass and chiles, another surprisingly delicious treat that we hadn’t planned on partaking in earlier. We sat around the campfire and watched the family interact joyfully with each other, smoking their bongs and laughing away as if we weren’t even there.

I can’t decide whether the whole experience at Captain Hook’s homestay was a positive one, or worth recommending. I often found myself conflicted, which, when on a short vacation isn’t necessarily a positive thing, but is something I embrace during these long escapades of adventure and reflection. I found myself full of both joy and disgust for what I saw and experienced in the middle of absolutely nowhere, geographically and on the moral compass as well.

Leaving Hook’s homestay, we completed the loop, stopping along the way to visit more waterfalls, farmhouses serving passionfruit jams and fresh coffee, passing village after village in between the green jungles of the surrounds, asking if the last week had really happened or if it was all just a strange dream.

With no real way of knowing, we shook our heads, laughed, and made our move to Vietnam…

Angkor Wat on Wheels

Some sights are worth repeating.

Four years removed from my last exploration of Angkor Wat, I found myself back at the staggering compound of ruined temples in Cambodia, this time trading the comfort of a tuk tuk for a questionably stable mountain bike as my mode of transportation through the maze of temple complexes and courtyards that make up the famous Angkor Wat.

After a 5am wake up call, we hopped on our bikes, flashlight in mouth, and made our way through the dark towards the back entrance of the postcard temple from which the complex gets its name. Having shared the sunrise with the hundreds of tourists that gather in front of the temple on my previous visit, we opted this time to escape the crowds and instead went to the backside, hoping to catch a glimpse of the first morning rays on the spires, rather than see the sun rise over the temple. As is often the case with sunrises, the hour or so we spent in wait was a bit anticlimactic, as the hazy skies gradually brightened, blocking the rays of the sun. No matter, we made our way inside the temple and began the exploration through narrow passageways and immense courtyards, past monks handing out blessings and the most intricate of carvings along seemingly every wall. Windows provided views of the vast surrounds, while staircases seemed to be hidden around every corner. If so many weren’t blocked off, it would not have taken long to be completely lost in it all.

The main temple of Angkor would be a sufficient sight in and of itself, but, thankfully for us, it’s just the beginning. The entire complex is enormous, covering over 400 acres and containing 70+ temple complexes and hundreds of smaller sites. The complexes were built by the Khmer people in the 12th century, and contain a mix of Buddhist and Hindu temples. When the temples were rediscovered in the 1860s, nature had run roughshod on the place for a few hundred years. What’s left is a mix of beautiful architecture ominously shrouded in horror-movie-esque root systems growing in, around, and on top of temple walls and rooftops. Cycling around the various complexes made for quite the day, but any fatigue was suppressed by the seemingly endless ruins to discover, often times all by ourselves. While the iconic scenes are quite the spectacle, particularly Ta Prohm (Tomb Raider Temple) and the many faces of Bayon, it’s the random bulbous root wrapped around an enormous rubble pile, or the small chamber with a beam of light shining through the hole in the roof that you stumble upon at just the right time of day that really makes Angkor Wat and its temples a joy to explore. Every visit will yield new scenes, every time of day a new shadow that accentuates the ongoing battle between man’s creations and mother nature. Making our way in and out of the city walls felt like we were storming some kind of ancient castle, with giant faces staring down at us as if to warn us not to enter lest we dare tempt our fates. Enter we did, however, perhaps with some chills, a product of some curse sent down from the ominous onlooker perched in stone above the gates.

Twelve hours in, we abandoned our two wheels and kicked our feet up in front of the main temple of Angkor again, basking in the afternoon air as golden hour had begun on the mighty temple’s spires. We watched tourists of all kinds begin to slowly scatter, leaving us alone to enjoy a peaceful end to an adventurous day discovering as many of the hidden and not so hidden secrets of a true marvel of both man and nature. Crossing back across the giant moat to make our way back into town, we walked down to the water, finding that the greenery we’d seen below was actually clovers. Peculiarly, every single clover was of the 4-leaf variety, which seemed quite fitting to find after months and months of experiencing so much of the very best this earth and its inhabitants have to offer.

Lucky us…  

Thailand Take Two

Walking the streets of Bangkok in the dark of night, surrounded by food carts and vendor stalls selling everything from elephant pants to cigarettes to male enhancement products, it felt like we’d been dropped into a different world if for no other reason than the fact that we were walking about in crowds of people long after the sun had gone down. After months in Africa of planning our evenings around ensuring we weren’t stuck somewhere after dark, it felt strange to be in amongst crowds and bright lights in every direction. It did not take long, however, to feel like we were right where we needed to be by means of our dinner selections. A fresh mango from the first cart, a spicy papaya salad served in a takeaway plastic bag at the next, and finally a noodle-y chicken and broth with fresh greens, crunchy onions, and more than a small kick of spice to cap things off. No Yelp, no blogs, no maps to guide the way, we simply followed our noses and the steam rising from cart after cart of Thai dining at its finest.

Having last visited Thailand in 2016, I immediately remembered why I enjoyed my time so much. Everything is just so…easy. Most all Thais are very friendly, laughing at both you and themselves in any and all circumstances. Anything you might need or want is always at your fingertips, be it food, drink, necessities, or luxuries. Anywhere you want to go is accessible via tuk tuk, bus, train, or plane, right from your doorstep, with little to no advance planning required. Any and all comforts of home can be had…for about a tenth of the normal price. At the cost of about a US dollar, you can find yourself a fresh squeezed juice, or some homemade coconut ice cream, served in a coconut, or perhaps just the coconut itself with a straw in it. Maybe you’re feeling a nice plate of tropical fruits, or a savory noodle soup. Better yet, how about a banana pancake for an afternoon pick-me-up? Whether you’re in a big city or a small town, nearly everything is accessible within a short stroll from the town center. Add to that the foot and back-bending body massages and you have yourself questioning what took so long to get here. Thailand has mastered the tourism industry, so, while many experiences may feel somewhat contrived or overrun with fellow travellers, you’re having such a great time that you don’t really care.

With the party scene of backpacker-central Khao San Road firmly in my rear view, we opted for some new experiences I hadn’t had the time for during my last retirement. The floating markets outside Bangkok have grown to be quite popular amongst tourists over the years, but arriving early enough provides a glimpse of the charm that made the market so popular in the first place. Large market stalls line the waterways, selling mostly the same things you can find all throughout Bangkok, while marketgoers and vendors alike ride through on canoes equipped with outboard motors that require significant maneuvering to avoid each other. We encountered orange-robed monks rowing their daily rounds to receive food or money from each vendor, in exchange for a small blessing to begin their day. Grandmas engulfed on their canoes by giant woks and all the necessary food supplies to serve up meal after meal from their floating restaurants. Ice cream, fried chicken, fruits galore, coconut pancakes, grilled bananas, elephant pants, live snakes, rare marsupials, you name it can be found beneath the rainbow umbrellas of the dozens of canoes jockeying for position in the narrow canals. By the time we’d finished our rounds, the market had become a madhouse of boats and tourists lining the canals. The market is overcrowded, loud, kitschy, overpriced (by Thai standards), and not exactly authentic anymore. But damn, is it fun. Every blog and travel guide will tell you how touristy and overrun the market is, and they are correct, but it’s touristy for a reason, and no amount of crowds can take away the experience of bartering for an exotic apple or bunch of bananas from a canoe, or trying to catch up to another boat to catch a glimpse of what smells so good, or yelling from the river’s edge for a serving of barbequed bananas with some sweet nectar after you’ve just finished devouring a bowl of savory, spicy, noodle-y goodness from a lady that’s probably been cooking the same thing from her canoe for the last 30 years. Sometimes things are touristy for a reason, and I felt no shame in imbibing.

From Bangkok, we headed north to Chiang Mai, escaping the chaos and busyness of the city for the Thai lifestyle both backpackers and soccer moms dream of. Seemingly every day of the week is the proud owner of a different walking street market, with local dishes, handmade ceramics, and a myriad of art pieces conveniently laid out along the traffic-free streets. Ornate temples and buddhas hide down alleys, while colorful flags and streamers are strung across the narrowest of streets. The walls of the old city protect the crowds from the busy streets and crazy motorbikes outside, enabling a peaceful stroll for the shopper or foodie or artist or writer or hedonist looking for his or her next inspiration. We found ourselves in a cooking class, whipping up curry pastes from scratch and washing it down with the sweetest of mango sticky rice. Apparently, the word spicy is interchangeable with sexy in Thai as our instructor enthusiastically urged us to make our dishes “More Sexy!” As is compulsory for any Southeast Asian adventure, we found ourselves riding a motorbike through countless hairpin turns along the Mae Hong Son loop, a 5-day journey spent meandering through the hills of northwest Thailand, with never-ending  views, waterfalls, small villages known for tea or coffee or nothing at all, and an air of freedom unique to these parts of the world. We slurped up night market Pad Thai noodles whilst shoeless on mats lining the shore of a lake, staring at the reflection of the temple complex across the water, after taking in the town and its surrounds from the temple atop the mountain while the sun burned reddish orange as it set behind the haze of burn season. We took detours to caves large enough to raft through in the pitch dark while koi fish surrounded our canoe waiting for their afternoon snack. The last stop on the motorbike adventure was Pai, a place filled with hippies, free-spirits, revelers, and pseudo-intellectuals. Pai is overrun by now, and lacks much of the oasis-vibe it held in years past, but, like the floating markets in Bangkok, once you get over the crowds and clichés, you really can’t help but enjoy yourself. Health and ayurvedic food concoctions, yoga and dance studios, nightly performers, night markets, and funky crafts line the streets behind makeshift gardens and open-air dining spaces, while a motorbike ride across the river brings you to waterfalls, elephants, rice fields, and sweeping views. It’s tough not to be high on life when you’ve spent your day lounging in a hammock overlooking a valley sipping on fresh ginger tea with a book and not a worry in the world, watching bandage-wrapped backpackers clumsily get on and off their motorbikes to partake in the fun. It’s easy to see why people stay too long, and even easier to tell who never got out. During one open-mic performance, we listened to an old man ramble for 20 minutes about a weed he’d found in the forest that cures everything from cancer to the flu to depression. Who needs science when you can have a slice of Pai instead?

After a quick detour to Chiang Rai to see the intricate white and blue temples, we hopped on a flight headed south to get back to the island life we’d been missing since Zanzibar. Life only gets easier once you reach Krabi, the section of Thai coastline home to hundreds of islands small and large, their limestone compositions forming monstrous looking shapes in the sea. We spent our first few days at Railay Beach, doing a whole lot of nothing aside from lounging on the beach or at the pool, sipping drinks while watching rock climbers scale cliffs below base jumpers launching themselves from the tops, or enjoying fresh coffee daily from a hut serving up smoothies and spliffs. The one dirt road through town is lined by makeshift structures selling the bare essentials and boat tours, and takes all of about 10 minutes to walk through. Sightseeing complete, nothing but relaxation with great views is on the agenda. We opted for one boat tour of the islands, prepared for another relaxing day and beautiful scenery before we realized we’d accidently joined the party boat, with blaring music, rooftop jumping, and plenty of revelry. When not distracted by the craziness and the sporadic rainstorm, we soaked up the scenery and secluded beaches, and maybe partook just a little bit in the sunset dance party. Back on shore, once darkness had fallen, we made our way along a cliff face to a secluded beach and immersed ourselves into an underwater world of phosphorescent plankton, glowing and dancing with every movement of our extremities. Figure 8s and swirls and slow-motion hand waving created a lightshow under the surface that rivaled any Star Wars jump to light speed scene you can imagine. Only a rising tide could end the rambunctious, yet astonished shallow water swimming session.

A few days on the beach proved not quite relaxing enough, as we made our way down the coast to Koh Lanta, a large island known for trading parties for even more low-key rest and relaxation. We opted for a bungalow atop a cliff overlooking a pristine stretch of sand, an ideal place for afternoon sunburn sessions. In between swims and clifftop foot massages, we found another motorbike to explore the rather large island, perusing the old town shops, beachfront cafes, and views of all sides of the island. Nights consisted of beachfront fire shows, and at least a couple hours spent at our favorite hammock-filled restaurant at the end of the block. With a 7-eleven and a good coffee shop within a 5-minute walk (or 30 second scooter ride), we had all that was needed to while away our days with coffee and coconuts.  

In looking through photos of our time in Thailand, I’ve realized it’s somewhat difficult to adequately capture the serenity of the scenes we found ourselves in, or the pleasure and silliness of interacting daily with the Thai people. Most difficult to capture, however, is not a sight or experience, but rather the feeling of complete freedom and content in an adventurous, yet agenda-less ramble that is travelling through this country.

I can’t wait to see what the third act has in store…

Kalaw to Inle Lake

Continuing along the not-too-beaten track of Myanmar, I made the bus journey from Bagan, through villages in which horse carriages seemed to be the most common mode of transportation, into the mountainous region near Kalaw, where I’d planned to take a short, 2-day trek through the hills and down to Inle Lake.

In contrast to the dry plains of Bagan, the hills surrounding Kalaw were a deep green, fed by the ever-increasing rainfall. Farms filled much of the low-lying areas, with staple crops of rice, lettuce, and other greens in a constant state of work, as local farmers dotted the hillsides for nearly the entire 28-mile trek. Water buffalo and cows stood stoically as we passed by, with only one forcing us to detour around his territory. Deep reds of tilled soil provided contrast to the lush countryside, making the entire journey easy on the eyes, though tough on the feet, as the recent rains made for more than a few slips and sinks in the mud.

Guided by a 20-year old Burmese man intent of sharing his thoughts on true love and playing as many practical jokes as he could, we twisted and turned through unmarked trails and village roads. The simple beauty of the farms, the hills, the small mountains, and the people along the trail was not necessarily spectacular, but rather serene and calming. There were no grueling climbs to conquer, no climactic pass, no treacherous stretches to navigate. It was simply a walk through the hills, with peaceful scenery in every direction, glimpses into daily life, and appreciation for the effortless beauty of fertile hillsides and valleys. If not for a couple of obnoxious Americans whose vocabulary was limited to 4-letter words at max volume at all times, I think it may have been one of the more peaceful treks I’ve done to date.

Arriving at the shores of Inle Lake, a long-boat ride brought us to the small, developing town. A handful of western-style restaurants fill the scene, but the main draw is the lake itself. Surrounded by floating villages and gardens, where everything from lotus weaving to cigar rolling takes place, the serenity of the hillsides finds its source in the lake itself. Small tributaries lead to the villages, where a rotating market calls a new place home each day. Houses stand perilously over the water, with bamboo support beams bowing in all directions. Locals attend to daily duties from private dock platforms below their homes, washing clothes, vegetables, and themselves in their source of life, their lake. Rows and rows of crops and flowers are tended to by canoe, and talented fisherman row personal boats with their legs to free their arms to collect the nets. The lake is quite large, as it took our chartered boat nearly 2 hours to reach the far village, just in time to see the market close for the day. Tourism abounds, but nowhere near the level of the country’s Southeast Asian neighbors. For now, the calm waters of Inle Lake are only interrupted by the roaring outboard motors propelling the skinny boats around the lake and through shallow inlets.

Biking around a portion of the lake on my last afternoon in search of a recommended seafood meal, my encounter was a wonderful summary of my experience in Myanmar. The restaurant consisted of a series of Bungalows situated over a small pond, rice fields and mountains providing a 5-star backdrop to a delicious seafood soup and rice feast that cost just over $2 each. Save for a small group of locals who asked to take a picture with us, we were the only visitors around, and when it came time to pay, there was a mad dash within the family to locate the one who could speak the best English. Turns out, it was the youngest, a girl no more than 7 or 8, as she approached the two of us and began to speak in the most surprisingly clear and correct English and sentence structure:

“Was it a good meal?”

“Yes, very delicious.”

“Did you enjoy your time here?”

“Yes, I did, thank you.”

“Will you tell your friends?”

“Yes, I will recommend this place to everyone I meet.”

With a shy smile on her face, she nervously said her farewell with the innocence only a child can have:

“I hope you come back to see me.”

I hope so, too. I hope so, too.

Bagan, Myanmar

Some places carry with them a mystique that’s hard to pin down. They exude an aura of mystery, of wonder, of beauty that is only truly understood when you’re sitting in the midst of it all. Machu Picchu carries this mystique, this aura. I can now confidently say that I’ve found another place on Earth with the same gravity.

The 2000 some odd temples of Bagan, Myanmar dot the vast plain like constellations in the night sky. From each vantage point in the 40 square mile area, a new perspective, a slightly different, yet every bit as inspiring a landscape can be found. The temples are remnants from a golden era, when the wealthy region was home to 7-8 times more temples, each belonging to one of the city’s families. The decorations have long since faded, but the simple, red brick foundations have, for the most part, lasted the test of time. Today, some families still remain, as fields are plowed outside basic huts that sit next to 1000-year old temples.

Bagan is a backpacker’s kind of tourist destination. Especially in the low season, the freedom allotted to explore and create your own custom itinerary, with no time limits or restrictions, is exhilarating. Electric scooters are available for just a couple dollars a day. With a charge that lasts (almost) all day, the dirt roads lead you on a treasure hunt of limitless possibilities. Roads turn to tracks, which turn into crop fields, which turn into, in my case at least, empty and overgrown river beds that are somewhat difficult to maneuver through. No matter, once the path was found again, it was off to another set of awe-inspiring temples and views to match. These side tracks are free of tour buses and sensible tourists, leaving only the adventurous spirits keen on exploring the mystery of it all. Sun up to sun down was spent navigating the maze of must-sees and hidden gems, with both the start and finish of each day spent atop the perch our small crew’s temporary private temple.

I imagine that, as Myanmar grows into the tourist destination it’s bound to become, the experience of Bagan will change. Roads will be paved, restrictions will be set, paths will be blocked, and temples will be closed. The magic will still remain, though the adventure may not. I think it’s this combination that brought me such contentment to me during my stay. Completely in my element racing around nearly untouched land, while at the same time being constantly inspired by the mystery and beauty that surrounded me, smack dab in the middle of what would no doubt be a wonder of the world, if not for some shabby reconstruction and conservation efforts.

As we raced across the plain in search of the perfect sunset temple, we passed a fellow group of backpackers that had laid claim to a temple of their own. Joining them at the top, we all sat in awe of the view and the moment. A group of adventurous souls, from all around the world, gathered on the top of 1000-year old temple in the middle of a vast plain protected by distant mountain ranges, sharing playful banter about our origin countries and staring in silence as the sun disappeared behind mountains and dusk settled on the land of spires and mystery. Another day in the books, not soon to be forgotten.

Damn, it feels good to be a traveler.

The Yangon Circle Train

I arrived in Yangon, Myanmar, not quite sure what to expect. I’d heard rave reviews from other travellers as they relished in the somewhat unspoiled, though certainly well-trodden, backpacker trail. Having only recently opened up (some) borders in 2012, Myanmar is one of those places snobby travellers will brag about visiting before it “got big.” No matter how far you may travel across the globe, hipsters will be hip.

Anyways, there’s not a whole lot on offer in Yangon, a city that contrasts many other cities in Southeast Asia if not simply because there are no motorbikes. I had not seen such a large amount of cars crammed together in quite some time, making for some longer than expected cab rides around town. There’s a clear Indian influence that’s much stronger in Myanmar than the rest of the countries I’ve visited, as evidenced by the much darker skin complexion, the ubiquitous chewing tobacco-like paan carts, and the lungis worn by nearly all men. The people are almost universally friendly and pleasant, speaking more than serviceable English. The touts have yet to master, for the most part, the tourist scams and tricks so common in the rest of Asia, and I found myself a bit shocked by the fact that not everything could be bartered for.

The main sight in the city is the Schwedagon Pagoda, a towering gold pagoda that stands out as the most awe-inspiring of all I’ve seen thus far, which is a lot of pagodas, mind you. The top ornament contains something like 1800 carats worth of diamonds, along with many other jewels and gemstones. Throw in throngs of monks and pilgrims alike, worshiping at the many smaller shrines surrounding the giant spire, and it’s tough not to appreciate the splendor of it all.

The highlight of my time in Yangon however, wasn’t necessarily a sight in itself, but an experience. I boarded the 3-hour Yangon Circle Train, a commuter loop through the city and its surroundings, with my 15-cent ticket and wide eyes. The journey brought me through the daily lives of the local people, as commuters jumped on and off with everything from fruits to flowers and hats to hardwares. Vendors set up shop at nearly every stop, ready to sell the daily necessities to exiting passengers, before jumping back on the line again. The scenery changed from concrete mazes to markets to rice fields. It felt as though at each stop I opened a door to a new world, a new reality for each of the individuals I caught a glimpse of, before the rickety rumble of the train started again, slamming shut that door that would never be re-opened for me. I watched female monks count stacks of bills, babies take in the scene from the lap of their mothers, faces covered in the traditional Burmese makeup, spring roll vendors pass through the lanes of the carriage, children reach out windows to grab passing branches, and laborers waist deep in flooded rice fields, all through a distorted lens from a steady, incessant rainstorm. People stared, and people smiled, as I hung outside the carriage at each stop, taking in the view from my temporary front porch for the day.

“Where are you going??” confused locals would yell from the platform as the train crawled away. I’d give them a finger twirl signifying I was going all the way around, and they’d smile, with a thumbs up and a wave. Around I went, not concerned with the time that passed or where the next stop brought me, as I knew I’d experience something to cherish, to appreciate, to remember. I let their world come to me, with eyes glued, ears open, and face exposed to the passing wind, knowing that the stinging rain drops and the dastardly smells and the sometimes unpleasant sights were all part of experiencing the mystical beauty of a life and a world that, on the surface, was so foreign to mine.

What was I saying about a train?

The Elephant Nature Park

I’ve always been of the opinion that, in a perfect world, I’d have 4 pets: A dog, of course, followed by a penguin, a monkey, and a miniature elephant. After this trip, I am fairly certain I never want to be near a monkey again for a very long time, as those devilish thieves would eat all my food and steal by clothes the second I left the house. There’s no resisting a waddling penguin, though, which I was able to confirm during my South American adventure a couple years ago. The last confirmation required was none other than the gentle giants themselves, the most revered animal in Southeast Asia, the elephant. Yes, I am aware that miniature elephants don’t exist, but this is my blog, not yours.

During my travels in the region, I came to understand that elephant tourism is, in most cases, quite unethical. In order to tame and train the elephants, there’s a fairly cruel and grotesque process that more or less kills the elephant’s spirit and puts them at the whim of their Mahout (and his dagger) at all times. For this reason, I chose to visit the Elephant Nature Park, where riding the elephants or watching them do tricks is prohibited. We spent the day feeding and observing, up close and personal, many elephants that had been rescued from performances, logging, and the streets of Thailand. Most bore some sort of scar from the experience, from tumors, to broken legs, to mental instability. They were all, for the most part, docile as they roamed freely around the reserve. Herds stuck together, and we were able to visit a few of them, either feeding one a mid-morning snack of about 50 cucumbers and 30 watermelons, or watching a mom-nanny-baby combo roll in the mud and wash themselves in the river. There’s nothing quite like watching an elephant throw mud on its own back before rolling around in the river. The creatures are unequivocally fascinating. Incredibly powerful and enormous, yet impossible not to laugh at with their mannerisms and movements.

I was content to simply watch the beasts, but I wasn’t about to turn down a chance to step into the river with them for a little washing. Splashing water on the tough, wrinkled skin was about the most fun I’ve had washing an animal. I was secretly hoping one would spray me with water from its trunk, but alas, I stayed reasonably dry. As the day wound to an end, the numerous rescue dogs began racing across the fields, baiting the elephants to chase them, an offer to which they obliged. If only a penguin would have been riding that elephant as it rumbled after the nimble dog. The pinnacle of pet combos, my new trifecta, would have been realized. I guess for now, though, I’ll just have to settle for watching non-miniature, river-bathing, dog-chasing elephants.

Things could be worse.

Chiang Mai & Pai, Thailand

Crossing back over into Thailand, after a month and a half in Cambodia, Vietnam, and Laos, I was immediately struck by how developed it all felt. Roads with lines. Orderly traffic. Stop lights that were actually abided by. Cafes lined streets, offering more than just rice curries and fake pizza. Sitting in a western café that could have easily been back on the Hermosa pier, looking across the table and out into the street filled with westerners, I had a slight bit of culture shock. Feelings and confusion usually reserved for the first day or two after returning home from a long trip were flooding my mind. My understanding of familiarity and the western world has clearly been skewed, as I imagine that if I’d shown up in Chiang Mai 2 or 3 months ago I’d have been wowed by how different and foreign everything felt. It made me feel quite anxious about returning home, if this little taste of western culture in the southeast was having such an effect.

Chiang Mai is a university city in the north of Thailand. Extravagant, golden pagodas, great (and cheap) food, and a buzzing nightlife characterize a city that has been called home by many an ex-pat. Aside from the slight bit of culture shock, I was elated to be back in Thailand. Delicious food, even better massages, reliable wi-fi, paved roads, and unbeatable hospitality make travelling in Thailand a breeze. Hopping back on a motorbike, I ventured up the mountain to the Doi Suthep temple, surprised to see just how sprawling Chiang Mai was, as the old city, self-contained within a surrounding moat, made it feel like nothing more than a small town. A 30-minute ride outside the city lies the “Grand Canyon” of Chiang Mai, a former mining area filled with water and tourists making the 30-foot leap into the cool water below. A great way to cool off from the sweltering heat, and not be bothered by the afternoon downpours I’ve become used to by now.

After a few days in Chiang Mai, I made my way up to Pai, a hippie mountain town about 3 hours by scooter away from the city. The drive was freeing, with the mountain air gradually cooling more and more the further I climbed into the mountains. Locally grown coffee shops tucked in the hills serve as perfect respites from the steep, windy drive. Arriving in Pai, I had nothing on my agenda. Nobody does really, as the only necessary activities are to eat good food, enjoy relaxing drinks, and chat with good company. I splurged (read: spent 10 dollars) on a private bungalow situated on a hill above the city, enjoying my deck, hammock and all, listening to the mountain sounds and enjoying the ability to do nothing at all. A short scooter ride in the surrounding areas leads to hot springs, treehouses, elephants, Buddhas, and waterfalls. The main streets in town have their share of western comforts with a Thai twist, with every café or restaurant guaranteed to contain at least one westerner that came to Pai and never left.

I allowed my mind to wander a bit, reflecting on the entirety of my trip, the people that have so heavily influenced it, and whether or not I was ready to come home. I reached a frame of mind that can often be very difficult to capture: both the excitement of what was to come in my travels, as well as the eagerness to be going home. It’s the feeling of playing with house money. I feel no pressure to see more, to experience something new, to gain some enlightening new perspective. I am perfectly content with what I’ve lived, regardless of what the next few weeks and countries hold, which I am sure will be unique in their own right.

With this zen-like feeling, I booked my flight home. I’m not quite ready to share the when and the where, though, as I believe plans should always have a little wiggle room for an unanticipated change of heart…

Watch Out for that Tree!

My final adventure in Laos was a doozy. I’d heard about the Gibbon Experience all the way back in New Zealand, and made sure that it was on my somewhat small list of must-sees in Southeast Asia. Ziplining over jungle canopies tucked far away from and sign of civilization, sleeping in tree-houses 150 feet off the jungle floor? Count me in.

Getting to the Gibbon Experience, headquartered in Huay Xai, Laos, was an experience in itself. From Luang Prabang, a 2-day slowboat up the Mekong river was required, unless I wanted to brave a 16 hour (at least) bus ride through questionable mountain roads. The boat ride, split up by a night in a remote village somewhere in the middle of nowhere, brought us through rolling hills of dense jungle, the brown waters of the Mekong swirling in all different directions as we gradually moved upstream. We’d pass villages of a dozen shacks, with no other entry points aside from the river itself, miles and miles away from any semblance of a city. Children ran about naked on the beaches, soaking up the sun and waving (and mooning) the boat as we passed. It was a simplistic beauty, and I thoroughly enjoyed it – for about 3 hours. The other 15 hours spent on the boat had me more than relieved to finally reach dry land and get ready for my adventure.

The ride into the jungle, in the back of pickup, lasted almost 3 hours, 1 of which was spent crossing rivers, climbing steep hills, and descending slippery slopes on a backroad that thankfully we completed before the steady rain washed it away. After arriving at the main village, an hour-long hike through hot, sweaty, thick jungles brought the group to the first zipline. Hopping up to go first, I whisked down the line, popping out into pristine jungle, the first bit of cool air I’d felt in a while screaming past my face. I was higher than I anticipated, slightly startled by the tops of tall trees I watched pass by below me. As I arrived at the makeshift platform at the other end, I knew the next couple days were going to be not only thrilling, but a bit mesmerizing as well.

We hiked and zipped, making our way through the jungle to various checkpoints, until we finally reached our last line of the day, one that led straight into our accommodation, 150 feet off the jungle floor. The view zipping in was a bit surreal. Endless jungle to the right, straight ahead a striking house in the middle of a tree. Like a lighthouse on the coast, an unmistakable inconsistency in the setting, yet at the same time, completely natural, almost poetic. The treehouse was basic accommodation by any standards, but the mattress and mosquito net were really all that was needed. The view from the bathroom was just an added bonus. While there were no Gibbon sightings, there was plenty of wildlife waiting for us in the treehouse, as tree-rats and hand-sized spiders were just a little startling each time I got up in the night to relieve my intensifying stomach pains. The jungle awoke us in the wee hours of the morning with what it knows best, a deafening thunder storm, its roars only challenged by the incessant chatter of the hundreds of creatures held within, and hovering above, its canopy. It felt as if I’d turned on one of those dream sound machines, set it to thunderstorm and jungle sounds, then turned it up to max volume.

The following day was filled with more zipping, this time slightly less supervised, as our guide decided we were expert enough to go exploring on our own through the network of lines. Never mind that platforms were missing wood, or that some required precarious maneuvering a hundred feet off the ground. Safety first! The views continued to impress, and the exhilaration with each run never seemed to cease. Popping out over the canopy from the depths of the tree cover had me giving my best Tarzan yells, for all the jungle to hear. Some runs seemed endless, as the longest neared 500 meters in length, where stopping in the middle to soak in the view would require some serious monkey climbing to get to the other side.

Accommodation on the second night came in the form of a 3-story treehouse, the afternoon heat made tolerable only by more ziplining and a cold shower. More than just a room with a view, we were the view, smack dab in the middle of a jungle, doing our best to blend in to the panorama before us. Sure, the comforts were lacking, the bedding wasn’t the cleanest, the bugs never let up, the spiders and rats did spider and rat things, and my insides contorted in ways I never thought possible, but what a rush the whole experience was. Capped off my another morning thunderstorm, the final zips and hike back to town had me filled with both relief it was over and a longing for more.

I’d felt truly a part of the jungle, in all the best and worst ways imaginable. 

Floatin'

Growing up in a small, rural, foothill town with lakes, rivers, and scorching summers, some activities come pretty natural. One of the more enjoyable and ingenious of such activities requires the purchase of an inner tube and a fair amount of beer. The only other requirement is some swimming shorts, and you’ve got yourself some prime entertainment. Many summers were spent floating down the river on an inner tube, multiple times a week. Sometimes multiple times a day, but who’s counting? The best way to escape the heat was to pack a few cold ones and plunge into the icy river, letting it take you to the edge of town, where a pickup was (usually) available. I look back fondly on these days when a beer shower may have been the only one some of us had for days.

When I learned that one of the main tourist draws of Vang Vieng, Laos involved floating down a river on an inner tube, stopping at riverside bars along the way, I couldn’t help but laugh to myself at how this seemed like such a novel concept to many from around the world. Firmly in my element, I grabbed a couple roadies and a tube and hopped in the back of a tuk tuk to be dropped off upriver. Apparently the scene in Vang Vieng used to be much more wild, as hard drugs sold at all the bars contributed to upwards of 20 deaths a year. The scene has been cleaned up for the most part, as only 2 bars are open on any given day, and stick to (mostly) serving alcohol only. The scene was as you’d expect, with 20-somethings grabbing on to ropes thrown out into the middle of the river by the bartenders on shore, trying desperately to pull themselves up an onto the makeshift platforms that made up each bar. Bar competitions only barely interrupted the complete state of relaxation experienced by all participants. Out of the river, the vibe was as worry free as can be. For some though, once the plunge was made back into the water, the struggle was real. Flipped tubes, bridge collisions, rock avoidance (or lack thereof) were just a few of the many adventures that await in the water. Me? I was cruising, fully entrenched in my comfort zone, enjoying the striking view of mountains surrounding me and in the distance, a relaxing front row seat to enjoy the present and reminisce about the past. Just as Kenny Chesney sang,

I went back to a two-tone, short-bed Chevy, driving (my boys) out to the levy, living life with no sense of time.

Probably as far away from home as I’ve ever been, it all came back around. I think I’ve decided what’s first on the agenda when I return…

Luang Prabang, Laos

After having spent what seemed like months in Vietnam, I’d forgotten the sense of anticipation accompanied by the arrival in a brand new country. Flying down into Luang Prabang, Laos, I was struck by the lush jungles that surround the Mekong River as its brown waters flow through most of the country. Signs of deforestation exist, but you kind of get the feeling of being very deep into untouched territory.

Aside from the small city, there’s really not much in the surrounding areas, save for more pronounced mountains and remote jungles. The city itself has a sense of charm similar to Hoi An, though far more steeped in religious calm and peace than any other place I’ve visited on this trip. The sleepiness resonates. Streets are full of shops and restaurants, yet quiet. The touristic temples and monasteries are busy, but filled with more whispers than shouts. The restaurants along the Mekong were very nearly empty, with a suspiciously low number of encouraging hostesses by Asia standards. Honking horns are few and far between, as I soon learned after mistakenly taking my motorbike etiquette with me from Vietnam. Even the night market is quiet, as vendors allow would-be buyers to parous at their leisure, no beckoning required.

Dawn marks the daily procession of Monks through the town, collecting morning alms, their lone source of food for the day. While tourists have begun to get in on the action, it was inspiring to watch locals set up shop on the sidewalk as they awaited each set of passing monks, scooping sticky rice into their bowls. Afternoons can be whiled away at riverside cafes and yoga studios, where pads strewn about on the decks serve as a reading chair, lunch seat, and napping bed.

Outside of town, a multi-tiered waterfall provides a respite from the heat, with many pools scattered in its wake. The ride out to the falls showed just how remote the small city is, with no more than a few huts here and there throughout the 25 miles out and back. My suspicions were confirmed as I climbed the town mountain for sunset. As expected, temples dot the hill, as well as the surrounding mountains in all directions. That’s about all that dot the mountains, though. No sprawling houses, no development, simply a river and jungles, for as far as the eye can see.

Luang Prabang is truly a gem, tucked away among the shroud of the jungle. There’s little wonder as to how it’s become such a holy, peaceful oasis.

The Heart of the Hills

Trekking along muddy trails to my indigenous homestay for the evening, over and down enormous rice terraces glistening in the afternoon rain, I looked back down the steep, deep green valley carved into the surrounding mountains and wondered what took me so long to get here.

Located in the northwest corner of Vietnam, nearing the Chinese border, I did not have especially high expectations for Sapa, and more or less added it to the list as my final stop before heading to Laos. Little did I know that I’d come to enjoy this mountain escape more than any other place in Vietnam.

The main draw of Sapa is the plethora of homestays available, as local women offer to take you through the hills into their village, where they will give you a bed, cook you a meal, and sell you bracelets. Arriving on the night bus at 3:30 in the morning, the crowd of women began to show up around 4, unbeknownst to the sleeping and weary travelers aboard. Once the doors opened at 6, the sales pitches began, accompanied by surprisingly good English as compared to the rest of the country. The women are sweet enough, and it wasn’t too much of a hassle to avoid being dragged along down the mountain to an unknown village.

Prior to venturing out into the villages, a motorbike trip was necessary to ease my withdrawals I’d been having ever since I sold my bike. The areas surrounding Sapa were simply stunning. Silver and Love waterfalls, along with Tram Ton pass just add to the incredible views around nearly every corner of the winding roads that split off in all directions from the center of town. Lush greens of the forest give way to the terraces that dot nearly every hillside, where running out of fuel becomes the only worry that could possibly cross one’s mind. Nearly every café and restaurant sports a view you’d be hard-pressed to find anywhere outside a 5-star hotel or mansion in the hills.

While the homestay itself was underwhelming, the journey to get there, along with the obligatory exploring around the hillside and village by day and night, was nothing short of idyllic. The steady rain simply added to the aura of it all. Mist covered the mountains as streams of water splashed from the terraces down to the roaring river below. Nearly everyone slipped down the muddy “trail” at one point or another, as the local women became invaluable guides / steady arms on which to hold on. I’d like to think they were helping out of the goodness of their hearts, but they too had bracelets to sell once we arrived for lunch. The scenes continued to unfold. Farmers reflecting on their work ahead out over the valley. Children enjoying the view from atop water buffaloes. Men and women plowing each and every terrace. Farm animals running rampant. All it took was a slight detour away from the undeterred saleswomen and children to find the true draw of the area, reality in its purest form.

Upon arrival at the homestay, I set out with some serendipitous company on a little exploring through the terraces and away from the main drag. For some unknown reason, the lines and contours of the rice terraces mesmerize me. I cannot help but be captivated by both the engineering and the artistic appeal of it all. Tip-toeing along the ledges, trying to avoid both falling in and falling off, while at the same time dodging angry dogs and immovable buffalo, my sense of adventure was as heightened as ever, and euphoria set in as we passed little children keen on a game of hand slapping (My hands were too quick for them, if you were wondering).

The trek back to town was wet and slippery as expected, but no less spectacular, as we climbed and climbed to hillside huts for short respites from the rain, crossing some of the paths I’d gathered a sneak peek at the day before. After returning to Sapa, it was clear that one day on the motorbike proved insufficient, as we spent another day outside the town exploring more villages accessed by paths that resembled roads to some degree. More buffalo, more children, more terraces, more shades of green, more surreal views. There’s a particular joy associated with the feeling of knowing you’re exactly where you need to be.

...and then, with the roar of the night bus, it's gone.

Ha Long Bay, Vietnam

Every country has theirs. The sights that are a part of nearly every travel itinerary, from package tourists to shoestring backpackers. For Vietnam, UNESCO listed Ha Long Bay is, in all likelihood, the biggest tourists draw for the country. You know the images: Ships anchored in a bay of huge limestone karsts as far as the eye can see, a maze of rock formations that would take years to explore each one. Kayaks floating through caves and remote fishing villages so very far removed from modern society (besides those pesky tourists).

Options for visiting Ha Long Bay run the gamut, from booze cruise to luxury. I went with a slightly upper class tour, as I’d hear one too many stories of rats on board to cave in to the budget options. Turns out I was a little more than slightly overcharged, but this I’ve come to expect in Vietnam. Having done my share of cruises and boat tours on this trip, I tempered my expectations a bit, but also put myself in just the right frame of mind to be spending a couple days out on the water amidst striking scenery. After a few photos, I found a perch at the front of the boat to soak in everything around me. The limestone formations are familiar now, but the sheer endlessness of it all really stuck with me this time around. Every few minutes, new shapes appeared, constantly changing with my perspective as we sailed through and around. I wondered what it all might look like from the top of a peak, before remembering just how comfortable I was lounging on the deck. As the sun began to set, the silhouettes of ships found anchor for the evening as fisherman were just beginning their night’s work. They crossed paths as dusk, a contrast as stark as any, the tiny boats and their occupants doing their very best to make a life, while those on massive ships struggled to escape theirs.

The thing I enjoy most about sailing, surprisingly, is that you’re stuck. There is no option to get off, to explore, to find something new. You must take the world as it comes to you, and enjoy it for what it is. Gone are the what-ifs and the desire to find some sight or place that might be better than where you currently sit. Anxiety fades to contentment, because what else is there, really? It’s in these moments that I appreciate, I reflect, and I daydream. I dream of being an explorer, of discovering such beauty someday, somewhere. Alas, Ha Long Bay has long been discovered, as evidenced by the hordes of boats and tourists vying for their own piece of paradise.

Thankfully, there’s plenty to go around.

Ninh Binh, Vietnam

Now bike-less, I made my first overnight bus trip in Vietnam up to the small city of Ninh Binh, just a couple hours south of Hanoi. Crammed in the back of a 3-wide, 2-high, and 10-long series of too-small beds next to an arguing Vietnamese couple was not my ideal sleeping situation, but it worked.

Not much is going on in Ninh Binh, as the town draw is held a few kilometers away at Tam Coc, an oasis hidden from the city smog and blowing horns. A serene river flows through rice fields guarded by ominous limestone towers. Small canoes are manned by local rowers that switch between rowing with their arms to skillfully paddling with their legs as they slowly drift through the silence of the rice and river. Green rice plants had begun their turn to yellow, creating a warm reflection over each panorama. Under caves and into lagoons, the 2-hour float through the river was as peaceful as it was mesmerizing.

It seems as though the further north I’ve travelled in Vietnam, the more striking the scenery has become. Stopping off in a place like Ninh Binh, which I’d never heard of until maybe 2 or 3 days prior, is one of the aspects I love most about open-ended travel. It’s nearly impossible to discover all the sights and sounds of a country from behind a computer screen, so why bother? The invaluable information gathered from fellow travelers in hostels, guesthouses, and at the sights themselves provides the perfect roadmap for truly discovering all that’s on offer. Alas, there’s never enough time to see everything, and as I hopped on my too-full mini-bus headed towards Hanoi and the northern tip of Vietnam, I wondered just what else may have been hidden in the trail I was leaving behind. 

Hoi An to Hue via Hai Van

After originally planning to sell my motorcycle in Hoi An, I was drawn to the highway once more to tackle the Hai Van pass, an enticing coastal mountain pass that effectively splits northern and southern Vietnam. As evidenced by the bunkers at the top, the pass was a key military position in the Vietnam War, with views ranging far north and south, out into the South China Sea. By Vietnamese road standards for quality and craziness, the pass was a breeze. Perhaps I’ve just gotten too used to the chaos to mind anymore, but I felt right at home climbing up and over, rolling down into the next city of Hue, passing all those slow poke riders along the way. The freedom of having my own means of transportation was something I could already tell I was going to miss as I began to think how I was going to sell the bike in Hue.

Hue is an old imperial city with not a whole lot going on aside from its historical citadel and grandiose tombs that house previous rulers. With that said, the riverside setting below misty mountains makes for pleasant strolls through the city and its outskirts that hold the sights. Taking advantage of my last day on the bike, I ventured out and about, cruising through rice fields, rolling hills, and roadside potion stands. I parked my bike at one stand before heading to one of the grand tombs, with the promise that I would make a drink purchase on my way back. As I sat down, I looked around for the drinks, only to find giant jars of alcohol marinades, filled with snakes and baby deer fetuses. It was slightly disturbing to say the least, but thankfully I was able to order a (sealed) bottle of green tea. Maybe I’ll try the deer whiskey next time…

The tombs and citadel were surprisingly very peaceful, with gardens and lily pad-filled moats surrounding beautifully crafted facades with brightly tiled roofs. I found a few serene spots to sit and just be. With all the sights and sounds of the last 4 months piling up, it’s become more and more difficult to process it all. The time alone is essential to reflect on my experiences, embrace my thoughts, and continue to challenge myself and my pre-conceived notions. I need more break days than I did early on. I don’t knock everything off the list in every city anymore, and that’s something I’ve learned to be content with. At some point, I will grow tired of exploring, of having the motivation to get out and go every day. When the time comes, I expect to be perfectly content with that state of mind, and will embrace booking my flight home. That day is not today, however.

The show must go on.

Hoi An, Vietnam

Hoi An will charm your socks off.

After the adventurous, but somewhat stressful bike trip from Ho Chi Minh through the Central Highlands to Hoi An, I was in desperate need of a little bit of recovery time. Sitting on a stoop enjoying a morning coffee in front of the pedestrian only street, watching fruit sellers and handicraft-ers setting up shop for the day, in no rush whatsoever, I did my best to soak in the calm before the hard-selling of the day began. You can buy all things kitsch in Hoi An, though it’s best known for the multitude of tailors that line nearly every street in the old town. Beautiful suits and silk dresses are on display in shops, on locals, and in bags of satisfied tourists. Come nightfall, glowing silk lanterns hang over alleys, bridges, and doorways, guiding a path through the maze of colorful facades and back streets. For me, Hoi An is synonymous with colors. The warm hues of yellows and reds on storefronts, the bright blues and greens of the lanterns, and the glowing candle boxes of every color that float down the canal each evening.

Hoi An is a photographer’s dream, a shopaholic’s Atlantis, a foodie’s paradise, and an introvert’s nightmare. You will be the victim of a sales pitch. And you will buy something. Maybe a lot of things. Like a suit. And two blazers. And a few dress shirts. And a couple ties. And lanterns. And bracelets. And scarves. Oh, and chopsticks. I’m speaking hypothetically here of course. No intrepid traveler like myself would spend so much time and effort on clothes and gifts and souvenirs. Never…

The food was on point as well, made even better by rooftop decks and terraces, giving the diner a bird’s eye view of the quaint town below. Following in Anthony Bourdain’s footsteps, I sampled the best Banh Mi sandwich in Vietnam, for about 95 cents by the way, as well as the delicious Cao Lau, a thick rice noodle dish only prepared properly from one of the 5 water wells in the city. Down one alley, I found the gold mine of noodles drying in the morning sun, ready to be chowed down for dinner that evening. I made two trips to an alley way restaurant named Bale Well, where the same set meal has been served every evening for the past 20-something years. Somehow, the owner knew that I was new around these parts and became my personal Spring-Roller, as she threw together rice paper rolls stuffed with greens, shrimp, rice pancakes, sprouts, and some mystery sauces. It was all delicious. I think she may have expected me to make my own after the first two, but there’d be none of that. Six or seven rolls later, I was sufficiently stuffed, and had made a new Facebook friend.

Any weariness from the buzz of tourists in the town can be mediated immediately with a quick ride out to the nearly-empty beaches, through sprawling rice fields tilled by water buffaloes and ogled at by those looking on. The Marble Mountains loom nearby as well, a set of limestone formations with caves built into them, inhabited by shrines and Buddhas, and some much-needed cooler air. With so much time, I found myself getting more and more lost in the town. Avoiding the afternoons and early evenings, I often had the streets to myself, save for a slew of triangle hat wearing farmers and rickshaw cycling hustlers.

As I hopped on my motorcycle on my way out of the city, I was rejuvenated and grateful for the much needed respite.

…and the new suit.

Motorcycle Diaries

For as long as I’ve been alive, the family garage has held at least 3 permanent parking spaces for motorcycles. A former motocross racer, my Dad only just recently sold off his dirt bike, officially hanging up the gloves on a career that ended long ago, yet still lived on through the photos and trophies that continue to hold prominent places next to lawnmowers, deer antlers, and power tools. At one point, our garage held a true moped, a Honda 70, the dirt bike, a Suzuki street bike, and a shiny new Harley Davidson. I haven’t quite pinned down the exact reason behind my disinterest in ever getting into the motorcycle scene. Perhaps I was subliminally discouraged by my Mother, who’d seen one too many scars from road rash and removed spleens, or maybe I’d somehow grown up too risk-averse to hop on 2 wheels of death. Whatever the reason, I never had the slightest interest in racing or even riding.

So, as I climbed aboard my brand new 110cc Honda-something, purchased from a fellow backpacker on the streets of Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam, having never really learned how to ride anything more than an automatic scooter, I had a little moment with myself wondering what the hell I was doing. While those feelings remained throughout many portions of the 5-day ride from Ho Chi Minh to Hoi An, the cause of such feelings changed drastically. It didn’t take very long to get the hang of the clutch and switching gears (though I did stall plenty of times), however, the chaos unfolding before us was something I could never have imagined preparing for.

The sheer amount of motorbikes and vehicles on the roads is one thing, but the fact that they all travel in literally every direction from any given point on the road is an entirely different beast. The far right “lane” is generally reserved for motorbikes, regardless of which direction they’re travelling. A lane barely big enough for a smart car, though, doesn’t quite do the job of containing rows 5 or 6 deep of honking, swerving, above capacity bikes. Stop signs are non-existent, and Yield apparently doesn’t translate in Vietnamese, as any sort of t-intersection will involve at least one motorbike barreling into traffic without even so much as a glance into the lane they’re crossing into. Large buses, semi-trucks, and passenger cars pass each other at will, with zero regard for what traffic is coming the other way on the two-lane road. Size trumps all, and I’m fairly certain any of the multitude of trucks that nearly ran us over would have continued on their way after turning us into banana pancakes.

Rush hour traffic an hour or two outside of Ho Chi Minh felt like I was at the starting line of a marathon, if that marathon was run on two death wheels, pros were intermixed with walkers, and there was another race running exactly perpendicular at the same time. Oh, and the race path was filled with quicksand, sinkholes, and thick exhaust fumes. I’m still not sure how I survived that without either killing myself or someone else. The 3-hour ride turned into 6, and as daylight quickly began to burn off, a new concern arose. I failed to mention that the bikes purchased weren’t exactly fresh off the shelf. Rebuilt who knows how many times, the mish-mash of parts may not have exactly been street legal. My headlight did not work, which began to pose a problem as darkness fell. One functioning headlight and 2 functioning headlamps made for a nerve wracking 2 hours to our first destination, as night buses began their routine of passing anything and everything in sight, regardless of what stood in front of them. My little light didn’t stand a chance. While I admit this was not the smartest thing I’ve ever done, we were basically in the middle of mostly nowhere once darkness fell, so getting to our destination was probably the safest thing to do. Probably.

Mui Ne is a little beach town that served as a perfect respite for the night and next morning, relaxing by the pool and attempting to process what we’d just survived. After a couple oil changes, we were off the next afternoon to Dalat, a mountain town known for its great scenery, French influence, and cooler temperatures. I somehow regressed with my skills on the second day, as the gravel, potholes, sand, and crazy drivers got the best of me a couple times, causing me to drop the bike. Thankfully, there were no real injuries to myself or the bike, just a wounded ego. Road work is interesting around these parts, as there never seems to be anyone directing traffic, you’re basically forced to find your own way through the maze of gravel, potholes, and barriers. Find my way I did, just barely, much to the delight of my much more experienced travel mate, without whom I doubt I would have made it out alive.

We rested an extra day in the refreshing mountain air of Dalat, taking advantage of the delicious home-cooked meals at our hostel/homestay, exploring quite possibly the coolest bar I’ve ever been in, equipped with a network of caves for exploring, and doing a little canyonning down the river, as if we hadn’t had enough adventure already. From Dalat, it was a 6 hour ride to Buon Ma Thuot, a small city in the Central Highlands of Vietnam, known for its coffee production. After leaving Dalat, sightings of westerners were few and far between, as cities and beaches gave way to villages and rolling hills, filled with crops and jungles.

The feeling of being stared at can have different effects on people. There are stares of wonder, aggression, disdain, amusement, excitement, curiosity, and confusion. We experienced the gamut of reactions as we passed through the highlands. For every 5 people waving or saying hello, there’d be one flipping us off, or yelling in our faces as they passed by. For every few people willing to help point us in the right direction or give us advice, there’d be a gas station attendant charging you after filling up someone else’s tank, or speed demons purposely grazing ever so close to your bikes on the side of the road to give you a little scare. It was all slightly unnerving, yet enjoyable at the same time. One conversation I had with a young child at a very nice coffee resort/restaurant sums up the experience quite well. It went a little something like this:

“Whi’e”

“What?”

“Whi’e”

“White?”

“Yes”

“I’m white, yes I am”

“How are you?”

“I’m good, and you?”

“What’s your name?”

“Andy, what’s your name?”

“Where you from?”

“California”

“F$%& You!”

“No, no, don’t say that. It’s bad”

“F@#$ You!”

Alright then. Off she went, peeking at me behind pillars and parents. Oh Vietnam.

At one village, we stopped for some drinks and some stale peanuts at a roadside hammock stand. Slowly but surely, neighbors came outside to say hi and practice their English a bit. It was the exact experience I’d imagined beginning the journey, no swearing involved this time.

The scenery itself was stunning. The roads got progressively better for the most part, making the curving mountain terrain a joy to ride, soaking in the panoramas and the crisp air. We passed by weddings and funerals, roadside fires and rice field floods, scorching heat and monsoon rain, all on bikes that took more than a little tender loving care to get started, but somehow brought us safely into Hoi An, some 700 miles later.

A trip I won’t soon forget, a trial by fire of sorts for my first true motorcycle experience.

Hey Dad, you up for a road trip?

The Killing Fields

Cambodia is hard. This post may be the same for you, due to both its graphic nature and strong opinions. You’ve been warned.

***

Heat. Dirt. Trash. Crowds. Scams. Thieves. Poverty. Death.

Arriving in Phnom Penh, the capital city of Cambodia, after an all-day bus ride from Siem Reap and the temples of Angkor Wat, I was battling stomach issues that would see zero chance of improvement in the environment in which I was unknowingly arriving. Aside from the heat, which apparently is a product of a record hot summer in Southeast Asia, the city of Phnom Penh is a microcosm of the self-induced destruction of Cambodia’s past. The smells can be absolutely nauseating, and I’ve smelled some shit, literally, on my escapades throughout Asia thus far. The trash abounds, and gets even worse as you venture out of the city, where I witnessed children and families playing and/or scavenging through festering garbage dumps while emaciated cows followed suit. The filth is palpable, as exhaust fumes, dirt, and trash join forces in the overcrowded streets to satiate your face and body. Even my merino wool absorbed the stench. Thankfully, I didn’t fall victim to bag snatching, though it sounded quite scary, as skilled thieves on motorbikes are known to slices bag straps and take off before you know it.

All this pales in comparison, however, to the atrocities that tarnish the city and country’s very recent history. The Khmer Rouge was an oppressive regime in the 1970’s that came to power on the coattails of the U.S. destruction of rural Cambodia during the Vietnam War. I was both disappointed in myself and upset with our education system that I had no idea that the United States had dropped more bombs on Cambodia than had been dropped during the entirety of World War II. That my country ran these rural dwellers into the cities, where the Khmer Rouge was a beacon of hope in escaping the terror raining down from above.

If they only knew.

Pol Pot and his Khmer Rouge regime systematically annihilated those living within the city of Phnom Penh and throughout Cambodia. Any sense of distrust resulted in coerced confessions, false accusations of treason, and forced divulgence of information that none of these souls ever had. Doctors, Engineers, Farmers, Mothers, Children, Murdered. In all, one quarter of the entire population of Cambodia was exterminated. One quarter of a generation, gone. Prisons were set up around the country, where torture and coercion were on the daily fixed agenda. We got the chance to visit S-21, at the Tuol Sleng museum. Once a schoolyard, the classrooms were turned into cells, the playground equipment mechanisms for torture. After false confessions of treason or the like were confirmed, prisoners were taken by the truckload outside the city to the Killing Fields, where loudspeakers and diesel engines drowned out the screams of individuals murdered one by one, more often than not by blunt force trauma to the head, as bullets were too precious to be wasted. Especially sickening was the mass murder of innocent children, taken by the legs from their mothers and beaten against the killing tree until they stopped breathing. Fragments of bone, teeth, and skin have been found deep in the tree bark.

Walking around the killing fields today is a somber, numbing experience. A large memorial stands in the center, filled to the top with skulls, each marked with the cause of death near their respective cracks and holes. Pits of mass graves lay scattered about, where clothing and bone fragments make their way to the surface with each rainy season. Glass cases contain the remnants picked up by the workers once the garments are fully unearthed by nature. Peering into the glass, blouses lay next to shorts meant for no older than a 3-year old. The killing tree leans in the center of the fields, covered in bracelets meant for remembrance. It's all very disturbing.

As is the case will all museums of this sort, we keep the remnants intact so as to educate the world, so this may never happen again. Similar to my reaction at the Dachau concentration camp outside Munich 5 years ago, I can’t help but have feelings of indignation that the world’s declarations of Never Again are bullshit. Repression and senseless murder continue to run rampant in our world. The scariest part of it all is that we are a part of the destruction, whether we realize it or not. Just as I was shocked to learn the U.S. role in the destruction of Cambodia and ultimate rise of the Khmer Rouge, you may also be shocked to learn just how much of a presence we currently have in Yemen, or at least above it. I encourage you to read up on our drone campaign there, and the impact on the innocent citizens, yes women and children, whose lives we’ve destroyed or ended. Or choose to ignore it, as it doesn’t quite fit the narrative that only the bad guys kill the innocent. Or that anything bad the country has ever done in the Middle East is George W. Bush’s fault. It’s imperative to realize that Cambodia wasn’t an aberration, Agent Orange wasn’t a one-off misstep. History repeats itself over and over again. Perhaps my children will go to a museum someday in Yemen or elsewhere in the Middle East and be disgusted by their country’s actions and impacts on faceless, indefensible victims, and the horror of daily life anticipating fire raining down from the heavens. I love my country and my fellow countrymen, but there comes a time when we all must look in the mirror and question whether actions that make sense today won’t be classified in the future as clearly misguided and detrimental.

I understand war is multifaceted, with no right answers. I won’t sit here and pretend like I could even begin to craft the right strategies, even with hindsight. The aftermath of such wars, though, as was the case with the Khmer Rouge, are so regularly accepted as inherently evil and deplorable that it goes without saying that exterminating 25% of a population for no other reason other than they were simply unwanted can in no way be viewed with a different lens and found to be justified. I challenge you, then, as an American, to look inward at what we’ve accepted as the norm in our society, in the name of freedom, rights, and choice. As a rule, the trauma of the killing tree is not all that different than that of a terminated pregnancy inside the womb. Depending on which statistics you trust, the current rate of pregnancies that end in abortion is around 20%. That is to say that we are currently missing around 20% of the people that at one time had the potential to live and breathe and prosper in our free society. It confuses me when I watch the country celebrate the ability to produce such a statistic. I speak not of celebrating the act of abortion itself, but rather the right to choose who lives and who dies, for the betterment of an individual. Is this something to celebrate, to fight for? The right to exterminate a human that is unwanted or that we feel cannot be taken care of? This isn’t an argument for being Pro-Life or Pro-Choice, but rather a plead for an introspection and realization that we can we can do better as a country, especially with the support of our own people, the marginalized, the ones that have no voice for themselves, and especially the ones that feel they are left with no other options.

Perhaps one day the world will recognize even more lost generations, and Never Again may be more than just a feeble catch-phrase to make us feel better about our feigned vows to open our eyes during the next atrocity.