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.

Angkor Wat

Speckled throughout this itinerary-less escapade of mine are a handful of locations, sights, and experiences that were non-negotiable stops along the way. Angkor Wat may have been at the top of that list.

Spread out over 400 acres outside the Cambodian city of Siem Reap, the temple complexes of Angkor Wat pierce the sky in the otherwise flat terrain. What struck me most was the vastness and diversity of it all. Buddhist and Hindu temples merged into the same intricate edifices, some more well maintained than others, all quite strikingly raw as compared to similar ruin complexes such as Machu Picchu. Free to roam around just about anywhere with the temples, it wasn’t uncommon to stumble upon a Buddha with incense burning in front, tucked away behind a corner in a seemingly abandoned room within a ruined temple. Monks dotted the grounds inside and outside of the temples, their bright orange garments a stark contrast to the aged stone surroundings.

While it was quite a lot to process, we were able to cover 90% of the grounds in one, very long day. Starting before sunrise, the main temple of Angkor embraced the first rays of the sun, as its reflection began taking shape in the pond at its feet. While the scene may sound quite serene, the hordes of tourists and vendors unfortunately make it anything but. For the most part, however, we successfully dodged the masses throughout the day, timing our visits to stagger with the large groups, thanks to our trusty tuk tuk driver. $20 each was a small price to pay for 15 hours-worth of a private chauffeur and tour guide, leather seats included.

The highlights of the grounds include Ta Prohm, better known as the Tomb Raider temple, where massive trees coexist with the stonework of the temple, each at the whim of the other for remaining upright and stable. The intricacy of the root systems was fascinating, stretching along temple walls, through divisions in the stone, and on top of the temples themselves, reaching dozens of feet into the air. My personal favorite was Bayon, a temple complex containing countless enigmatic faces on all sides of pillars and centerpieces throughout. A smug smile, apparently reminiscent of the reigning King, was a reminder of who was in charge at the time. I personally felt like I was finally living my dream of being a contestant on Legends of the Hidden Temple, an adventure gameshow with the stone face of Olmec as the center point of the action. Surrounded my Olmecs and equipped with a camera, I took more photos than I care to divulge, even while battling the elements of an afternoon rain shower.

Doing my best to soak in not just the rain but the grandness of it all, I channeled some of my prior memories of Machu Picchu, alone in the fog atop a mysterious mountain oasis. What Angkor lacks in setting, it more than makes up for in both size, diversity, and peculiarity. And while I wasn’t able to channel quite the same sense of mystery and wonder that I did up in the Andes with the Incas, I walked away from Angkor Wat with a deep appreciation for the details and old-world grandeur held within its grounds, and perhaps a new favorite place for an adult game of hide and seek… 

Bangkok

There are few things I enjoy more than convincing friends to travel, especially to new and unfamiliar places. Something about being outside one’s comfort zone usually brings out the best, or at least a new side, of people. As a childhood friend touched down in Bangkok, the last of 4 previously unplanned vacation adventures had begun.

Bangkok is sensory overload in all its glory. Unending food stalls, massage parlors, bars, restaurants, markets, temples, traffic, tuk tuks, peddlers, lady-boys, and scammers. If there ever was a quintessential introduction to everything Westerners might find different about Asia, Bangkok is it. Stereotypes playing out right in front of our eyes, navigating the streets required turning down whispering requests for not just massages, but “everything,” making the ever-more difficult decision as to which banana pancake stand to try next, and making sense of faulty info about a temple that’s the Same Same as what we were actually looking for. Unfortunately, you end up believing almost no one, as the trustworthiness of advice decreases exponentially with the number of Same Same’s uttered in a given sentence. It’s akin to believing in Donald Trump’s self-proclaimed eloquence as he tells you he has “the best words.” Right.

Scams aside, Bangkok holds enough gems and experiences for 2-3 solid days of exploration. The major temples in the area were my first true experience of grandiose Buddhist shrines, statues, and practices. Colored tiles dot each and every rooftop, while colorful warriors guard the entrances. Incense plays a major role in all ceremonies and prayer, and provides a slight respite from the durian or sewer scents that will inevitably hit your nostrils during urban exploration. Golden Buddhas are hidden in temples, down alleys, at store fronts, everywhere. The baddest Buddha of them all was hands down the giant reclining Buddha, which must have been at least 50 feet long and 20 feet high, just chilling inside a temple barely longer and taller than the Buddha itself.

Floating Markets have become a symbol of Bangkok, as the city transitions to modernity while still keeping its old world charm. We opted for the far less touristy market, which required some interesting public transportation to get to. Hanging off the back of a cargo truck turned taxi is normal, right? Thought so. Anyways, the market lines a busy canal, as canoes filled with women cooking up fresh(ish) seafood, soups, and noodles serve their dollar-menu items to customers seated on the steps leading down into the canal. Sitting on the steps in a miniature plastic chair that was sure to break soon, being served fresh squid on an old 2x4 as I looked down on a cluster of umbrella covered canoes filled to the brim with fish, veggies, and noodles, miles away from the buzzing city, I was in the exact scene I’d hoped to experience, and we had a good laugh about how ridiculously far from little old Oroville, California we’d made it.

Our last hurrah in Bangkok was a night out on the infamous Khao San Road, the backpacker Mecca of Southeast Asia. Before venturing out into the chaos, we found a surprisingly local live music venue inside a strip mall, where we made quick friends with some Thai locals enjoying a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black and the heavily-accented renditions of all our favorite western hits. The place was rocking, and so were we, especially once the band started jamming Offspring. I must say, I am Pretty Fly for a White Guy, and I made sure to let the crowd know…from the top of our table. After a few acts and busted eardrums, we made our way out into the chaos of Khao San, passing offerings for liquor, laughing gas, and lady-boys, before succumbing to the final temptation of a late night snack.

What does Scorpion taste like, you ask?

In a word, crunchy.   

(Free) Diving

After bidding farewell to my friend and the boat, I was solo once again, continuing to live the island life, this time off the east coast of Thailand. I headed to Ko Tao, the diving capital of Thailand, and maybe the world. I opted for Free Diving, with the opportunity to travel into the depths without the aide of scuba gear and oxygen. I arrived for the 2-day course with the hopes of learning a few new skills in breath holding and open water swimming. Within the first couple hours, I had held my breath for nearly 2:30, about 3 times longer than I’d ever been able to accomplish in the past. I was content to call it good at that point, but we were just getting started.

The first day out on the water was choppy at best. Maintaining the relaxed breathing became much more of a challenge as the current required a death grip on the buoy. Nevertheless, I made my way down the rope, reaching a depth of over 30 feet, where a deep blue calm surrounded me. It was both thrilling and mesmerizing at the same time. Unfortunately, it was very challenging for me to equalize the pressure in my ears while my head was upside down, so swimming straight down became a nonstarter, and eventually, even keeping my head upright was too painful at depths without equalization.

The next day, I achieved my personal best underwater breath hold of 3:16, something I still can’t believe I did as I write this. The technique is actually not even that difficult, I’m happy to give some unofficial lessons whenever I return if anybody is interested. Back in the water, I was able to equalize a bit better, but still struggled with my head straight down. I made it down to almost 45 feet, though, before calling it a day in the depths. While I won’t be becoming a professional free diver anytime soon, I look forward to a little extra snorkeling time underwater, and perhaps a few pool tricks back home…

I took my course with Blue Immersion Freediving on Ko Tao, Thailand. Highly recommended.

Setting Sail

With any good wanderlust session, the mind conjures up images of what the experience will be like once you finally lay your eyes on the scene you’ve imagined, be it a majestic mountain peak, a chaotic marketplace, a rustic cottage, or a pristine stretch of sand. For me, I’ve always lusted over finding myself in front of a wooden Thai longboat, sitting on white sands, looking out over crystal clear water and looming rock formations. If Leo could find it in the film, “The Beach,” there’s no way I wasn’t going to.

Setting sail from Phuket, Thailand, on our way to the Phi Phi islands (that’s PeePee) aboard an AirBnB turned private boat charter, fully stocked with tropical fruits and a little rum, I knew the next 4 days were going to fall somewhere between idyllic and sublime, depending on how sunburned I got. Either way, my contentment factor was going to be through the roof.

We broke the journey up into two days, stopping the first night just offshore from one of the dozens of islands along the way, taking a midnight swim in the warm waters filled with bioluminescent marine life, tracing every move my extremities made below the surface. The strong tide made for a Star Wars light speed experience as I hung on to the boat for dear life as the glowing organisms rushed past my face and body. I brought my head above water to make sure that this was all real, and wondered how I’d made my way to this spot without a soul around, save a good friend and a trusty captain.

We arrived to shore on Phi Phi Don, the largest of the Phi Phi islands, just as the sun was setting. An Astropop-like sky blanketed the cove, as the shallow waters gave way to beach with the regressing tide. Plopping down at the beachfront restaurant, the local waiter offered us a beer and spliff, an apparent reward for a voyage completed. The oranges and reds emanating from offshore quickly began emerging from the opposite direction, as acrobatic flamethrowers began their nightly shows on the beach, strobe lights and trance music in tow. The night consisted of a few Muay Thai fights, some ridiculous limbo-ing, fire shows that had to have singed at least a few backpacker’s brows, and most likely some permanently damaged eardrums. One or two buckets of booze may have been involved as well.

Exploring the island the next day, we made our best attempts to soak in the views from above, find the best mango shake, chase away those damn bag-snatching monkeys, and do a little deep water soloing (rock climbing over water). Sliced hands and feet, along with a quickly sinking kayak and rising tides made for a bit more of adventure than we’d planned, but, details…

On our final day at the island, we hopped aboard a longboat over to Phi Phi Ley and Maya Beach, the famous filming location of “The Beach.” Ignoring the hordes of tourists shuttled in and out (good luck), the setting was everything I’d ever lusted over. Boats on shore, white sand, clear water, and ominous formations guarding the entrance to the not-so-secret paradise. Exploring on and around the island was enticing, and I must admit, like Leo, I had my desires to find a new place, without the crowds, maybe even with a treasure map involved. Thankfully, it didn’t take long to find, as we set sail back north towards Phuket, stopping along the way on an uninhabited island, equipped with private beaches, sunken caves, lagoons, and bats. If the first two days of the trip were a real life enactment of The Beach, the next two would be Robinson Crusoe. Cave exploration, (failed) attempts to climb coconut trees and build beachfront campfires, late-night lagoon exploring, and crab spearing, all powered by rum-filled fresh coconuts, had me feeling like maybe it should be a pirate’s life for me.

When real life exceeds expectations, especially those of the wanderlust variety, it reinforces the notion that life can be as good as you ever imagine it. Just find yourself a good friend, a trusty skipper, some inspiration, and a little sense of adventure.

What’s the worst that could happen?

If you’d like to live my experience, buy a ticket to Phuket or Langkawi and get a hold of Drew Sinclair on Facebook, or find the Maurmurie on AirBnB.

Let's Eat

Touching down in Penang, Malaysia, I had but one mission:

Eat.

An island at the northern tip of Malaysia, Penang, Georgetown in particular, is world renowned for its mesh of cultures that results in delectable delights down every street and around every corner. Sautéed with a little street art, the city of Georgetown buzzes with character and charm.

Indian, Chinese, and a plethora of Southeast Asian influences made it difficult for me to decide which curries were on the menu each day. Thankfully, I only made one mistake during my 3 days, as I don’t think my lips could have handled another attempt at the fiery inferno held within the Spicy Noodle dish I ordered. It took more than just one Chendul, a shaved ice / coconut / gelatin / bean curd dessert concoction, to cool off after that one. My two favorite dishes happened to come from the same place, a 100+ year old restaurant still serving from the same kitchen, though they’ve expanded the dining area a few doors down. Nasi Kandar, a mix of 5 different curries over rice with lamb, held flavors I don’t think I knew existed, which might explain why I’m having a hard time trying to think of words to describe it. Let’s just call it scrumptious and leave it at that. On my final day, I ventured back to the same restaurant, to find a gentleman at the front cooking up a batch of what I can only describe as an Indian Crunchwrap Supreme. Egg, meat, onions, some kind of curry, a couple quasi-tortillas, all wrapped up in a thin dough layer and pressed on a skillet, portable and delicious as ever.

Aside from the food, the relaxed, but still buzzing, nightlife of Georgetown made for some enjoyable beers over live music at Ex-Pat bars scattered throughout the city. Now joined by a friend from my working days, the conversation flows at about the same rate as the beers…

Whale Sharks and Waterfalls

All the white sand relaxation in El Nido had me itching for a little adventure. As I taxied from the airport into the city of Cebu, another island in the Philippines, I was a bit nervous that I’d accidently made my way to Manila’s little brother. Thankfully, it didn’t take long to learn that big adventure lay just a couple hours’ drive around the island.

The 3am bus out of the city went quickly enough, as I came to in the bright light and heat of day, surprisingly around 5:30 in the morning. We were shuttled to a beach as busy as a Manila intersection, longboats lined up, their eager passengers trying to stay cool under cover from the somehow blistering morning heat. Admittedly, the whole thing seemed rather unnatural and commercialized, but the moment my head dipped below the water’s surface, a still drowned out the chaos above.

I waited. Not entirely certain as to what exactly I was waiting for, as I’d chosen not to research the creatures I had gotten up some early to see. A large oval seemed to appear in the distance, getting slightly larger as it came into view. Larger still, I reckoned I could probably fit inside it. It was at this point, I realized that I was in the direct path of the biggest creature I’d ever seen up close, the whale shark. Not concerned with me in the slightest, the fish (I think?) meandered its way around me, showing off its enormous profile as it disappeared into the distant waters. Just to be clear, these things are enormous. The average adult is about 30 feet long and 20,000 pounds! Being under water may make things look much bigger, but there was no mistaking the enormity of these beasts.

A handful more made their way past me, sometimes brushing against me, their rough skin sending chills through my body despite the 80-degree water. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so vulnerable, knowing a swift tail wag would be lights out for me. I did my best to float in awe as the sharks swam past, battling the ever strengthening current and slight sea-sickness from it all. The 30 minutes was just enough time for the underwater serenity before making my way back to the chaos of the beach.

Adventure itch scratched, I made my way to the opposite side of the island for a day or so of more beaches, with a bit more local flair this time around. Some new friends and I quickly made friends with a local family’s birthday celebration, and we were treated to cake, rum, and some pretty entertaining conversation. Children swam at the shore, catching fish in a bottle, while mothers practiced their English and drinking skills. It was all a sight to behold.

On my final day, I made my way up-river to a series of waterfalls. Turquoise water and forests surrounded the cascades, cliff-jumps and rope swings filled with tourists and locals alike. Washing off the layer of salt (and probably dirt) in the fresh water pools was just what I needed before saying farewell to the Philippines as I boarded my flight back to mainland Asia.

PS. I would tell you how I actually managed to make a series of very tight connections on my route back through Manila, but it’s not quite as exciting as my bus ride!

PSS. / PSA: I swam with the Whale Sharks in Oslob, where the waters are chummed to attract the sharks. The sharks are still in their natural habitat, but the constant chumming has started to affect their feeding patterns. If you ever plan on swimming with the sharks, there are other places in the Philippines and around the world that I would recommend rather than Oslob.

Toes

Landing in El Nido, on the Philippine island of Palawan, a sense of relief poured over, as never in my life have I experience such a stark contrast in environment after just an hour on a plane. Goodbye forever, Manila and road work, hello glorious sands and panoramas.

The first order of business after hopping in a makeshift side car motorbike taxi from the airport into town was to head straight for the sand, where limestone cliffs dot the horizon, as the longtail boats await their passengers for the day. At this point, I wasn’t concerned with boats, but rather, beer. I paid the equivalent of $1 for an icy cold beer, lawn chair included, and planted that bad boy right in the sand, just far enough on the beach not to be washed away, but close enough to hear and feel the smoothness of the crashing tide on my feet. Perhaps the most refreshing beer(s) I’ve ever had, the whole scene pulled straight from a Zac Brown Band song. My only interruption was the longboat that pulled onto the beach right in front of me. That boat just so happened to be transporting a previous co-worker of mine along with a few friends. Just how I drew it up. Introductions were made and the usual, “What are you up to right now?” conversation began. The best answer I could come up with was a simple, “You’re looking at it!”

The next couple days involved some island hopping tours around the striking cliffs and formations, hidden lagoons, and magazine cover worthy beaches, fresh coconuts providing a constant source of refreshment and aloe vera massages the necessary pain relief and relaxation after long days in the sand and sun. I even got in on a game of basketball with some local boaters. The rubber ball didn’t bounce so well in the sand, and the hoop was nowhere near regulation size, but the game remained the same, and I thoroughly enjoyed the local experience. Being the tallest guy on the court for once was just an added bonus.

I spent my final afternoon sipping on a coconut, lounging in a hammock, blinded by the white sand of a nearly empty beach, wondering if there was any real point of going to the airport. My only conflict was whether or not I wanted to remain in my hammock or get up to sit at the table nestled at the end of a sand jetty, surrounded on 3 sides by crystal clear water.

I got my toes in the water, ass in the sand, not a worry in the world, a cold beer in my hand…

Life is GOOD today.

The Jungles of Borneo

The idea of Borneo has always conjured thoughts of wild and remote jungles somewhere off on the other side of the world. To be perfectly honest, I don’t think I ever really knew where Borneo was, how big it was, or even that it wasn’t actually a country, but an island shared by two. After flipping through my Southeast Asia Lonely Planet, I was pleasantly surprised to see that Borneo was actually going to be a part of my adventure. I was also surprised to learn how big it is, comprising a significant portion of the land mass of both Malaysia and Indonesia.

I made my home-base in Kuching, on the western edge, as it was meant to not only be a gateway to the jungles and the animals held within, but also a buzzing mesh of cultures from around Asia, with a serene riverside setting. While the former was most definitely the case, I must admit that I was disappointed in the city itself. In stark contrast to the friendliness and energy of Bali, the whole city of Kuching just seemed to be in a trance. While I most definitely didn’t fit in among the large Muslim and Chinese populations, I wasn’t necessarily receiving stares so much as being flatly ignored, even perusing through souvenir shops. As I settled into my 8-bed dorm room as the lone occupant, after failing to book a cultural tour to a local tribe due to none of the agencies having the minimum number of guests to run the tour (which was 2 by the way), I began to wonder if I’d misread the guidebook’s recommendations on the place, and if I should have just set up shop in Bingin back on Bali.

Thankfully, with each passing day, I reset my expectations and began to enjoy some pretty wild sights. The carefree orangutans glided through the tree branches before finding what looked to be a quite comfortable perch among the trees above my head. Faces full of expression (usually that of satisfaction) made for plenty of staring contests throughout the morning. Mother and child combos crashed through the trees in the distance before making their way near the small crowd of people, hanging upside down in the trees, cracking coconuts and peeling bananas.

An hour outside of Kuching, Bako national park held a network of coastal trails reaching the South China Sea. The trails were slightly less well maintained than what I’d grown accustomed to in New Zealand, as broken, far-too-steep steps and eroding cliff sides had me on full alert around the mostly deserted outer trails. All the better though, as the beaches I found were mine and mine alone. The park held within it those crazy, food-stealing macaques that found me on Bali, as well as the coveted Proboscis monkeys, long snouts and pot bellies in their full glory. Throw in some vipers, bearded pigs, and all sorts of creepy crawlers, and I’d say I found the wild jungle experience I was hoping for. Staying a night in the basic lodging in the park added to the experience, as the early morning risers of the jungle put on quite a show of swinging through the trees, snacking on leaves, and calling to each other.

Back in Kuching, my failed attempt to switch my flight to a day earlier resulted in a rooftop sunset panorama that provided my first glimpse into the grand potential hiding within the city. Mountain cone in the distance, burning river below speckled in traditional boats, and a bustling marketplace strewn along the river front. I imagined what the city may have been like 50 years ago, or maybe what it will be 50 years from now. At that moment, though, I was content to embrace what I was given, and appreciate Kuching’s indignant effort to show off its beauty held within.

Ride with Me

After feeling out the erratic rules of the road over the last week, I decided it was time to hop on a motorbike and do some exploring outside Ubud. Joined by some new friends in the hostel and a last-minute hostel owner turned tour guide for the day, we set off into the jungle, in search of rice terraces, temples, and crappy coffee. If I’d previously felt as though I was right where I needed to be, the feeling was validated as soon as we began carving the roads through lush forests, waving local children, volcanic panoramas, and traditional rice farming in action.

Exploring the rice fields was not only beautiful, but mesmerizing as well. The soft sounds of breeze blowing, rice sifting, and sickles swinging had me treading lightly so as not to disturb a holy ritual that’s been happening for centuries. Looking out over terraces carved onto the steep hillside while I sipped on coffee literally brewed from a small creature’s feces (Luwak coffee, it’s a thing) had me again wondering how I’d gotten here. The holy pools of the grand temple complex held a solemn horde of worshippers and westerners cleansing themselves in the fountains of the holy pool’s waters.

After our final stop at a secluded beach across the island, we headed back to Ubud, sun setting in the distance as the haze from burn piles reflected an orange tint on the lush green of the jungle forests. 5 years ago, I sat in a similar position, chasing the sun as I ventured through the hills of Tuscany with a couple new friends and a Vespa. This time around, hill towns were replaced by cliff sides, grapevines by rice fields, Chianti by Luwak, and the Gregorian chanting of the monastery by the holy pools of the Hindu temple.

Just the same two-step with a little twist.

Dancing

After crossing into the world of yogis, I quickly realized the array of classes and sessions on tap was far more than just your average yoga studio. I glossed over the schedule, passing Vinyasa, gong meditations, and laughter sessions, until my eyes fell on the crown jewel: Ecstatic Dance.

Not to toot my own horn here, but I can cut a rug (or yoga mat) with the best of them. So, learning that there was going to be an hour and a half session of freestyle dancing to every kind of music from tribal to hip-hop, where the only rule was that you couldn’t speak to anyone, had me juiced (fresh pressed, if you were wondering). No bar, no drugs (not that I noticed at least), just me, myself, and a dance floor in the middle of a jungle. And about 100 other people, but they were an afterthought.

I danced like I was the star in a Macklemore music video. Non-stop, no inhibitions, for nearly 2 hours. By the end of the night, my shorts looked and felt like I’d just showered in them, and my tank top was long gone; it was weighing me down anyways. In the few moments that I came out of my zone, I looked around to see people in their own worlds, some slowly bobbing back and forth, some racing around in circles, some holding crazy yoga poses, and some bending, contorting, and flowing like I’d never seen.

Somewhere between Kendrick Lamar and the hand-holding emotional release outburst exercise to wrap up the night, I was properly perplexed by what was happening around me.

Where in the hell was I? Who knows, who cares really?

What I do know is that I challenged myself to a dance off…and won.

Nah, I'ma Stay

As I made my way to Ubud, a kind of free-spirit Mecca in central Bali, I was mildly anxious about what I was about to get myself into. Ubud’s popularity with tourists has sky-rocketed since it was a part of the Eat, Pray, Love craze however long ago. I’m not sure if Ubud was the eat, the pray, or the love portion of the book, but suffice to say there’s plenty of room for all three in the area. While many of the rice terraces have turned to day spas and guest-houses, Ubud retains its charm flawlessly, where luxury, health, and peace can be found down nearly every alley. Well, maybe not on Monkey Forest road, there’s nothing peaceful about little monkeys trying to steal your stuff.

Anyways, my plan upon arrival in Ubud was to, for the first time in my life, take a yoga class. If ever I was going to do it, this would be the place. Being the manly man I pretend to be, I’d never stepped foot in a yoga studio, hell, even on a yoga mat. Not my thing. I’ve always been more comfortable on a basketball court or baseball field, tight hamstrings and all. Nothing a little IcyHot can’t fix. Now was the time, however, to do one of those uncomfortable things I always preach to my friends about doing.

The first day I chickened out, opting instead to explore the endless shops, juice bars, organic eateries, temples, and monkey habitats. I did end the day with a nice massage, and an exfoliating body scrub that wiped off the 3 months of filth I’d built up on the trails in New Zealand. Baby Steps. Day 2 was judgement day. I showed up to the Intro to Yoga class and was the only one there for 10 minutes. Please no. Little by little, a handful of people trickled in, making for a little less awkward first time. I laughed to myself as I was coached through the Ohms and breath exercises, the internal searching, and the salutations to our closest star. It wasn’t a laugh directed towards the practice, but simply an acknowledgement that I was there, fully participating in something I shunned for so long. My favorite pose was one of the warriors, naturally, and, I must admit, I did feel pretty damn good afterwards, though I expected not to be able to walk in the coming days from the contorting my body had to endure. While I won’t be turning into a yogi anytime soon, perhaps I may succumb to my sister’s prodding to join in on some yoga after I return.

Walking around town, I couldn’t help but be in an utterly peaceful state, still riding the high from Bingin Beach, reinforced by the bodily nourishment in Ubud.

Namaste

Bali

Boarding my late night flight to Bali, my internals were sending messages typically reserved for flights that originate in my home country. I’ve been away for nearly 3 months now, yet I felt as though a trip was just beginning. Australia and New Zealand had come as second nature, a lifestyle I’d grown accustomed to, if not bored with. Now was the time to shed the West as it were, with all the culture that goes along with it. It also marked a leap into the unknown, as up to this point, I had semi-planned the general activities I partook in throughout Aus and New Zealand. From here on in, whenever that may be, I’m flying by the seat of my pants, making it up as I go, the way it ought to be.

I arrived to the cliff above my bungalow at 3am, with seemingly clear directions from my driver on how I would navigate down to the beach and my much-needed bed. Head lamp secured, I made my way down the treacherous steps, following my left-right-right instructions until I came upon an extra fork that wasn’t in the game plan. I chose to go right.

I chose wrong.

Dripping with sweat, shoes now filled with sand, I found the beach, but not my bed. Dogs barking at my light, a midnight toker on a balcony nearby provided no help in locating my dwelling place. Some backtracking and more attention to detail resulted in locating the 12-point font sign that pointed left at the final fork. Forty-five minutes after I arrived, I was finally in bed.

Waking up the next morning, looking out from the deck onto the secluded stretch of sand below, famous surf breaks in the distance, I surveyed the scene of bungalows dotted along the cliffs. Wouldn’t you know it, the midnight toker’s deck was literally next door to mine. Suksama (Thanks) Bru!

My 3 days in Bingin Beach were a perfect vacation inception (vacation within a vacation), as I spent my days with some morning laps along the shore, fresh coconuts and fruits for breakfast, afternoon lounging on the deck after some delicious nasi goreng, evening temple runs, and nightly Bintangs on the beach. What intrigued me most about the whole experience was how natural it all felt. This wasn’t resort living or pre-packaged tourist catering. It was simply living. Even the young workers spent their mornings trimming vegetables on the decks, soaking up the sun, before setting up tables in the sand for the nightly fish frys, with plenty of cigarette and swim breaks scattered between. Every pilgrimage I took down to the water was greeted with a “Hey Boss” and a smile. A secret to living has been unlocked in these parts, of that I’m certain. After all the excitement of beginning a new series of adventures, I’d only just arrived in Bingin and began to wonder why I needed to leave.

Fickle is the mind of a traveler...

The Top End

Before making my way into Asia, I had some unfinished business to take care of in Australia, namely, getting a proper Outback experience in contrast to the city and beach locales I’d relegated my first stint to. Darwin sits at the very northern tip of Australia, referred to as The Top End. Aside from being a military hub, Darwin serves as the gateway to Kakadu and Litchfield National Parks, home to Aboriginal cultures, an array of bird, plant, and creature life, 15-foot tall termite mounds, waterfalls, and the iconic red dirt I always imagined Australia being filled with.

Due to the wet season not quite being completely finished, and a lack of my own means of transportation, I ended up taking a couple overpriced day trips into the two parks. Rock and cave paintings hundreds of years old amidst a landscape that made me feel as though I was on the set of The Lion King served as just the contrast to my previous Australian experience I was looking for. Throw in some spear throwing, more giant spiders, salt water crocodiles, and some citrus ant-licking (I promise it’s a thing), and I’d say the trip was a success.

In Litchfield, the scorching heat was no match for the waterfalls and rivers that served as perfect swimming respites, well-earned refreshment if you ask me. I did leave semi-disappointed in myself, though, as I did not join in the small crowd of locals jumping off the cliff-sides surrounding the waterfall. One too many stories of tourists being air-lifted out allowed common sense to prevail, a trend I’m nervously noticing occur more and more often with my internal dialogues.

Perhaps I am finally getting too old for this Sh*t.

Nah.

(Business) Lounging

Sometimes I feel like I’m cheating. The life of a backpacker really shouldn’t be a pampered one. Crammed accommodation, creaky beds, and cheap transport are necessary to make a 6 month trip a reality. It’s always worth it in the end, but at times things can be uncomfortable, tiring, annoying, and frustrating.

Unless you cheat.

Prior to my retirement, I spent the better part of a year and a half flying to work each week, racking up airline miles, hotel points, and statuses along the way. With miles come free flights, with points come free nights, and with status comes access. Access to business lounges with free food, free internet, and free showers.

The lounges were never more useful than on my recent string of layovers on my way from New Zealand to Darwin, Australia. In order to use the least amount of miles while still flying in business class, I was going to have a 12-hour layover in Sydney, and another 12-hour layover in Melbourne. After a 5am breakfast in the Wellington lounge, I spent the day in Sydney, re-living the beginning of my trip, before heading back to the lounge for some dinner prior to my comfy ride to Melbourne. True to my backpacker roots, I broke out the sleeping pad and bag and set up camp in the deserted airport coffee shop, as all facilities in the airport had closed. There was no way I was paying for a trip into town and a hotel room, c’mon. A somewhat decent night’s sleep later, I made my way to the lounge for a nice breakfast, a warm shower, and a cappuccino, before hopping into my seat, reclining foot rest included.

In a 24-hour period, I think I partook in activities that would repulse both a businessman and a backpacker. Or perhaps make them envious, I’m not sure. I’ve decided to name this peculiar lounge-dwelling, floor sleeping traveler:

The BusinessBum.

As they say, if you ain’t cheatin’ you ain’t tryin…