Cuba

Standing inside a small, reed hut watching a leather-skinned Veguero in a straw hat stoically select large tobacco leaves before meticulously rolling them into the most simply elegant trademark of a nation, I was convinced I’d just experienced exactly what I came for. Having my “never-smoked-a-thing-in-my-life” streak ended by a Cuban tobacco farmer lighting up the end of my freshly-rolled stogie felt like anything but throwing 28 years of smoke-free lungs down the drain. When in Cuba…

Arriving in Havana after missed connections and delays, I was greeted with a substantial downpour that continued to rear its head for the better part of the next two days. With my certifiably broken Spanish, I made my way into the back of a bright orange, 1950’s Chevy-on-the-outside, Toyota-under-the-hood car, breathing in the sweet smell of fumes inside the stuffy, but roomy, backseat. On the way into town, I passed by murals, statues, and billboards proclaiming the benefits and rallying cries of a socialist society, with images of a victorious Fidel accompanying each message. Lodging for the weekend was a 3-bedroom apartment in the New Habana district of Vedado, equipped with endless antiques, portraits of Fidel and Che Guevara, and a garden-filled balcony facing straight towards the Habana Libre Hotel. The quiet streets of the neighborhood were a mix of similarly ornate buildings, both dilapidated and pristine.

The energy in Havana is undeniable. Music blares from every doorway and window, regardless of when the last coat of paint was applied to the building. Newly restored or neglected, there’s a party going on in each and every old Colonial building you pass. Rain or shine, the lanes are filled with musicians, dancers, chess players, friendly conversationalists, groups of banterers, loiterers, and more than a fair share of ladies of the night (or morning, or mid-afternoon, or whatever time of day it is, really). Each and every bar will mix you up a $2-$3 fresh mojito of varying quality, and if you’re lucky, they may just leave the bottle at the table (“More Rum??”). Havana is designed for those wishing to imbibe, whatever your vice of choice may be, and as expected for 3 wide-eyed and (very) white guys on a weekend getaway, we were aggressively offered anything and everything you can imagine, and perhaps some things you can’t. The footsteps of Hemingway lead through tiny dive bars, upstairs coffee joints, classy hotels, and pristine plazas. The colors abound throughout, from the cracking facades, to the statement-making clothes, to the classic cars.

And about those cars.

A photographer’s dream, around every corner you’ll find restored, or rather, maintained cars straight from 1950’s Americana. Some a bit better kept than others, every shade of bright compliments the streets adorned with the same colorful coats, making the entire urban exploration more than easy on the eyes. Choosing which cars to take a ride in proved to be one of the more difficult decisions of the trip. Contrary to what I’d read and heard, the iconic cars didn’t necessarily make me feel as though I’d gone back in time, as there are plenty of not-quite-so-old compact cars and taxis in the streets, but rather evoked a sense of appreciation for the country’s iconic mode of transport. Thailand may have Tuk-Tuks, but Cuba’s got the cars.

Facing north towards the tantalizingly close Florida coastline, Havana’s iconic Malecon embraces the sometimes-violent waves crashing on its shore. The drag serves as de-facto loitering grounds for all of Havana. Locals seem to have a knack for avoiding the areas along the sea wall that tend to get pummeled the hardest when the seas are rough, while tourists, without fail, find themselves caught in the deluge of rogue waves splashing onto the street. The nighttime crowd ranges from mobs of high school kids to cavorters to lovers to prostitutes. The Cubans really are pros at being out and about with no intention of going anywhere.

After a couple days of watching rain showers from the comfort of multiple fine, mojito-serving establishments, the skies parted as we hopped in our new friend’s classic cab for the 3-hour journey to Viñales, in the famous tobacco-growing region of Pinar del Rio. The striking Viñales valley is dotted with limestone karsts, similar to that of Ha Long Bay in Vietnam and the Andaman Sea off the coast of Thailand. Cave systems wind through the inside of the mountains, while one skinny road serves as the main artery connecting a multitude of dirt paths that lead to farmhouses and tobacco leaf huts. Horse carriages seem to be the primary means of transportation, with the occasional scooter or tour bus the only artifact of the surroundings that bring you back to the present day. We rode bicycles through the scene, stopping off for a drink in a cave and lunch on the back porch of a restored farmhouse turned restaurant, all the while puffing on a freshly rolled cigar. Somewhere along the way, as I continued to fall further and further behind my friends, caught up in capturing the aura of a life filled with banana stands and horse carriages and tobacco fields and colorful front-porch rocking chairs overlooking lush rock formations, I re-captured the euphoria of being lost in time and place, if only for a few minutes. I am quite familiar with the feeling now, but it does not, and will never, get old - that feeling of losing any and all sense of where I am, while at the same time being so very present in the magnitude of the moment.

And so, I carried the lightest of burdens with me as we toasted to 30th birthdays with Panama hats and Cuban cigars, sipping cheap rum over mediocre meals, lost in a world of enticement and old-world allure that I will surely find my way back to one day soon…

(Adjusting to) My City by the Bay

Nearly four months ago, I landed at San Francisco International Airport 6 months to the day after taking off from the same runway. In between, I made a few stopovers in Australia, New Zealand, Southeast Asia, and India. I returned a little older, a little wiser, and a little skinnier, with a few changed perspectives, a lot more memories, and a bit less hair on the top of my head.

Arriving in San Francisco, I wasn’t dreading a return to monotony, but rather, I was excited to begin a brand-new adventure in its own right. A new career. A new city. A new view. A new brother (in-law). A new normal. Waking up on my sister’s couch those first weeks upon my return, I explored San Francisco like I would any other city in my travels. I walked and biked and BART-ed and ferry-ed my way to every corner (and island) of the city I could, searching for vistas and burritos and banh mi and a proper cappuccino. I realized how much more one walks, by default, when there are sights to see and streets to explore. Heading out on my 3-4 hour walk for the day, it became very clear how I’d managed to lose 20 pounds during my travels, while never concerning myself with what I was eating, unless Thai scorpions are some kind of superfood. My adjustment back to the states was more or less seamless, with the only culture shocks coming in the form of just how quiet the streets were as compared to almost all of India, and the fact that walking down the street nobody looked at me, or even glanced, really. After 3 months of being the center of every-passerby’s attention, it was actually a bit disheartening to be ignored by all those paths I was crossing, especially when I tried my best to smile at the top of everyone’s sidewalk-fixated heads. I was rather surprised to hear that my fresh-from-New York sister was taken aback by how friendly and talkative everyone was in the city. I guess it’s all relative.

And so, I am forced to adjust to this new adventure, as I listen to shared taxi occupants talk about their latest secret app idea as opposed to the best off the beaten-path travel experience. As each conversation starts off with “What do you do?” instead of “Where are you headed?” As daily commutes of locals become far less fascinating, and a re-telling of a grand adventure can conjure up shades of resentment or one-upmanship as opposed to inspiration for an additional stop on the journey. As I blend in with the crowd on nearly every block - I adjust.

After a month of partying the nights away at multiple bachelor parties and weddings, job prospects crystallized and I found myself officially on the housing search in the least cost-logical city in the country.

Go figure.

It took some time to stomach the fact that I was about to spend a year’s worth of Southeast Asian lodging costs on my security deposit, but I guess it’s the world’s retribution for those $3 hostel rooms on the beach. As I resigned myself to the drudgery of a housing search followed by a furniture search followed by the non-stop accumulation of all the “necessary” items needed to fill a home (I’m looking at you Mr. Dish Rack), combined with an all-together lack of exploring each day, I became a bit more reflective on my feelings of discontent. All too often, the post travel hangover manifests itself with former backpackers in the form of longing, frustration, uncertainty, and dissatisfaction. The desire to go back impedes the ability to move forward. Of all the changes in perspective I experienced during my trip, one that I believe has really stuck is the understanding of what my fulfillment is rooted in. It is, at all times, attainable, regardless of locale or employment status. I can boil it down to 4 tenets:

1)      Surround myself with people I love and that love me

2)      Work on something that I believe positively impacts or advances the world (including self-improvement)

3)      Be a part of a community

4)      Enjoy the journey, the pursuit of items 1-3

This roadmap for fulfillment has changed the symptoms of my own travel hangover. Dissatisfaction of my current state doesn’t necessarily fuel my wanderlust as it used to, but rather a self-reflection on the tenets above. Instead of “Where could I be?” the introspection question becomes “What can I do?”

As of today, I’ve found the apartment I envisioned when I first arrived in San Francisco, with the Golden Gate Bridge in plain sight outside a set of bay windows, with the periodic rumble of a Cable Car passing just up the street. I’m a 5-minute walk to my sister’s place, with plenty of coffee shops, restaurants, and bars in between. Nearly all of my family is within a 3-hour drive, and I’ve already seen most on multiple occasions. Recently, I attended the baptism of my Godson, only a couple hours up the road. The aspect of travelling that always proves most difficult has been completely turned on its head, as my fundamental reasoning for moving north from Los Angeles has played out just as I’d always hoped. With my new job and career in the world of management and operations consulting, I am excited for the opportunity to greatly improve the capabilities and performance of a variety of companies that contribute to the world in which we live. While it’s been a relatively slow process getting trained and prepared, my curiosity remains at peak levels. I spent so much time working on myself during my travels, I very much look forward to bringing my best self to the variety of people I’m bound to impact with my new career.

Alas, it’s not all sunshine and rainbows. It strikes me as fitting that, of all the fulfillment tenets, the one most easily attainable during travels has become the most difficult to capture since I’ve returned. Whether spoken or not, the bond formed between backpackers is as tight-knit as any. Fellow travelers are, without fail, given the benefit of the doubt in tough situations, offered places to stay, implored to share in a meal, assumed to be a worthy adventure partner, boosted by a collective strength in numbers, carried with moral support, and exactly understood in terms of internal feelings and reactions. This support, this Community, is more reliable than any sports team or church group I’ve ever been a part of. Figuring out why I felt like I was in a bit of a funk, even though I had this great new job, with a nice apartment, surrounded by my family, I landed squarely on my lack of a trusted community in my day to day life. It is a relief in and of itself to gain an understanding of what’s needed to improve your overall well-being. So, rather than sulk in my lack of community until I find it, I will choose to enjoy the process of searching for that support, that inspiration, be it from a rec-league softball team, a church group, or some unknown opportunity currently hiding around the next block. Enjoying that pursuit will prove just as rewarding and intriguing as the outcome, regardless of how long it takes. As my favorite book reminds me:

“It's the possibility of having a dream come true that makes life interesting.” -The Alchemist

Settled now, I hope to see as many old faces as I do new, as I build my life in familiar locales, surrounded by familiar friends, in an unfamiliar point in time.

Come say Hi, you may be part of just the community I’m looking for…

The People Along the Way

The highlights of travel that make their way onto Instagram feeds and Facebook timelines can go a long way in demonstrating the spectacular sights and views on the road, but too often they fail to capture the magic experienced on the other side of the camera – in the people met along the journey. Lost in the world wonders, the wild animals, and the panoramas are the relationships forged with people that instantly become some of your closest friends, even if you may never see them again.

Meandering along the backpacker trail, you’re bound to meet travelers from every corner of the globe, some more often than others. The odds are your hostel will contain at least one or two English, Dutch, and German travelers. Europe, western moreso than eastern, is very well represented, however, the Americas aren’t too far behind, as you’ll find a few Americans, a lot more Canadians, some “Canadians” that are actually American, but are either too ashamed or too tired of answering questions about Donald Trump to claim their homeland, and a fair share of Brazilians, Argentinians, and Chileans. Numbers dwindle for travelers from African and Middle Eastern nations, though I did meet a Ugandan, some South Africans, and a Moroccan, as well as plenty of Israelis and an Iranian or two. Each nationality brings a different energy, different methods of travel, and different perspectives. Every evening in the common area, rooftop deck, or hostel bar is a mini United Nations conference, where the discussion ranges from politics to pop culture, and drinking habits to lessons in dirty language.

Often times, common room chats can turn into the same boring conversations over and over that weary travelers can recite by heart without really caring or paying a lick of attention to the answers on the other end. I’ve been guilty of not being present in many conversations, but there were a few interactions on this trip that really stuck with me that I’d like to share:

I sat down in a café in Byron Bay, Australia to catch up on some emails and blogs, and overheard a conversation about building a resume. I decided to chime in with my two cents, which led to an extended grammar editing and chat session with an aspiring fashion marketing digital artist. Born in Tehran, Iran, she’d been arrested dozens of times, for crimes as simple as wearing or buying fabrics that were deemed too flashy for a woman. During her final stint in jail for yet another miniscule non-offense, she was in a cell with someone set to be executed, who’d committed murder. It was then that she finally fled the country, multiple name changes and all, to gain an education in England. Now in Australia, degree in hand, she was travelling the world, following her passion in the fashion design world. Against every possible obstacle, she was fulfilling her destiny. I hope I helped her land that gig, she earned it.

I began hiking the Milford Track in New Zealand and quickly jumped out front of everyone to have as much alone time with nature as possible. Not five minutes later, a gentleman in his 60’s came barreling past me, with more pep in his step than I could ever think of having. An Australian fish surveyor, he’d been waiting his entire life to walk the track, with the cards finally all falling into place this year. The man exuded a contagious energy and zest for life and nature that you couldn’t help but appreciate. I struggle to remember any point in time during our conversations where I didn’t have a smile on my face, enjoying his animated stories and outlook on life. He stayed up later and rose in the morning before everyone else on the trek. He out-climbed people half his age, yet at times stayed back with those older than him, providing welcome encouragement and jovial conversation to distract from the, at times brutal, hiking. I smile each and every time I think back to hiking and lodging with that energetic, goofy, genuine, enthusiastic man that could have easily been my dad. Life was good to him, because he was good to life.

I sat waiting for my 2-hour taxi ride to a remote bus station outside Yangon, Myanmar, and began striking up conversation with some fellow travelers on the same route. The Dallas police shooting was on the television, and after word got out that I was American, the conversation took an unfortunate political turn toward gun control. In my attempts to explain the intricacies of the gun debate in the USA, I was bombarded, then completely shut off, by a Dutch guy with a large headband pulling back his mohawk, sporting parachute pants and a ripped shirt that most likely hadn’t been washed in quite some time. We happen to be in the same shared taxi, where the conversation centered around his experiences tripping on ayahuasca and some homemade concoction of the psychedelic called DMT. Suffice to say, our paths were not likely to cross anywhere in our daily lives except for right there on the backpacker trail in Myanmar. A week later, after crossing over and back through most of the tourist trail, our goodbye was one of the more heartfelt and genuine of all I’ve had on this trip. Our sense of adventure and appreciation for both man’s creations and mother nature’s serenity helped form a bond, a bromance you might say, that made exploring the temples of Bagan, the rolling hills of Kalaw, and the vastness of Inle Lake all that much more enjoyable. When you stop taking yourself, your country, and your opinions so seriously, so many doors open up to friendships and experiences that await. I could have easily shut off the parachute pant Dutchman after our first couple conversations, but I would have missed out on one of the more genuine friendships I’ve experienced in quite some time. I’ll let you draw the analogies…

I’d be remiss to speak of the wonderful people along the way without mentioning the locals. A true travel experience is most certainly lacking without interaction with the people that every day live their lives in your tourist destination. Conversations with the local people brings an insight that’s left out of guidebooks and hostel common rooms. I did my best to interact with the locals wherever I went, whether they were familiar faces or not. Beers in Brisbane, seaside hikes in Sydney, dinner and drinks in the alleys of Melbourne, hunting stories with New Zealand shuttle drivers, Filipino family birthdays on the beach, heart to hearts with Thai shipwreck survivors turned moped taxi drivers, family feasts with Vietnamese friends of friends of friends, English lessons with eager students in Myanmar, conversations with chatty Monks wandering around pagodas, and turning into a medic on a far-too crowded Indian train made for instances where, for those small moments in time, living like a local and living like a traveler became one in the same.  

As with every travel experience, I was fortunate enough to meet dozens of people that left their imprint on both my trip and my perspective on life.

I can only hope I’ve done the same.

Goa-ing Home

It’s time.

As I prepared to make the long journey west, and especially after the sensory onslaught of Varanasi, I thought it best to spend some time on a beach, with absolutely nothing on the agenda. Time spent reflecting and relaxing with me, myself, and I - company I’ve grown quite comfortable with.

During the dry season, Goa is the party capital of India. Hordes of backpackers line the beaches and dance the nights (and most of the mornings) away at the multitude of discos you’ll find almost nowhere else in India. Drug and alcohol laws are lax and the modesty found elsewhere in India is replaced with bikinis and boardshorts. During monsoon season, however, the place is empty. Beach shacks are boarded up, hostels and resorts are empty, the sea is angry, and the beach is deserted. Near-constant rain pummels the shores. While this may not sound like your version of a beach holiday, after two weeks in a country filled with a billion people and a million cows, it was exactly what I was looking for.

I walked the sands for miles in each direction, absorbing the steady rains and letting my mind flow freely. I skipped and spun and jumped and yelled like only a free man can. My thoughts centered around memories of places I hadn’t thought about for months, about friendships and relationships built, and those lost. I laughed at some of my thoughts and shook my head at others. I thought about what I might change if I did this all again, where I might go, and what I might have seen. I thought about the places I’d return and places I’d never go back. I tried to figure out why I’d liked certain locations so much more than others, and certain people more than others. I thought of being home, of seeing loved ones. I tried to think of responses to the same dreaded questions that I’m bound to answer a thousand times upon return:

What was your favorite place?  What’s the craziest thing you ate?   How were the girls?   Are you sad it’s over?

Perhaps this time around, the questions will be deeper and the conversations longer, with quality trumping quantity.

Finally, I thought about myself, how I’ve changed, who I’ve become. Time will be the ultimate decider, but at the moment, I believe I can confidently pinpoint some areas in which I’m different. Very little bothers me or gets under my skin anymore, as the petty mishaps or hiccups that come along are nothing more than inconsequential roadblocks, where detours are always present. Perceived suffering on my part will always pale in comparison to the horrors I’ve learned about in the past and the daily struggles I’ve witnessed in the present day. Life has been so good to me, what could I possibly allow to bring me down? Tragedy and suffering will no doubt come, and with it sadness and emotion. These emotions, however, are meant to be embraced, meant to overcome. Life will be difficult at times, I understand, but it will always be so very good, with each day meant to be ended with a smile.

Another new outlook is that I have very few expectations for the rest of my life. We so often measure a life like some sort of resume: went to college, made good money, got married, had children, bought a home, saw the world, retired comfortably, on and on and on. Do I want all those things in my life? Absolutely, but by no means will I be judging my progress toward happiness and fulfillment by a set of expected outcomes and checkboxes. I will fully embrace life as it comes, taking it by the horns as I always have, excited for what’s next, and intrigued by the unknown in it all. I’ve always found that travelling to a foreign land with no expectations results in some of the more profound and exhilarating experiences, with more “I can’t believe I’m here” moments and sincere appreciation for a beauty or thrill you had no idea even existed.

Wouldn’t it be something to live life this way?

In the last 6 months, I’ve covered some ground, some seas, and some skies, by any and all means of transportation. When it’s all said and done, I will have flown around the entire world, driven up and down entire countries, rode nearly 1000 miles on a motorbike, sailed the open seas, rode buses to hell and back, caught trains I was never meant to be on, rode street luges, rafted down rivers, kayaked lagoons, zip-lined across canopies, caught rides in the bed of trucks, on the back of scooters, on the side of tricycles, on top of camels, and crammed into tuk-tuks, and walked hundreds of miles through mountains, rivers, jungles, beaches, deserts, streets, alleys, hostels, and world wonders.

I danced, discussed, dreamt, and desired. I ate more rice than I had in 28 years, and probably more than I will eat for the next 28. I took selfies with kangaroos, koalas, elephants, and camels. I learned to ride a motorcycle, then proceeded to survive Vietnamese traffic with this new skill. I slept in cars, tents, trains, buses, planes, sailboats, and treehouses, on beaches, desert dunes, mountain saddles, grassy fields, and creaky hostel bunkbeds. I saw the grim realities of human suffering and deprivation, and the eternal peace of death. I laid on some of the most beautiful beaches in the world, hiked to some of the most awe-inspiring passes, explored mysterious temples, snorkeled the clearest waters, and learned to hold my breath for over 3 minutes. The list goes on.

At the end of the day, the end of a trip for that matter, I can think of no other experience or skill gained that is more important or more profound than the fact I’ve now learned to say Thank You in 10 new languages. The most important phrase one could learn in travels, and in life.

Perhaps the English version will work its way into my vocabulary a bit more often from here on out… 

Varanasi, India

Adorned corpses are marched through the narrowest of lanes as chants reverberate from the maze of buildings inhabited by those waiting, hoping, to die. Soaking wet pilgrims pass in the opposite direction, cleansed of their sins, carrying with them remnants of the holy Ganga river. The smell of smoke and volume of chants strengthens as the steps leading to the river emerge from the flooded, feces-ridden alleyways. Intense fires, more than half a dozen heaping piles of wood, roar from the riverbank, consuming the cleansed bodies, ending the cycle of death and re-birth for the deceased.

Welcome to Varanasi

Varanasi is the holiest city in India and one of the oldest continually inhabited cities in the world. It sees tens of thousands of visitors each year, both tourist and pilgrim alike. The birthplace of the god Shiva, and home to the Ganges River, referred to as the Ganga, it’s believed that, if one were to die in this place, the reincarnation cycle of death and re-birth ceases, with sins cleansed and a heavenly afterlife awaiting the believer. Every Hindu strives to make the pilgrimage to Varanasi at least once during their lives for a chance to bathe in the holy waters and cleanse themselves of their past wrongs. Babas of all status and stature make their way to Varanasi, as they line the streets and alleys and riverside ghats. The city itself is absolute chaos, with every overwhelming aspect of India rolled into one, tightly confined space. Cows and dogs and rats and monkeys and homeless and sickly and dying and feces and trash and heat and monsoons and horns and traffic and touts and masses of people are accompanied by incense and flowers and chants and celebrations and dancing and colors. Varanasi has it all, and then some.

The bathing rituals are both fascinating and stomach curling at the same time. Locals make their way down the steps, performing their rituals in the murky water, dripping some onto their heads and into their mouths before submerging themselves into the depths. It all seems quite beautiful, in a simplistic sort of way, until you realize that maybe 100 feet away, corpses are being ritually cleaned on the same shores, before their ashes and some bones fragments are tossed in the river. Pollution and cleanliness measurements are off the charts in all the worst ways, but the rituals continue, as they have for hundreds of years.

The burning ghat (Manikarnika), site of a 24/7 open air cremation operation was one of the more intense scenes I’ve witnessed in my life. Bodies marched in from the streets are first dumped in the river before being placed on the large piles of wood, lit from an ever-burning fire nearby. Thin white sheets shroud the bodies, though often times limbs and heads lay uncovered. Two to three hours are necessary to burn the bodies, leaving only the chest bone for males and hip bones for females, which are then tossed into the river. Families of the deceased crowd around the fires, while the “untouchables” do the work of placing bodies and stoking the flames. The cremation is meant to guarantee a heavenly home for the deceased, though there are 5 sets of people that are not cremated, for various reasons. Holy people, due to the fact they do not need to be cleansed, children, as they are still innocent, pregnant women, as they are carrying an innocent child, those bitten by snakes, as the venom is meant to have already purified them, and lepers, due to the possibility of spreading the disease. These groups are not burned, but attached to weights and dropped into the river. As I learned all of this, I felt less troubled than I expected to feel. The scene was most definitely intense, and the heat overwhelming, but there was a sense of peace over it all. Missing from the family were any signs of grief. No crying, no dejection, simply acceptance. After all the chaos embodied in the streets of the city, and really the whole country for that matter, the dead were finally at peace, all their wishes and intents granted as they succumbed to the fire.

For me, Varanasi was far too demanding on the senses to spend more than a couple days. I would like to return someday, perhaps when the river is lower and allows for a sunrise boat trip along the dozens of ghats leading into the river. I hope to take with me the sense of peace amongst chaos, and the idea that cleansing may have more to do with your mind than how clean the water may be. 

The Taj Mahal

More often than not, as the cliché goes, the journey itself is better than the destination. The Taj Mahal is a stunning piece of perfectly symmetrical, blindingly white, marble architecture made to be even more awe-inspiring by its garden and river surrounds, but before I get into all the grandiosity that is the Taj, I’d like to tell you my little story of how I got there:

Waiting in line to buy my train ticket at the local station, I battled would-be cutters as the queue became more of a blob the closer I got to the window. I requested a reserved seat to Agra, the resting place of the Taj itself, a manageable six hours away. The teller quickly handed me a ticket and demanded the 140 Rupee fee. While life is most certainly cheap in India, I walked away somewhat skeptical about the rather low price ticket I just received and a bit concerned about what my reserved seat was going to look like. Examining my ticket, I found no mention of a seat number, or even a platform number for that matter. After a few broken English conversations and a lot of hand-waving and head-bobbing, I gathered that my train was at the station now, but I needed to walk to the end of carriages, to the unreserved car, since I didn’t have a seat.

Shit.

I knew about these “unreserved” cars. On previous train journeys, I watched as the masses made a dead sprint for the end of the platform each time we rolled into a new station. Locals pile into the car, desperately trying to find some small piece of real estate where they can rest at least some portion of their bodies for the journey. That whole lack of personal space, thing? It’s real, and I’m fairly certain however many clowns the circus has managed to fit into a car won’t hold a candle to what the Indians are capable of on a daily basis with these trains.

I climbed into the cart upon direction from a cynically-smiling security guard and found zero open seats, as expected. Rather than work my way through the cart amongst the stares, I decided to lay claim to the pathway between two cars, prepared to stand for the journey. The car wasn’t nearly as crowded as I’d expected, and though I was most definitely not comfortable, I figured I could manage with my current piece of real estate. After a few conversations, I was once again adopted by an Indian, who convinced a passenger to let me share his window seat. I declined, before being persuaded to have a seat. One cheek on about 4 inches of a pleather wasn’t my idea of being comfortable, but I went with it. No more than twenty minutes later, I realized why I was persuaded so adamantly to take the seat.

The masses poured in, yelling and scrambling to find any open patch of a seat, climbing on the rafters, through windows, and toppling over those lucky enough to be firmly planted. My new seat partner held me back against the seat, urging me not to give any ground whatsoever. When it was all said and done, the yelling ceased and I took in the scene. Indians squeezed 8-deep into a row of seats meant for 4, legs sprawled across luggage racks above, nappers’ legs and arms curled around seat pillars, bodies strewn all across each other, and all the rest standing in the aisles. Somehow, vendors managed to make their way through the carriages, selling everything from samosas to sacks of cold water for sweaty backs. I was treated to a variety of treats, fully expecting my stomach to reject it all sometime later that evening.

At one point, a bag came toppling down from above, grazing my head, but landing square on top of my neighbor, who had been sitting on a big bag full of grains in the aisle in front of me. He held his head for a minute or so, expressionless, before I realized that blood was pouring down the back of his neck. I sat shocked for a second before remembering that I had my First-Aid kit with me. I jumped up on my seat, making sure nobody slid underneath me, and reached into my bag to pull out some gauze and bandages. We wrapped up the man’s head, gave him a couple ibuprofen, and just like that, I was a celebrity. The stares turned to smiling stares, nearly all of the few dozen passengers in my immediate vicinity beaming at me as I tried to avoid eye contact. After 3 more hours of a numb backside and more contorting than I care to mention, I left the train in Agra to a round of handshakes and happy faces, relieved to have survived a place I was never meant to be or see.

After all that, the Taj itself was beautifully boring, and best viewed from afar, across the gardens. You should most definitely go see it, and check a wonder of the world off your list.

Just make sure you have fun getting there…

Life is Camel Safari

After elephants, kangaroos, and monkeys, I figured camels should be the next logical progression in strange animal encounters for the trip.

Making my way west, into the Thar desert, I arrived in Jaisalmer, another fort town with a colorful nickname (The Golden City), with the agenda of getting on a camel and riding off into the desert, never to return again. Perhaps I’d find my treasure there, like Santiago in The Alchemist, or better yet, find a genie lamp in need of a good rub-down. After about 2 minutes on top of the lanky, awkward, goofy, smiling horse-cousin, I began to re-think my whole plan. With each awkward step through the sand, my legs stretched a bit further out than they’re meant to and the pressure mounted in regions it never should. Once I became sufficiently number all over, I began to enjoy the vastness of my surrounds, as we rode through mostly arid dry-lands with low-lying shrubbery before happening upon patches of rolling dunes, with sand as soft as a SoCal beach.

There’s not all that much to do on a desert safari, aside from marvel at the quirkiness of the camels and the utter simplicity of life in the desert. During break times, unruly camels in our crew would try their best to scavenge through the supplies, wander off as far their tied up legs would allow, or simply roll in the dirt before being relieved of their gear and food-laden saddle. Watching a camel attempt to gallop with its legs tied together while being chased by a camel boy is a sight to behold.

As the sun began to set, the heat finally became a bit more manageable, and we hung our turbans for the evening, lounging on the dunes as our meals were freshly prepared. We climbed the dunes and enjoyed the views over a couple special delivery beers and a pale blue sky. We reflected with the guide, as his affection for the desert was clear in his wanderings toward an empty patch of sand. Untouched landscape (save for the controversial windmills recently put up in the distance) had provided a home for his family for generations, every year at the whim of the rains and the brutal, ever-present sun. We made our beds on blankets at the top of a small dune, waiting for the stars to begin their nightly act, this time with about as unobstructed of a view as you can find. Satellites passed and I reflected on the notion that the same species that was living the most basic of lives in the most remote of places, completely dependent on the changing of the weather for nourishment and survival, that same species, put an object into space, over a hundred miles above our head, speeding along at miles per second, relaying or capturing information about our world, perhaps the weather patterns that would affect the very region I was lying in. I realized I was at the crossroads of this divide in human development, having lived a very simple life as of late, and especially in that moment, while at the same time fully aware that just last year I was working every day towards putting one of those very same satellites into space. While perhaps a bit cliché, I was reminded, as I often am, of one my favorite Macklemore lines:

“And when I lose perspective, need to go to a place where I lose reception…lookin’ at the satellites pass by, reflectin’ on my past life…”

Making our way back to Jaisalmer the next day, after another couple hours’ ride on a camel with a bit comfier seat and a quick game of 3 fly’s up with some local village children, I explored the Jaisalmer Fort in the blistering heat. The cow-filled narrow lanes and vantage points within the walls of the fort provided photo ops and an even stronger feeling of being lost in not just another land, but another time. A time and place where desert oases provided the nourishment and splendor that becomes so vital in the overwhelming and exhausting desert abyss.

Perspective regained, I hopped on the night train, on my way to yet another time and place…

Jodhpur, India

If I’d found the romance of India in Udaipur, then I most assuredly found the magic of this country in Jodhpur. Tetris-like rooftops sit above the crammed alleyways with a bird’s eye view of the labyrinth below and a front row seat to the ominous fort that looms over the city. Mehrangarh Fort, the backdrop for Bruce Wayne’s triumphant escape from prison in The Dark Knight Rises, creates an allure of olden day royalty and defense, a guard against any invading army keen enough to make their way across the barren desert landscape into the city.

From the walls of Mehrangarh Fort, the scene unfolds below: Bhangra music reverberates from the blue walls of the narrow lanes as children climb to the rooftops to take advantage of the sunset winds, flying their personal-pizza sized kites and playing cricket within the confines of multi-level rooftop perches. Like a real-life Where’s Waldo? book, I canvassed the town, finding worlds only visible from where I stood. Kites and kids danced with the wind, dogs found their way through the maze of steps that seemed to connect the entire city, cricket balls flew off rooftops, blown speakers roared, and adults watched it all unfold from above and below. It’s as though the seemingly non-stop chaos of the streets takes a moment to pause as the sun begins to fade away. With the completion of another day, a celebration of relief and appreciation and simple joy is in order. I’ve come to find this time of day here in India to be my favorite, as though all the pent up stresses and chaos of the day are released with the effortless dance of the kites and the innocent joy of children playing.

Aside from the impressive fort, the city of Jodhpur itself is beautiful. Nicknamed the Blue City, many of its building’s walls are painted blue, apparently to keep the city cool in the intense heat of the region, as well as to ward off mosquitoes. I’m not sure how well all that’s working out, but it sure makes for a photogenic area. Palaces can be seen on hilltops near and far, and perfectly symmetric step wells dot the city and its surrounds.

The excited waving from Indians continues, though instead of young adults staring and waving on the streets, young children find me from their neighboring rooftops as I stand and soak in the view from mine. Running from perch to perch, heads pop out from behind hanging laundry for a quick wave, before disappearing again, only to appear on another rooftop, one door over.

Once again, this country was captivating my imagination and my sense of wonder. My body stood and stared, but my mind drifted with the evening kites and my soul danced to the Bollywood beats…

Udaipur, India

I left the rain in Mumbai and headed north into the state of Rajasthan, where most of my Indian stops would take place. After a relatively easy 16-hour sleeper bus, I arrived in Udaipur unsure of what to expect after the craziness of Mumbai. By now, I see past the street manure and general omnipresence of flies, the trash in every gutter, and the poor health of all the street animals. What’s left is nothing but charm and fascination, as elephants share roads with camels and scooters, while cows do whatever they damn well please, even if that means taking a rest in the middle of a highway.

Udaipur is set around a beautiful lake, equipped with island palaces, a mountain backdrop, and colorful buildings that run right up against the ghats that lead down into the lake. The streets are filled with the same Frogger game of cows and tuk-tuks, only rather that thoroughfares, the action takes place on tiny, winding streets barely big enough for one vehicle. Horns blare and cows moo, but everything moves at such a slow pace that I can’t help but enjoy the charm of it all. The film location of a few movies and the setting for some celebrity weddings, Udaipur is without a doubt India at its most romantic. Activities are mostly contained to visiting the palaces and temples in the walkable lakeside area, but the main attraction is really the town itself. From the rooftop of my hostel, I looked out over the lake, bathers taking a swim, sun setting behind the mountains, bats making their nightly pilgrimage into the forests, and lights flickering from every other rooftop oasis. The only reason I ever left the perch on top of the hostel where I was staying was really only because I’d feel guilty not venturing out, even though my temporary piece of real estate offered all you could ever ask for.

So I soaked in the views, I contemplated, I ate delicious food (with my hands only, the Indian way), and I continued to have quirky interactions with awestruck Indians. The selfie request count hovers around 3-4 per day, as it must be something about the (very) white skin and light hair all wrapped up in a tank-top and headband that prevents me from blending in with the crowd. Everyone wants to know where I’m from, what I do, and where I’m going. Not all that different from a majority of the conversations fellow backpackers auto-ask in every hostel common room, now that I think of it. For the most part, it’s all just genuine curiosity, so I do my best to oblige in the conversation, even if I have to deny handing out my phone number or Facebook every now and then. If a short conversation, a headbob, and a handshake is all it takes to make a day, then I can deal with the ignoring of personal space and general western politeness.

After a massage and masala, I was on the road again…

Mumbai, India

Let the madness begin.

All the insanity I thought I’d experienced during my last 3 months in Southeast Asia was but a pre-season exhibition for the chaos I was about to get myself into in India. I was ready. Mentally prepared to see, hear, smell, and taste the best and the worst this world has to offer, I landed in Mumbai with every defense I’d ever learned as a traveler switched on. Nobody was going to scam me, the poverty wasn’t going to drain me, the horn noise wasn’t going to annoy me, and the traffic wasn’t going to scare me.

Then, something strange happened.

I walked around on a lazy Sunday morning and wasn’t overwhelmed at all. Traffic was manageable, the horns weren’t all that loud, and the touts didn’t harass me too much. Sure, there were cows wandering the streets, crippled beggars, nude junkies, and a few smells here and there, but in general it was all somewhat subdued. I took an Uber to the largest outdoor laundry in the world and ended up getting my very own guardian angel in the form of the young driver who promised that if I was in trouble anywhere in the city I could call him and he would come. Same went for my future travels in Varanasi, where his brother lived. He taught me Hindi and Marathi, and did his best to tell me all the ins and outs of the city, never asking for anything or suggesting we go anywhere I hadn’t previously planned. There was genuine care and concern in his voice and demeanor, as evidenced by the universal Indian headbob of affirmation as I left the car after telling him I appreciated all his help.

My guards were dropping by the hour. Walking around the giant laundry, with clothes of all shapes and sizes drying from rooftops as far as I could see, I was almost attacked by a dog, before being saved by another paraplegic man who invited me through the “facilities,” for a small fee of course. I obliged and climbed to the rooftops, up sets of stairs that weren’t quite up to code. My defenses were up yet again as we walked deeper and deeper into the maze of wash basins, ironing boards, and clotheslines. With each step, I memorized our path in case I needed to escape a sneak attack. Silly me, the man took me right to the exit, no hassles, aside from a plea for a few more rupees, which I politely declined.

I took my usual detours through the city, still surprised by how calm everything seemed to be compared to my expectations. I bought a ticket to see the Bollywood movie, Sultan, and ended up meeting a film writer taking his usual Sunday stroll through the city, looking for inspiration. He treated me to lunch, exuding the warm, genuine concern I’ve now come to expect with my interactions in this country. We learned a bit about each other’s countries and travels, and I went on my way to one of the more entertaining movie experiences of my life. Aside from the built in musical dance performances that are essential parts of every Bollywood movie, the paid attendance is a part of the show as well. As the main character, a persona similar to Rocky Balboa, triumphed throughout the movie, there were whistles, cheers, and standing ovations erupting from the crowd. We were all in it together, cheering the hero on, reacting to every heartbreak and heroic act. I found myself both laughing hysterically and investing myself emotionally in the whole situation. It was exhilarating. The Indian people have an expression of emotions, a sense of style, and warmth of interaction that’s all their own. The culture is uniquely theirs, and it’s quite captivating. Much like the Italians, the Indians know how to eat, how to dress, and how to love.

Reflecting on the day back at the hostel I commiserated with some fellow travelers about the lack of craziness I’d experienced walking around the city, as they too were expecting a whole new level of insanity.

Then Monday happened.

I walked the city for hours trying to find a back street that wasn’t filled with cows, bikes, taxis, rickshaws, beggars, horns, and throngs of people. I couldn’t do it. The horns were absolutely deafening, the livestock would have outnumbered any street full of people in the United States, save for maybe New York City. The sheer number of street stalls made me wonder how anybody could sell anything, yet they were all full. People went about their daily lives, whether that meant commuting, hauling supplies by rickshaw, having a morning or afternoon chai, or just honking their horn for the hell of it. All the madness I was hoping to find on the streets of Bombay, I found. And then some. I made an escape to Chowpatty beach, which is flanked by opposite ends of the city, separated by a large bay. The less than stellar sands were filled with city dwellers battling waves in full clothing, along with Muslim women in full black Burqas taking selfies on the shore. It was quite a sight. So was I, apparently, as the selfie requests came piling in.

At one point, the city nearly got the best of me, as walking through the streets I stumbled upon a dog clearly suffering from disease, bloated to nearly 3 times its normal size, lying on the streets, struggling to breathe. That dog was going to die there, it was only a matter of time. I’m not sure why, after all the poverty I’ve seen on this trip, including sickly dogs, that this helpless animal nearly broke me. Perhaps I realized that the unrelenting happiness that every dog exudes, no matter how they look on the outside, or what sickness they’re battling, was gone. Helpless and ignored, there was no hope. I imagined that the dog shared the same fate as many people living within the city and its slums. I had to take a break from it all, so I ventured into a book store and began reading Shantaram, an incredible look into life on the streets of Bombay. I smiled as the characters in the book were brought to life in front of me, with the conversations I heard around me and in the streets earlier that day. The quirkiness, the charm, the passion, the determination, the positivity. It’s everywhere.

As I left Mumbai, I couldn’t help but love the place. Not for what it offered for a traveler, but for how it captivated me, drew me into the intrigue that is India. The poverty is real, and quite disturbing, but so too is the love and generosity, and a certain something else that I still haven’t quite put my finger on. Something that entices, surprises, entertains, and can’t help but be admired.

Whatever it is, I dig it.

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.