Around the World - Dai and Troy

2007-04-08T15:51:00.000+07:00

It's been about 6 weeks into our Kiwi initiation. Both of us have started our jobs, Troy at Opus and me at Vodafone. We've fully furnished our apartment; the tiny box in the city it is. We've weathered our first Kiwi storm, complete with sideways-blowing rain. We've learned what muppet, sweet as, flash, gutted, and posey mean; no, it's not how you suspect. We've hosted our first couchsurfers: Suvi and Heikki from Finland, who helped us to discover Devonport and how to fit 4 people in 40 sq ft. And we've taken our first weekend trip out of Auckland, 4 hours drive north, to the beautiful Bay of Islands. We went caving and gazed at glow worms, we climbed cliffs to glimpse a view of Waipu Cove, we saw Whangarei Falls!

It's home!! Well...almost.

We miss all of you guys dearly and hope you've fattened up on chocolate and candy. Sorry we couldn't be together, but we will see each other soon enough; we promise!

Happy Easter :D

XOXOXOXOX

Check out some new pics at http://public.fotki.com/visceraltext/easter-2007-at-bay-/

2007-03-11T05:07:00.000+07:00

On February 10th, less than 1 week after I posted the last blog, we bid farewell to Bangkok (the city where we lost gallons of sweat), on a red-eye Tiger Airlines flight through Singapore to Darwin, Australia. Cursory and quick plannng left us with an inaccurate idea of our travel itinerary. ( I am happy to confide this, for a change, was Troy's fault)

From our experience with international flights, I should have known $130 per person for the Thailand to Oz flight would not buy reasonable departure, layover and arrival times. Turns out, after leaving Bangkok at 9pm, and arriving after midnight, we would spend 17 hours roaming the Singapore airport terminals before leaving.

Awesome!

There are substantial differences between the main and budget terminals of the Singapore airport; differences which become deeply contrasted when you're exhausted, dirty, jet-lagged, homeless, and carting nearly 200 lbs of poorly-packed baggage. **Apparently $3 dollar duffle bags bought at Thai flea markets aren't superior quality. Just days after purchase we needed to utilize aesthetically-pleasing duct tape to restrain the bras, underwear and knock-off perfume from the tears**

The Singapore budget terminal is a large white box housing a suspect coffee stand, and a row of uncomfortable plastic chairs and a staff of irritated employees who're pissed they've been bastardized to the ghetto. The glittering main concourse has massage chairs, comfortable beds, olympic-sized swimming pool, free sex and drugs. Suctioned, face to glass, we witnessed the luxury main terminal passengers enjoyed, while we "budget travelers" rotted alive on cold tile beaten with seizure-inducing repitition of Celine Dion's "My heart will go on". ( Asians have a disturbing affinity for this song)

Much, earlier ( well-rested and clean), we discussed sleeping in the airport, because 17 hours is too short to arrive at 2:00am and pay for a hotel, just to rush back to the airport. At least, that's what we thought. Never having experienced sleeping in an airport, we both surmised it the best and cheapest choice.

After collecting a household from the baggage carousel and punching myself in the face, I got a cart and we began the trek to the shuttle, which would take us from budget to main terminal. The plan was to utilize the main terminal and return to budget in time to reach our flight. Right now, it was 2am, and apart from the arctic blast of the zealous air-conditioning, the midi-ish Muzak permeating from plastic bushes, and one suspicious scuffling janitor ( who seemed to be gathering surveillance on us) the terminal was off limits and dead.

Much to our dismay, we discovered the inside main terminal is blocked to those who do not have tickets departing there. After a few minutes of calmly discussing the kink in our plans ( screeching, screaming, flailing, collapsing) we surveyed the available three floors of inhospitable granite and tile to retire for the night. Could we really do this? McDonalds, Starbucks and Swensens were closed, security-filmed and although they had comfortable looking booths, they were no-gos. Singapore isn't known for being lenient to any sort of law-breaking, definitely not in its prized main airport terminal. Not wanting to be caned, or jailed for life for sleeping on a fast food bench, we found a room of glass, tile and stone perched above a runway, called a take-off viewing room. It stored a handful of other budget-terminal-damned travelers. We rolled out our sleeping bags, silk sleep sheets and tried to ignore the echoes of snores, tinny-blast of soft rock, garbage being emptied and tile being buffed. A few times we heard teenagers running and screaming through the concourse; the airport terminal being a place of choice for Singaporean youth.

Entirely delerious and stinky, we arose again at 5am, having not slept, showered or changed, deciding to spend the rest of our 14 hours wandering the terminal. We hung out in Starbucks, and then moved to some diner, in which, we proceeded to pass out. I don't think we left the lingering Singaporean families with a good impression; we woke to children being nervously shooed away from our table. Five hours later we wiped our crusted drool, rode the sky train between terminals a dozen times, and then loitered by the free internet terminals, kicking off a bunch of school children playing video games.

By the time 8pm rolled around, and we'd checked into our Darwin flight, and dropped our fleet of luggage, we were so tired we'd slept through take-off and landing; a luxury in which I never indulge, as I am usually busy ( obsessed) mentally re-enacting a mid-air explosion.

We arrived to Darwin International just after 2:30am, to a very dutiful customs department, who seemed to delight in reporting "a situation" at counter 4; Troy's opened gummy worms apparently flagrant threats to the Aussie national security. Resigned to leave the sour worms with them (although I did eat one right there to show them who's boss) we fuddled through the rest of their process, trying to balance our circus of luggage and get to our shuttle.

After short visits in Darwin, Surfer's Paradise and Byron Bay, on February 20th, we stepped off the Virgin Blue flight in our first New Zealand city: Auckland. Arriving on a work visa until February of next year, we shuffled through customs and immigration with nothing more than a friendly, tired nod from an official, who stamped our work visas with no questioning whatsoever. Not knowing how strict it would be, we printed out bank statements, proof of medical insurance, proof of visa, itinerary after New Zealand. Lonely planet posters claimed it could be very easy or very hard, depending on who was working immigration at the time. Luckily, the staff were as disinterested and exhausted as we were, and not only were we quickly waved through, but they asked us for nothing.

We were lucky to meet Tracey, a lovely Aussie girl sat next to us on our flight, who offered to take us ( with her Kiwi boyfriend) from the airport to downtown. During the 30 minute drive, they gave us a brief summary of the temperate, sometimes too rainy weather, the people, rugby, odd Kiwi accents, volcanoes in the area, and weird sports like zorbing and air carting. It was close to 3am, we were exhausted, we were on our way to our new home; except we didn't have a bed, dresser, or even an apartment to return to. For four sleepless, irritated nights, we endured a strange and smelly corporation of mildewed drunk people and nests of bed bugs called Fat Camel Hostel. It is the very LAST hostel we will stay in.

Over the past 3 weeks, Troy and I have secured an awesome downtown apartment, home furnishings, and jobs, to boot :0) We're on our way to becoming legitimate residents, buying property ( it's appreciated 80% in the last few years, still going strong) and getting back into routine! Did I say how much I love and miss working out??

Now we're ready for you guys: Mom, Dad, Sasch, Tony, Maki, Lucas, Debbie

XOXOXOX

2007-02-05T15:18:00.000+07:00

(another trek blog http://daijalovestroy.blogspot.com/2006/10/day-five-continued-nanoseconds-before.html )

I know I’ve been seriously lax in my blogging. Thank you again for bearing with me, I’m sorry. But I swear there’s good reason. This has been a long, difficult month for both Troy and I; trials and tribulations, the worst we've ever endured. The glory of world travel has recently lost it’s seductive shimmer with these recent developments: We extinguished the supply of bananas ( no more morning, mid-day and evening smoothies) on the remote island paradise of Ko Kham and Troy had a crawfish bite his toe while snorkeling. Ok, no eye-rolling in the back there. Here’s what really happened. I’m trusting you with all the gory details…and that’s why you’re reading, right?

Dirty Laundry:

I’m irresponsible. You should also know I’ve never been known for my prudent choices. That’s probably because they’re not prudent, but rather, as J.D. Salinger says “conspicuously retarded”. My life has been an endless span of annoyingly unpaid parking tickets (which, evidently, do not sort themselves out?!), bounced checks, (like the cluster of 5 dollar ones written to Wok-n-roll Chinese restaurant in Tallahassee), non-sufficient funds, tardiness, surprised confusion, fender benders (induced by the decision to apply mascara rather than fretting over details of a moving vehicle) and my freshman year at FSU I inadvertently set the elevator afire by shoving a pair of hot pants in the shaft ( to keep it open while I moved my stuff, of course). I must plead your silence in that last confession, as I think they are still trying to figure out the mastermind who attempted to burn down the girls’ dorm. Anyway, in addition to the cataclysmic absent mindedness decorating my decision-making process, I also consciously make rash, poor decisions. I guess it’s partly because my choices are heavily pressured by expectations of ego and society, manifesting unpalatably, regrettably and ill-timed, like a schedule of unstoppable flatulence momentarily restrained at a dinner party.

My worst whoppers are often engendered with confident excitement, proclamations from apparently infallible research and a complete sodomization of common sense ( with the righteous feeling of shrewdly embracing it); closely resembling a certain government’s diplomatic" foreign policy. As I am decidedly not a proponent of the eloquent "this-ain't-my-first-Rodeo" Bush, or huge embarrassing failures, I’m not particularly proud of this.

Maybe I should have spent more time with my guidance counselor or a shrink?

Thankfully, I've been cosmically spared from the most dire consequences of my botched life choices. License to be dumb another day.

Anyhow,

I’ve also got this detrimental maniacal desire to move quickly, even (especially) when I don’t know where the hell I am headed; as if I could temporarily be a fugitive from Time. Impatience of epic and annoying ( ask Troy) proportions. But, why? Maybe just a desperate urge to fight off impotence, old age and interminable what-iffing in my life. Cruelly, this has doomed me to a life of bumbling confusion, emotion and constant change until I’ve made some mark on the world or find what I’m so fervently looking for.

But, will I ever?? Does anyone ever?

Donkey-punched by the all-mighty dollar, I repeatedly invest in what I don’t want to do, with precious little time truly thinking through, pondering the weighty: How shall I, how can I, how do I spend my life? I simply can’t bear waking up at 65 saying, “what have I done?!” Faint pangs of intuition endorsing the chase of pipe-dreams, head-slapping regressions into stupidity and pathetic monetary enslavement have governed the sobering sling-shot between boozed and bong-watered collegiate retard to almost-30, numbingly “responsible” payer of taxes, dutiful consumer, depositor to 401K, and consensual soul-selling corporate cog.

But can I eek away my life like this? Bored, political ass-kissing during the weekdays to gorge on fleetingly-pleasing plastic splurges on weekends? The Cambodian woman digging ditches all day would agree there are worse things. After all, it seems that capitalism and consumerism have hypnotized the world. But why, then, in my color-coordinated, brand-named comfort, am I so unsatisfied? Is having the ability to earn a living blissfully a spoiled notion of the pampered? Does anyone ever love their work? Or, perhaps, this is my mid-life crises come 20 years too early…

I had achieved the 3 C’s just as my mother fastidiously instilled: I had the career, the car and a sizeable down payment for the condo, but, alas, I had not a shred of contentment; which, at the heed of my annoyingly persistent soul, is the most vital, implicit “c” of all. (An aside**This should explain my blowing about 25k to aimlessly traipse far corners of the planet in a search for said “c”; the announcement of which, by the way, did not elicit congratulatory smiles all round, though my karma was boosted patiently deflecting inquisitions of my corporate career, wedding dresses, the apparent ticking of my biological clock and likelihood of future financial security. (Dreaming, maverick, aging, black-sheep: I commend your honesty, trueness to self. Don’t ever concede your individuality, sincerity, morality, grease up and grab those ankles, well, unless of course, it's for money. And lots of it -see Margomel? You did teach us something!**)

I pursued stark directions, no matter their difficulty, randomly, intensely, and with short-lived alacrity, my flighty passion handicapped with a fear of failure and defensive poor follow-through. It won’t hurt as much, if I didn’t really try. Born were my roaring-twenties of constant change; studying for and taking the LSAT ( before I considered the hours and dry reading), recording a professional CD with a band ( which I subsequently abandoned), applying to international MBA programs (then realizing I don’t like corporations), investing 5 steadfast years in networking ( and being completely disenchanted), attempting to move to Hawaii (discovering vacation is separate from living). So, as you can see, I’ve quite the hap-hazard resume; not the stuff of dreams for an ambitious 27-year-old. And to think, a friend we met traveling thought I had it figured out!

Naturally, leaving everything I knew, (family, friends, career, car, and down payment on the condo) to pursue an inkling to travel far and wide, long-term, was one such impulsive idea which, given my past credo of decision-making, was a lot easier for me to heed than my emotional antithesis, my loving best friend and partner, Troy. Life was simpler when I was the only one bearing the consequences of my wild fancies. Now I handle the utter destruction of two lives...

To give you an idea, those who don’t know him, he is the closest thing to a quintessential son, brother, friend, and partner: intelligent, funny, sensitive and loyal. His trademarks are logic, sensibility and practicality; which only make his interest in me and acquiescence to cut loose all the more mysterious. Nothing seems to shake his imperturbable calm, (my screeching freak-out sessions in apparent vain) and you’d be hard-pressed to find someone praised by more mothers world-wide. Truly I couldn’t have engineered a better engineer. Yes, I count my lucky stars…

Despite his darned level-headedness, I’d launched a campaign of persuasion, as my sweetheart was markedly against leaving it all; his blossoming engineering career, family, friends and desire for financial perfection the opposing, angelic voice to my devilish prepositions. He was finally starting the adult life he’d dreamed of and prepared for, for so long. I, on the other hand, was plainly unhappy with my job (despite the ability to make money), enduring the mania of a gossipy pill popper appointed -in a resplendent act of corporate effenciency- to a managerial position, consequent tremors of my heart and sucking of all life from my veins. It must be noted, however, Troy was engrained with a singular, straight-forward, childhood calling, for which he was armed with an insatiable curiosity about the world around him and overwhelming mathematical prowess. He was always, effortlessly, to be an engineer. In addition, his work environment was vastly superior. So, it’s fair to say, I’m doing a wee bit more soul-searching than he is, unless those wigs, prosthetics and size 15 stilettos I found are his…that’s another story. ( just kidding, Lucas, Carlos and Debbie)

Certainly not a newsflash, but being in a long-term committed relationship changes everything, changed me, most notably due to the ten-letter relationship maker or breaker: compromise. More importantly, the desire to compromise. Any pair lasting longer than a few months can attest to this. How else could we share a lifetime when we’ve different tastes, goals, and dogmas; those which, after my bouts of commanding and supplicating, still remain disagreed upon? I’m conditioned to get what I want by years of successfully utilizing my velvet hammer and Gallagher-esque negotiation practices; family and friends duped into the front row, unhappily smattered with flesh, juices and other residual carnage before, pulling up their protective plastic sheet, resigned and weirded-out, leaving me to my strangely pointless destruction.

Obstinate and erratic behavior notwithstanding, Troy perpetually tries to make things work to make us happy: the hallmark of a truly fantastic friend or spouse. And, therefore, challenging as it may be, so shall I!

At a many-times-still-immature 27, however, redirecting the egocentric stare of teenage-dom outward has been a slow and painful enterprise for me, (even with patient encouragement from my Prince Charming) my well-trained attentions focusing constantly, reflexively on myself. Oh, the arduous charge of foregoing personal desires for someone else, someone you love. (I’m not talking about getting Captain Crunch when you wanted Lucky Charms, or watching ESPN when you wanted Laguna Beach, although those too are major relationship sacrifices.) I’m talking about real pain and longing evident in something you truly wanted, given up for your loved one. **an aside: I’m really starting to better appreciate the plight of the fortuitous trio – branded at 15 as self-centered, abjectly belligerent, simultaneous 1st, 2nd and 3rd comings of the antichrist but in the clarity of semi-maturity and hindsight, just doing their best - namely, my parents, who must be laughing loudly right now**

After much ado, he finally agreed to leaving our life on the basis that, at the end of one year, we both would return to the US, to work, rectify our finances and work towards our Masters degrees; rebuilding some semblance of establishment. A year ago, I assumed I would have discovered my calling, and subdued my itchy feet with extensive travel through 14 countries, however, on the cusp of this impending deadline ( much to Troy’s annoyance) that is not the case. It’s closing time, and like a spoiled child treated to, hypnotized by the vivid Technicolor, blustering merriment, endless excitement of a sugar-filled amusement park, I don’t wanna to go home L

Months prior, we’d briefly discussed setting up shop in Taipei, Sydney or even Auckland; for New Zealand we prudently obtained a working holiday visa back in May in Rome. Because the year-end was still far off, and not yet demanding of our attentions, the discussions were not entirely serious or fruitful. Time elapsed, as it has the rude tendency to do, and we were confronted with the austere dichotomy of closing this chapter of our life, returning home to the states OR staking out an exotic locale to pseudo-settle, complete with address and phone number, then continuing to travel. You can probably guess what I wanted to do.

And then there was Troy.

The past few weeks, we’d kept a dizzying pace, zig-zagging taxingly across Asia by way of reckless taxis, red-eye flights, dilapidated rickshaws, second-class stuffed trains, smog-choked tuk-tuks and 40-hour bus rides (apparently through hell), damned with ungodly sounds, smells and the deepest, most furthest stretching potholes in existence. All things you guys have heard about before.

In their newness, these things imparted culture shock and adventure; entertaining novelties, becoming a part of colorful memory as our first travel times. Now, they become quickly exhausting, intolerably stressful and all-together overwhelming, making me wish I’d a magic wand to instantly materialize somewhere else. This, in addition to living with a few tattered clothes from a smelly backpack, (never being able to dress-up) always eating out, always pinching pennies, not having a sanctuary, gym or routine of your own, and constantly changing cities, languages, cultures and countries has finally taken its toll. As a result, when you’re blasé about fantastic locations, you know it’s time to slow down, chill out.

Thought I’d never say that, didn’t you!

Full circle: the reason for our inertia and my lack of writing was this major life decision: Go home or stay abroad. Troy was hesitant, a tad homesick, needing to settle his finances, and leaning towards going home to Arizona. He was also, however, seduced by International work experience, and the idea of surfing, rafting, canyoning, snowboarding, and mountaineering abroad. With some much-appreciated parental assistance in selling Troy’s truck, my opinion was immediate. His took a little longer.

I spent the better part of 2 weeks explaining why I feel settling in New Zealand is the better option for both of us. We can get an apartment, transportation and communication again. We can settle into the routine and comfort of a normal life while still continuing to explore the world; Australia, Fiji, Philippines, Indonesia. We can live in a foreign country and gain valuable experience from doing so. I rationalized. I explained. I coerced. I pleaded. I tried to show him the US and his impressive credentials and resume are not going anywhere. We can always go back, when we want, if we need. I also conveyed that, although I really did not want to, I would accompany him home, back to Arizona, if that's what he really wanted. The ol' C-O-M-P-R-O-M-I-S-E

As I explained above, I've pondered salad dressings for longer than this. Troy, however, sensibly refused to decide. He needed time, thought, and advice ( from someone other than me) before he chose. He wrote a list of pros and cons, and weighed the columns. My little engineer.

It was a trying month, but I can announce we are in agreement and, YIPEE, moving to Auckland, New Zealand! Both Families, Ruba, Maki, Sascha, Kurt, Lucas, Tony: you guys all have a place to crash if you come to visit :)

In the next month we’ll hit Singapore ( again), Darwin, and Brisbane before settling into the north island, New Zealand metropolis.

Stay Tuned!!

xoxoxoxoxo

2007-01-06T14:38:00.000+07:00

A few more Nepali trekking blogs updated ( remember to scroll down, back to October)
http://daijalovestroy.blogspot.com/2006/10/day-four-part-three-immediately-i-lose.html
http://daijalovestroy.blogspot.com/2006/10/day-5-bagarchap-to-chame-2160m-to.html

and pics on fotki updated! www.fotki.com/visceraltext

Happy New Year-2007!

Wishing the happiest of birthdays to Poppa Bear and Clemens :D
To all our friends: you were sorely missed on NYE, but we'll have one again together soon
XOXOXOXOXOX

2006-12-25T18:15:00.000+07:00

MERRY CHRISTMAS :D

As all of you know, we are in Goa, India for the holidays with our buddies Allen, Holly, Christian, Robin, Christiana, Ron, Daniel and Umberto. Tonight is our lobster Christmas dinner!!

We wish you a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. Think of us while you feast on turkey, yams and pumpkin pie.

Love you, miss you and see you all very soon

xoxoxoxoxox
Dai and Troy

2006-12-11T21:30:00.000+07:00

If you think India is swarming, chaotic, uncomfortable and choked with grime, dust, smog and gut-wrenching stench, you’re right. Compared with back home, it might as well be a different planet. The abject squalor, unscrupulous scam artists, annoyingly-persistent rickshaw-wallahs, suffocating bustle, and ear-splitting vehicular horns piercing painfully, incessantly are, for many, too much; steamrolling even the toughest traveler’s tolerance. Moreover, the changes in diet, air quality, lack of sleep (deafening noise is resident, uniform, fundamental) and exhausting hyper-awareness to thwart touts grate, inevitably, upon any residual sagacity. One traveler confessed needing to leave as he’d become “quite the a*shole”, falling quickly into agitated disenchantment.

There are just too many people. Public infrastructure is stressed comically beyond its faculty. The power grid is intermittent, unreliable and volatile; threatening to deep fry our sensitive Ipods, digital camera and laptop in a whimsical surge. While outside, lungs, in search of breath, will distend on the noxious stew of burned-oil, stagnant urine, manure and thick, impossibly-permeating dust.

Transportation of any government-run variety is a tedious abomination; a loony caricature guaranteed to be uncomfortable, tardy and mismanaged. Accurate transit information is elusive; hidden disparately for a hasty, ill-timed treasure hunt; usually resulting in a fantastic perversion of one’s schedule. Only the dogged glean fact from the cryptic, mostly fallacious mutterings of government employees, solely charged, in their impudent apathy, with foiling your route; which will undoubtedly incorporate additional, miscellaneous, multi-hour delays. Furthermore, the pictures of 2 and 4-legged bodies rammed into, hanging out of, and clustered on top of moving vehicles are not fabrications.

In the cities, unhygienic, frantic, random, dangerous, idiotically bureaucratic things flounder all around in teeming, 24-hour pandemonium; far beyond Western comprehension..

Daily rituals, simple errands, even recreation can become abhorrent as Western standards of cleanliness, logic and overall synergy deride the visceral cultural experience that, I’ve come to know, IS India. The incessant challenges are, however, not without reward. After a futile, vexing struggle, contrasting my lifestyle requirements with theirs, I learned this frenetic, fascinating country is savored by the resolute, whom, in their thirst for understanding, patiently accept the good, the bad and the extremely ridiculous, ( much like you would in any person) as an imperfect whole. Killing India with kindness and tolerance is central to maintaining personal peace, else, you’re confined to the downward spiral of embittered disappointment. Once I vilified my judgments, comparisons and enlivened my sense of humor ( which was not easy for me), I discovered my passion for this intimidating realm. There is a saying: anything worth having does not come easily; and such is the case with India

Notwithstanding admitted regressions into aggravation, I’m enraptured, sometimes in the very same breath and therefore I sympathize with those who classify their relationship with India as “love/hate”. What other than marvelous, exotic, addictive cultural experiences could lure you back into seemingly masochistic anarchy?! One moment I’m infatuated with her vegetarian, sweet yogurt and cinnamon-spiced cuisine, overtly social people, Middle Eastern Mughal architecture, and incredibly ornate clothing. In another moment, I ponder going home, breaking up, after she treats me like a soulless ATM, poisons me with rotten victuals (condemning me to a squat toilet), and even steals my only pair of shoes from my feet. But her wrath is capricious, fleeting, and it’s not too long before she’s wooing me, splendidly, again…

Grotesque, inconvenient, painful experiences and all, I am thankful she exists, lucky enough to see her firsthand, as Earth would be a painfully homogenous place were it conquered by the sedentary, climate-controlled, hyper-convenience of the West. Many a complainer would be done a substantial service, toughening up, living a much different (perhaps also more fulfilling) life on this side of the world. **Were we really made for air-conditioned shopping malls?** Still, acclimating to an environment and lifestyle so shockingly different, even wild by comparison, is a delicate, exigent, time-consuming process. But, I’m willing.

India’s lifted me up, beat me down, and I can say, haggardly, I’m not through yet.

We’ve discovered Vishnu, Shiva, Ganesh, saddhus, yoga, meditation, and mysticism. We’ve dined on mind-blowing dosas, chai (the original stolen from Starbucks), uthapams, puris, samosas, lassis and gulab jammun. We’ve been cheated, helped, harassed, extolled, chased, enchanted, and befriended. This country incarnates the inherent living dichotomy in all of us, the epic contrast between forces side-by-side: yin and yang, black and white, good and evil. In touch with my ongoing metamorphosis and education, I appreciate these honest incidents, traversing this less accessible and, consequently, more authentic culture, feeling the richness, the diversity, the over-populous pulse tangibly beneath my fingertips. When I’m pissed, when I’m sick and when it hurts, I chant the doctored maxim: When India doesn’t kill me…

2006-11-13T16:59:00.000+07:00

**Scroll backwards to see trekking entries-starts Oct 13th**
More PICS uploaded www.fotki.com/visceraltext
Thankfully, I couldn't foresee the events to transpire during our guideless and porterless journey through Nepal's central Annapurna region, because (as many of you know) I am not what you'd call calm in the face of adversity. Let's agree my pathetic trajectory through challenge or crisis consists of several hyperventilating freak-out sessions and crazed screeches before a loss of consciousness, time and tolerance (on the part of my companions). I can admit I'm probably the most annoying, exacerbating, complicating force to negotiate on top of adversity. I have no medical training and no mountaineering experience under my belt. Hell, I'm not even an "outdoor" girl.

I'm acrophobic, claustrophobic, prone to panic attacks, a hypochondriac, control freak and afflicted with a tad of OCD, where I obsess about the worst outcome of any given situation, like dropping my brand new laptop outside the 4th-storey window I sit against typing this.

Right.

So, how was it I was with Troy at the foot of the tallest mountain range in the world, preparing to circumnavigate several 25,000ft + peaks? (Many of you are probably wondering how I was accompanied at all? *innocent giggle*)

My new best practice: by the seat of my pants, on a wing and a prayer trying to remember: THIS IS LIFE! I have wasted too much energy on this trip (and in life for that matter) in the past and future, each breath being filled with both dread and longing, while the perfect, present moment ends in vain. Planning, regretting, worrying, in a never-ending cycle ceasing ( I am learning) only when I do.

Premonitions of the remoteness, inherent dangers, infections, physical pain /discomfort, environment and incessant exhaustion involved with trekking through the Himalaya for 25 days would have only hampered our adventurous experience, as we blissfully wandered Kathmandu, gathering final provisions.

Cleverly, for the sake of our experience, Troy coaxed me to "let go", as was necessary on the choppy flight of antique Airbus 155 from Bangkok to Kathmandu, which did, honestly, help a bit until I saw a feathering crack extending from the floorboard to the ceiling which, I could have sworn, was sucking out air. The news of an overheated-engine and emergency landing in Delhi due to missed maintenance the week prior vetoed any calming thoughts as I tried, casually, to blame my profuse sweating on green curry from the airport lounge. Tepid water chugged and last of my three stale peanuts chewed, I succeeded in grinding my molars to the gum as I mentally re-enacted the plane ripping in half over Myanmar.

More wasted prana (from Hindu, life energy), but I digress.

The TRC, Trekking Registry Certificate, a bill which was still pending implementation in Kathmandu on Oct. 14th (our set date of departure), requires the use of either porter or guide from a recognized agency on any trek in Nepal. Considering ourselves lucky, being the last of those who could freely wander the conservation area trails, we purchased two local maps, an Annapurna region guidebook and a compass, deciding, whatever the outcome, to seize the day.

Troy and I are forever changed.

In this sacred land, the second highest country in the world ( first being Tibet), ancient lifestyles withstand time, religions meld, evolve and resonate, idyllic landscapes tower and people subsist as they did over 300 years ago: tending to animals and living from the land in a beautiful simplicity which patronizes why many Westerners live the chaotic way we do.

Faced with something truly celestial, spiritual, and rare, I was awe-struck, dumbfounded, cleansed. Who is this person inside me climbing these vast, steep cliffs? Dirty, uncomfortable and exhausted treading treacherous, narrow footpaths of mud, rock, and snow from dawn until dusk, I ventured into a part of me I hadn't known before.

The separation from modernity, communication and media allowed me to concentrate on doing one thing at a time; sipping a cup of tea, climbing a challenging path, writing in a journal. All meditative and purifying in their garnering of my undivided attention, these simple acts cultivated a sublime joy, which was intensified by the surreal scenes I'd become a part of each day. Strangely, unexpectedly, the obsessive clinging to existence, perpetual phobias of danger and death, and inertia of worry and doubt dissolved as easily as the crusts of foreboding ice on our path each morning.

Anyone who has spent time in the remote regions of Nepal will tell you what we've just experienced: there is something magical, intangible, intensely spiritual about a journey through the Himalaya.

We were away for 25 days. I will organize the postings by days of the trek, starting Oct 13th: our bus ride from Kathmandu to Besi Sahar. Hang in there! Soon, I will have everything up to date.

XOXOXOXOXOXO

2006-10-17T20:50:00.000+07:00

Day Five-continued

Nanoseconds before Nepali-Kujo launches, sinking its teeth into our tender calf or thigh muscles, a fearless porter armed with a stick from his bushel of firewood, bludgeons the brute, forcing his retreat. Thank you sweet Lord! With a new lease on life (or at least a better appreciation of mobility from the thighs down), we continue ahead together to Timang, and breathe our sighs of relief over a hot lemon from a quaint teahouse, liberally strung with the green, yellow, red and blue of prayer flags; the first we’ve seen on the trail. **Buddhists believe the wind takes your prayers ( written across the colorful linen squares) up to the heavens for God to hear and answer.** We leave Ron, who waits for his daughter Christiana (who is still adjusting to the exerting schedule), to continue through this deceptively high yawn, sprawling and soaring at over 2500m above sea level.

You could easily mistake the magnificent high-altitude fields of Timang for those at the base of the Alps in Germany, Austria or Switzerland. Cobble-stoned paths, weathered rustic wooden-fences, vivid wildflowers of fuchsia and yellow sprout from a rolling carpet of greenery, and massive Manaslu, ensconced with an impressive entourage of snow-caked false peaks, occupies the entire south-western horizon. A chocolate cow dozes across our path, taking full advantage of the relaxing warmth of midday, and clinching the sleepy, intense beauty of this little village.

Another slew of commemorative snapshots. It’s as if each step forward unveils an even better view, a more intense panorama than the last.

Our tanks are on full after the rest, hot lemon, Mars Bars and conversation we had with Ron, and we break into a brisk pace happily discussing our noticeable improvement in fitness. We’re definitely due after 50 hours in 5 days of forcibly cudgeling, contorting our ill-prepared, lactic-acid-swollen limbs up these mountains.

At our current pace, I surmise the circuit trek rivals a hard-core military boot camp: painfully crawling a razor-thin line separating too-much-too-fast-too-soon collapse or emotionally-charged accomplishment of the seemingly impossible. Keep in mind, this is coming from a disciplined I-can-take-pain marathon-runner not a child of the lazy, video-game, fast-food culture of America.

The healing pass of time, unless the joke’s on us, caused those we interviewed to omit the grueling intensity and unrelenting sweat, pain, breathlessness, discomfort involved in this trek. For those interested, in no uncertain terms: It’s flagrantly f#&^%#ing hard, especially when you carry your own gear. You’d be wise to train for months before setting off. We didn’t, and of course, the plus side, is your body is whipped violently into superb shape, shedding pounds of fat in less than one week amidst the stunning glory of the Himalaya. Which, of course, is not too shabby. In addition, there aren’t many situations in a cosmopolitan life where you’re eclipsed by nature, required to be largely self-sufficient, utilizing your corporal brawn over brain and, I must say, it feels surprisingly good. Maybe it’s the primal satisfaction of knowing you can carve out survival without modern, technological convenience; even despite our planetary evolution towards feeble, dependent cream-puffery; ( I chew a chocolate donut as I type)

The long days of intense and steady exercise have quadrupled my normal food intake, and I’m a bit too aghast (and short on time) to list what I consume in a typical day; suffice to say it’s around 4500 calories. Don’t divert your disgusted attention yet, as I attest my (grimace) 4 Snickers a day-the #1 trekking staple- aren’t inhibiting my accelerated-Dr. Doolittle-ish weight loss. It seems I’m burning, blisteringly, through the inordinate amount of food I’m eating; my chugging intestines, regular high-speed digestive plumbing. A business idea faintly flickers in lights: “Attention chunky! Forget failing Fat Camp and jowls jammed with Jenny Craig. Jiggle your wide load to trek Nepal!” Maybe the marketing’s off, but you get my drift…

Anyway, finally we feel fitter. The welcome realization of improved fitness boosts our mood, and Troy and I bask in the warmth and pleasance of each other’s company, trotting towards a narrowing switchback, to climb beyond, up and away from Timang. Our chunky boots crunch along the powdery dirt and gravel, splashes of sunlight dancing with shade, dappling our chalky path. A few moderate hours outside of Timang we notice the next sloping incline, shaded, flanked by crackling branches, looming languidly above the distant hiss of the river. It’s long, but not remarkably steep, in comparison from what we’ve tackled, and we are surprised to lose our breath so quickly. The routine 2 minute rest we’ve employed thus far doesn’t do the trick, and we pass an indefinite period wheezing and huffing, hungrily gasping for the remaining oxygen in thinning air. Have we suddenly aged 40 years? Was it delayed reaction from the gravity bong? Did that last Snickers send me to death? No. No and No. It’s our first taste of an at-altitude symptom- breathlessness- and quite sobering considering we’re less than half the height we’ll reach soon.

AMS, or acute mountain sickness, is a dangerous consequence of ascending too quickly; the reduced concentration of oxygen in the air too low for the respiratory and circulatory systems of your body to assimilate and function properly. The highest point of earth, roughly 8800m, 28800ft or the cruising altitude of a commercial airliner, has roughly 1/3 less oxygen in the air than at sea-level, and if you were to take someone from Amsterdam and place them at the top of Mount Everest, their lungs would flood, blood thicken, brain swell, and they’d be dead in 2 minutes. Unfortunately, despite awareness efforts of HRA (Himalayan Rescue Association) and KEEP ( Kathmandu Environmental Education Project), and the fact that AMS is entirely preventable, deaths of trekkers in Nepal from AMS continue to occur each year.

As the paranoid obsessive compulsive hypochondriac already with just “medium-health” (as one local fortuneteller informed me), I researched the hell out of AMS via Google, Lonely Planet and lectures at the HRA. The unsettling truth of every at-altitude activity is: you cannot predict your own acclimatization, regardless of how you’ve done in the past. Each time and every person is different, and contrary to logic, youth and physical fitness cannot prevent AMS- in fact, older out of shape trekkers are less susceptible as they climb slower than their younger, fitter counterparts. Children are at higher risk as they fail to communicate their symptoms in time.

Basically, there is no fail-safe avoidance, blanket panacea, save listening to your body, which, in early stages can be hazy at best. Most alarming, however, is the fact that some never acclimatize, despite the most generous, gentle schedule of ascent (slower than the suggested 300m per day over 3000m) and this combined with a delayed onset of symptoms clearly spells ( to an OCD) L-E-A-V-E N-E-P-A-L N-O-W.

Troy self-assuredly says “Like getting into a car or crossing the street, you take your odds and hope you’re not that caveat”. I nod, smiling, while trying to control the incessant replay of my death: my swollen brain popping from my skull on a remote snowy peak.

Insult to injury is that the throbbing head, dehydration, lightheadedness, and cumulative exhaustion often accompanying intense hiking could also be the early symptoms of AMS which are: breathlessness, fatigue, nausea, headache and dizziness. Ill-educated or strictly-scheduled trekkers ignoring ( or misdiagnosing) their symptoms inevitably and quickly deteriorate into acute AMS, advanced pulmonary and/or cerebral edema, and then, death. In the event you have any symptoms, you’re advised to stay at that altitude and rest. If you worsen, even if at night, immediate descent with a partner is suggested.

In addition to heeding early warning signals and rest, drinking 5-6 liters of water per day helps prevent AMS. I’ve never consumed that quantity of liquid daily before, (about 1 and ½ gallons) and even during strenuous activity, Troy needs to constantly remind me to drink. It’s also challenging because our water tastes not like water, but a piss dirt slurpee. (The passing of CO2 through urine, increases the concentration of oxygen in the blood stream and one of the effects of the controversial drug for AMS, Diamox, is increased urination. On it’s own, urinating more frequently is a good indicator you’re acclimating properly.)

“Always drink copiously” says a large metal sign punctuating the circuit; including symptoms and treatment for AMS: “Listen to your body” and “Descend, descend, descend!” ACAP ( Annapurna Conservation Area Protection) also had sufficient foresight to include a further clarification- most useful for European trekkers- “this does not include alcoholic beverages”. Visions of an army of red-faced, bloated drunks, staggering up the mountain, stopping diligently on the Throng La Pass for their keg stands. This method of mountaineering is apparently in the not suggested column.

**An aside: Isn’t it interesting that, like the sign and the strange warnings on packing (i.e. “Do not get in eyes” on a bottle of mouthwash) when something implied is spelled out, it’s because someone industrious tested the waters for yet undiscovered exceptions to the rule. Somewhere out there is the creative man who ran out of eye drops, mistakenly looking to the leftover Listerine.**

We follow the sign’s insistence and after a chunky-water chugging, we feel ready to continue, though still feeling the sluggish weight of minor fatigue. My heartbeat is still pattering-another symptom of high-altitude- and I try to control it with relaxed deep breaths. It abides…for now. Mercifully, the remainder of the day is spent without losing or gaining further height; it’s a relatively flat path. It’s serendipitous, because if this were steep, we’d probably need to spend a night back in Timang, literally catching our breath. But, we truck on.

2006-10-17T18:27:00.000+07:00

Day 5-Bagarchap to Chame 2160m to 2710m

Yesterday’s clouds have gone and as the dawn sky softens from cool slate to warm pink, the first incandescent sunrays smolder the white tip of Annapurna II a smoking gold. She catches me in the court-yard, chilled, puffy-eyed, unsuspecting, and renders me spell-bound on my way for masala tea. People say you can never accurately describe what it feels like to see the majestic Himalaya up close for the first time. It’s a humbling, swallowing, visceral high, unlike anything I have felt before. How can innate rock make me feel this way: utterly dumbfounded, elated, in awe of the inconceivable magic inherent? Let’s agree: I can understand why Nepali have founded their religion in them. It is our first close up view of a Himalayan peak. It is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen; not simply because of its sheer size, fantastic aesthetic or world-wide fame (which in their own rights are also quite impressive), but because there is something intangible, subtle, even supernatural in that mystical mass of mountain.

In quiet morning moments, sipping my strong brew, I am blind-sided with why we’re here: close proximity to total earthly perfection. The celestial pervading joy, impossibly-romantic illumination, crystal-clarity and bone-chilling grandeur leaves every soul awake stunned and silent, admiring a sight we are all so lucky and have worked so hard, so far, to see. Suddenly, I am reminded of my fortune, of the love for Troy, my family and friends, and also for myself. It is one of those seconds, one of those few in a lifetime, wrought permanently, deeply to my soul; a euphoric lightness filling through me, opening and ripening my heart. Free from misgiving, distress or regret: I am happy.

What IS this salacious satisfaction? Could the mountains be bringing me in closer touch with God? Or just quieting the distractions to see myself?

Either way, we dreamily move through our morning routine; drugged in overwhelming adoration and Nepal’s interminable beauty. I am you! You are me! We are everything! Ok, ok…I know it that’s abjectly bleeding-heart, ( not my usual bag, baby) but it’s quite possibly the most special sight I’ve seen and the ensuing euphoria succeeds, transcends where lost souls’ chemical attempts complicate, misconstrue and confuse.

Wishing to preserve the calm solitude of the awesome sunrise, as the boom-boxes and boisterous babble are slowly switching on, Troy and I forego breaking our fast to get a head start on the trail. In our hurry, we miss an inconspicuous stretch, to rejoin the wide gravel trail from Bagarchap; the mischievous (and quietly omniscient) donkey biting his tongue and only smiling as we truck past, the wrong way. Twenty minutes of exploring a veritable spider-web of slight trails, I have the hanging feeling of forgetting something, of needing to return. Mentally running through the tally of things I remembered packing and things I wasn’t sure about, a light bulb bursts overhead and I recall strangely setting my Ipod on the balcony ledge. Why did I do that? We stop, lost anyway, and I dash back, leaping over the cobblestone path to the lodge to luckily find my Ipod and ( not so luckily) all the trekkers we tried to pass gathering, loudly, in the courtyard. I guess it’s my just desserts for rushing and I remind myself, no matter the noise, this isn’t a race. Everything always as it should be.

Starting over from the lodge, we notice the correct way, curving east towards the cold, violent-looking river 200 meters below. The modest cluster of worn wooden teahouses comprising Bagarchap clings, somewhat grimly, to the gravel ledge overhanging the river; a deadly landslide obliterating most of the picturesque town a few years prior. The golden light has strengthened to stark brightness, and Annapurna II is now a blinding white. Breaking our northern direction for the first time since Besi Sahar, the trail begins to swing back west, hugging the cliff, climbing higher through a dense, evergreen forest.

Although its decidedly morning, the sun is not strong enough to warm our faces or brittle muscles; the overhanging botanical blot diffusing the cool, alpine sun. We plod, briskly into the crisp forested shade, trying to jump-start our own, built-in heating stomping over the thick mush of red and brown leaves. Chill from the thinning air seems to sterilize every scent -save the slight, ubiquitous aroma of mud- and it’s stinging as I draw breath; my arms and legs rippling with goose bumps. Amazingly, my pack is beginning to feel comfortable slung across my shoulders ( something I never thought possible); the 22lbs thankfully no longer cutting, aching, but an extension of me. Carrying my things myself makes me feel potent, capable, independent.

As we’re tackling the wide, shaded path north-north-west, the majority of the day’s 550m climb confronts us. An inconsistent, extremely steep path, starting as stone steps veering off into dirt incline, slices diagonally into the cliff, obviously a newly fashioned detour resulting from monsoon erosion. In the distance, we see the slow procession of hikers, their tiny heads bobbing slowly, with marked determination, upwards. After crossing a “rustic bridge” ( two enormous logs, slippery with moisture and moss, over which we shimmy, clumsy in thick-soled cumbersome boots) beneath the thick canopy of dark greenery, we buckle down, steadily plodding skywards against this brutal, make-shift ascent. Half way up the steep, shaded slope, we reach an extremely narrow switchback, about the width of my feet side-by-side, and the familiar stiffness and nausea of my acrophobia sets in. One slip and I’m a pinball clinking down, break, snap, crack; a rag-doll against the impervious, innumerable tree trunks. I lean completely forward, palm to gripless dirt and waddle, ever so carefully to the next, wider section, feeling I am getting better at cliffhanging. I didn’t even cry :)

The towering feather and stretch of pine branches breaks at the top of the hill, where we are given are first and only view of the highest peak in region: Manaslu. Palest blue, its contours against the sky’s hue ever so slight in the pastel distance, rising jagged and massive. Climbing higher, our south eastern view is framed with the lush, hunter-green of high altitude evergreens and scrubby juniper and our shiny faces are finally flushed in the morning sunrays.

This is much more than I’d dreamed; worth each ounce of blood, sweat and tears spent getting here. As I’m slathered in scenery, sunrays and sweat, there’s contentment, joy. Troy and I take a moment to download into our permanent memory banks. It doesn’t get any better than this.

We admire this mighty panorama, catch our breath, and take a photo. In doing so, the approaching trekker we’d tried desperately to outrun reaches us. Initially, Troy and I feared he led the entire pack of 20 French pole-prodding trekkers from Bagarchap, and not wanting to be knee-deep in blaring music and other various humanoid disturbances (no! no! no! oooh-lala! Jean-Claude!) we pushed, breathlessly beyond our fitness, ahead. We can see now, and feel a bit sheepish, he’s alone and impossibly friendly.

Ron Eckert; why I left my Ipod, and started off the wrong way this morning. None of us know it yet, but he’s my guardian angel. Standing an athletic 5’11, he’s textbook: equipped with high-tech doodads and brand-name outdoor gear we didn’t have the expertise or foresight to bring; his perfect white smile and strong jaw bristled in a groomed salt-pepper beard. Picture the most quintessential outdoorsman, stir in contagious high-spirits a measure of gregarious good-nature and there you have it. Ron hails from Vancouver, and despite being 61, does not look a day over 40; an inspiring commercial for the benefits of healthy-living and life-long exercise. Continuing up the last of the climb, we enjoy a smiling ( he was doing the smiling, us the labored huffing) conversation about the views, iodine vs. chlorine purification, and his 22 year-old daughter also on the trek, Christiana; in his voice the approachable and upbeat articulation of a jovial top-40 radio announcer.

Suddenly, a large, wily dog appears and threatens, barking and growling, trotting aggressively from the trees. Rudely snapped from my merriment, a lone memory fizzles across my throbbing cranial neurons: foolishly declining the doctor’s suggestion for rabies inoculations at the Red Cross in Bangkok. Treatment for rabies entails a series of fourteen, 6-inch-plus, stomach-stabbed shots, but let’s not fantasize about the rewards just yet. We freeze in panic, and I visualize my bloody flesh speared on the brute’s jagged incisors. We have no defense. A leg injury, however minor, to any of us would ruin the remaining three weeks of hiking, probably requiring a dicey helicopter ride back to Kathmandu for treatment.

Easy. Eaaaaasy. No sudden movements.

2006-10-16T23:46:00.000+07:00

Day Four-Part Three

Immediately, I lose the facade of reason I’d so painstakingly painted around me minutes prior. We’ve gone the wrong way. Monsoon rains, which fed the destructive landslide that swept away the path behind are also, I notice, responsible for demolishing chunks of the ancient staircase; feeble, torn tree roots and splintering rock the only thing restraining myriad fat boulders. They loom; definite, jagged, nerve-racking, with high a probability of dislocating from the carious expanse beside us.

Of course locals, frequently traversing all sections of the circuit, know when a path becomes dangerous, impassable, and subsequently devise a ( not so conspicuous) detour. Sometimes its tree branches laid horizontally across a path. Sometimes someone else will cross in time and help. But, sometimes (many times as our trekking gods would command) you have nothing at all. Not having a guide, an experienced trekker, a local, or even an exact map of the area, we followed where the path seemed evident; in this case, going the wrong way, wasting an exhausting, sweaty ascent and most harmfully, needlessly endangering our safety. This was our first scary lesson: the apparent way is not always the right one.

Now it’s time to get down.

Solar radiation from my astral onlooker unaffectedly cooks skin and retinas which, unfortunately for me, are without hat and sunglasses today. The heavy heat presses mercilessly around my hot skull, which seems to exacerbate my heartbeat, now fluttering dangerously out of control. Though I’m not moving anymore, I feel painful cardio convulsions. Beat…beat…beat.beat.beat….beat. My arrhythmia, a deleterious consequence of highly stressful situations, chokes and throbs sporadically in a stiff chest. Each feral, defiant breath pulls quicker in a violent reflex, the friction of baked air against my inner flesh stinging, until the shallow, oxygen-less rhythm staggers me in dizziness. Tightness behind my eyes and temples pulls, twists and squeezes to fashion a thick migraine squarely in my sizzling brain.

A full-blown panic attack.

I’m woozy and seeing stars, fastened anxiously, precariously, to an apathetic rock far from the safety of civilization. Seriously: What if I slip? What if I need medical attention? What if my haggard heart short-circuits? Suddenly, the lurking, disabling fear I’d been repressing, bursts hotly forth rolling down my cheeks in salty streams. I’m a city girl who buys Starbucks, cute tops and pedicures. I’m not an effing mountaineer. What the hell am I doing here?

“Trooooooooooooooooooooooy” I blare breathlessly behind me. I strain over the whistle of wind and distant churn of the river, trying to hear a response. Only the well-timed, possibly mocking caw of a passing crow. Pressing my pack forcefully into the gritty step behind me, and gripping a clump of weeds, I look over my left shoulder, pleading to see any sign of my boyfriend, trekking partner, savior.

Nothing.

Inching carefully down the stone and dirt incline, I’m desperate, keeping my eyes locked on the small, distant man still waving to me. Almost imperceptibly, the words “I’m OK” slip across my lips; steadily increasing into a chant. I’m making my way down, allowing my focus to tame wild, counterproductive fear. Ignoring the distinctly fatal, barrierless drop to my immediate right, I’m squatting, pressing my back into the mountain. Moist triceps flex, clutch the worn rock behind me and I ease my weight down another few feet. My sweat-soaked backpack clumsily lurches forward, almost over my head, and back down again, teetering by its straps as I lean down, then stretch a leg carefully down from the patch of rock I’m on. I loose my breath for a split-second each wobbly pace down, assured the cumbersome weight of my pack or an unlucky misstep will topple me. Salty and completely drenched, even my fingers ( WTF?) are perspiring. The tip of my right hiking boot plants on the uneven, widening path beneath me, and my body elongates, slides slowly down to meet it. I imagine thick sharp teeth gripping, pushing through my soles, easing my step, prohibiting a slip. After descending this way for an apprehensive eternity ( but probably more like 15 minutes), the stones grow attractively larger and the flight of steps is tolerable, almost easy by comparison. Again I see the hot blue, towering grey, dry green brush, bubbling torrent, parched valley; everything. The breathtaking picture is just as I mentally left it minutes ago. Far away, just barely in my view, I cherish the unmistakable, airy bob of a butterfly. I collapse for a moment, resting my back against the mountain, catching my breath and staring blankly upwards; such a vivid expanse.

I’m off that damn deathtrap!!

Witnessing my descent and presuming my safety, the heaven-sent guide throws a quick thumbs up, and continues north, following the river, as did the fellow I noticed before our 45-minute, pointless climb. I wave and zealously shout my thanks. Moving normally now and almost back to the gravel-covered ground, I turn to see Troy moving effortlessly down the dilapidated staircase, in leaps and bouncy bounds, like a confident, rambunctious youngster blissfully blind to the inherent danger of haste and high things. Waiting until he’s in earshot he smiles and shouts, almost chuckling:

“Just drops off up there…must be the wrong way”

I prepare mentally for a verbal barrage to assail him. You left me! That was a stupid decision! I could have slipped, fallen to my death! Why did we go this way instead of waiting for someone else? This is a landslide area and could have killed us both! What the hell are you thinking? Don’t you care what happens? AAAAAAAAAAAH!!!

Grimacing with my brow tightly furrowed, I mull the best expletives for completion of my feelings, as he cheerfully descends the last stair. Through gritted teeth, I draw a vengeful breath. He grins, approaches, and stops genuinely surprised to see the expression on my face. **An admitted flaw in my personality is my quick temper. Although its remarkably fleeting, the wounds it inflicts always leave me-and my victim- disturbed, regretful, and I promised myself part of this trip would be devoted to improving and learning about myself ( as well as others).** I tiredly exhale the anger ( which, over the years, I’ve become too proficient in hording and kindling) and phobic mania, heavily, slowly and through the dissolving haze, see my beautiful, breathless best friend.

“Yea…you’re right. Must be the wrong way. Let’s try the river”

He agrees and we set off following the proper trail to the north.

The wide dry valley and churning river pour through a zigzagging, narrowing pass after which the climate and brush becomes decidedly alpine, very much reminding me of Lake Tahoe in the summer: rugged chalky cliffs flagged by various evergreens with hoopoe, crow and hawk gliding through toasty thermal pockets. **One of the most amazing features of the Annapurna circuit trek is the dramatic change in elevation-and therefore flora & fauna-in a very short distance. If you remember we started by a waterfall in the rainforest!**We come to the second suspension bridge, and its much more dramatic than the first: a flexible alloy ladder slung laterally fifty feet above snarling, shallow rapids anchored sufficiently ( or so I hoped) into the rocks with 4 thick screws on each side. The addition of another trekker or donkey transforms the bridge into a nauseating mix of violent see-saw and funhouse walkway. Apparently, my pained expression and stiff gripping of the cables ( or maybe my petulance? :D ) was inciting as Troy ensured I didn’t pass without launching me skyward. I’m still not sure if he noticed the missing planks, in alarming groups of two and three, as he gleefully stomped from the other end.

Heading east over the river and finally approaching the last portion of the day’s trek, the trail is a straightforward, steep ascent of broken stairs which tightly hug the cliff before widening and flattening into a slight, steady incline. Thin clouds in several shades of grey press together and towards the ground, blanketing the valley in fog and cooling us in moist, welcome shade. My head finally stops throbbing. The dusty gravel path grows to 25-30ft across; wide enough for the carriages and Clydesdales, rhythmically clopping, ringing with slews of reindeer carillon and garbed in colorful ethnic weave. It is barely raining.

We discuss our likes and dislikes -so far- of different types of trails, and both agree this stretch is the easiest and most pleasant, when factoring in difficulty, danger, and effort. So, it wasn’t too challenging to stimulate our sore, sweaty stems to carry us, quickly and steadily beyond the bottle-neck of trekkers on their way to Bagarchap. The cool mist and crisp wisps of silver fir across our noses propelled us forth; we arrived second to the lodge, and first to sample the amazing, solar powered ( and actually HOT) shower.

After cleaning up, while on the balcony, my quivering calves ( which had been bothering me all day) decide to revamp their anatomical position, seizing upwards to the back of my knees. Buckling at the waist, knees and ankles, in a sort of skeleton jangle, I eke out a three-toned sour sound to the attention of those in the courtyard; one German fellow decides, altruistically, to shout advice on the importance of proper post-workout stretching.

Dinner is consumed quickly and quietly save the few minutes spent discussing Charlie horses and a poor donkey who’d been jostled from his load-sharing brethren, in a bone-cracking, five hundred meter fall; eerily the same place where, earlier, I’d almost gone over trying to pass. The evening is very chilly after dark; maybe even below freezing and delicious hot lemon has become a staple thawing beverage. We are droned to sleep by the next-door monotone of two hippies from the US discussing, among many other fascinating things, their cats’ sleep patterns, the consumption of only organic produce and a shared obsession with ginger tea.

2006-10-16T23:44:00.000+07:00

Day Four Continued

The trodden path branches and splits across the sunny, sloping breadth leaving us to navigate by the towering walls of the mountains. To the north the valley narrows, passing between two adjacent cliffs. Naturally, I visualize skull-crushing boulders streaming through the air, our hapless bodies like empty soda cans obviating a gigantic pounding palm. Another riotous explosion and subsequent growl rolls around us. What else could it be? Despite my desperate pleas to wait before continuing, Troy and I keep trodding the incline north towards the chasm, our heads slung skyward searching for the origin of this deafening cacophony.

Another 15 minutes brings us back to a clear trail, and we can see the white, rectangular entrance arch to Tal. A gentle path, easily traversed, stretches to the top of a small ridge flanked by a quaint wooden guesthouse and garden restaurant. As we reach the top and descend, approaching the gravel-lined, languid river below, a couple soldiers sporting loaded rifles loiter on a small stone wall. Upon spotting us, the adolescent pair swathed in ill-fitting fatigues, jogs boisterously towards us.

"Boom boom”

They chant and gesticulate ambiguously, fervently, as if the vigor in their manner assists in being understood. We offer a smile, and I giggle, these boys younger than my baby brother, but they block our path, waving towards the eastern cliff. This sheer face looms 1000ft overhead, blanketing sky with jagged boulders and sparse shrubs, only a crescent of celestial blue escaping from above. To our right, in the courtyard of the garden restaurant, we notice a handful of trekkers clustered together, strangely, shadowed by the west wall of the building. Coming closer, I notice they all face the eastern cliff and have their fingers plugging their ears. One trekker spills the valley’s strident secret: the soldiers are rebuilding the trail. Late monsoon rains washed away what the soldiers recreate artificially, dangerously, tediously with explosives. High on the cliff, boulders and stones plummet in virulent tributaries; rocky, jagged piles bridging, again, the queue of everlasting organic traffic.

3-2-1

Another wild shockwave quakes and ripples through the deep valley. My ridiculous expectation of spectacular, action-movie-esque annihilation (a vision equating volume) lessens the effect of showering smoke and rock, isolated and far away; plumes of haze dissolving into blue-bright light. The mighty explosion, seemingly a rapid succession of multiple detonations, splicing atmosphere from high to low pitch, is painful at such short range; a violent, echoing rocket engine. Observing the capricious expression of awed locals, their children riled into ecstatic hyperactivity, we wait through one more blast before being permitted back to the trail.

Minutes into resuming our pace, we fail to consider further effects of late monsoon downpours, plodding absent-mindedly through lackluster Tal. A yard of sand, four colorfully adorned Clydesdales and a few bland structures later, we are again in the open, sizzling valley narrowing between sheer stone walls. We veer from the intensifying, churning river, following the track of smooth stones slightly east, ascending to steps wedged into the mountain. Further back we passed a throng of mules and their herder; our alacrity to retain a lead catapults us, speedily, breathlessly, into solitude. I steal a glimpse of someone distant continuing north by the river and we start, again, into heavy, sweat-slogged climbing.

The stony, slick staircase extends up several hundred feet; each step losing width and gaining height. Nervously, I paw the wet mountain to my right, carefully securing my footing before heaving myself skyward. My heavy pack makes me cumbersome, top heavy, so I lean forward, almost brushing the vertical surface, literally hugging the path. Step by step I inch higher, and as the precarious staircase trickling with water narrows, my periphery vision is filled with nature from a blurry distance: the river, gravel and dry brush all around, far below us.

Twenty minutes of escalation bestows disquieting height and we are dripping from our soggy shirts. My heart, zealously knocking and pumping, flutters up a dry, swollen throat. I swoon in sweltering heat and vertigo. With better judgment, and a firm acknowledgement of my debilitating acrophobia, I fix my pupils straight ahead, but they defy me, falling straight down the hot, sheer edge to a fixed point directly below me, inches to my left. The familiar stiffness of panic slowly, apathetically, bleeding breath from my lungs and locking down my spine, extinguishing all motor skills, solidifies; I am frozen, hunched over these steps. Droplets of sweat slither down my forehead, streaming from my eyebrows. Blinking the salty moisture away, pleading for confidence, I struggle to relax, stay in control. Breathe.

SHI&^%@!!!

Troy is annoyingly far ahead of me, and he can’t hear me shout. The disjointed, archaic trail we climb continues to deteriorate, eventually disappearing into the rough of the mountain. I glance up 100 feet and see the stairs are barely the width of Troy’s body; a fact which he seems to pay no mind despite (for all intents and purposes) hanging from a vicious precipice. I am convinced we are not technically qualified to be doing this. Further up, straight above us, loose boulders jut from the craggy surface, bathing us in their unwelcome shade. A sickening, tightening fills my stomach. Keeping grip on the rock with my right hand, I turn my head back, very slowly, over my right shoulder. I can feel shreds of tense neck muscle croak and ping into motion.

I can’t see anyone.

During the next minutes, I spend my reserves of logic and calm rehearsing, rehashing, repeating, why I cannot die here.

Why are we using this route?
Why won’t he look back here?
Why the hell am I paralyzed, teetering on the cusp of rocky obliteration?

In an excruciating, panting beat, where I taste the utter desperation of mental collapse, there is a figure; not far from Tal, approaching from the south, slowly advancing by the river. Focused on this little ant of hope, I hold my ridiculous pose on the staircase: half crawling, half embracing, my head locked backwards and down, staring at this distant man. A few minutes pass as he comes into closer view. Is he jogging? Compelled to wave down to him, but clinging to the mountain side in an unhealthy panic, I decide to waste my breath and scream:

"Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeey"

He's waving his arms through the air, like an umpire calling safe, but I know he couldn't have heard me. Troy is out of sight now, probably waiting at the switchback I will never reach. I loosen my grip to ease down the next step, smooth and slick with water. Turning around to face backwards, I rest my pack on the steep trail taking care to lean left, away from the edge.

It finally hits me: He's saying....NO! Get down!

2006-10-16T23:43:00.000+07:00

Day Four – Chamje to Bagarchap

As dawn breaks, the stark chill of last night hangs over us, stolid, apathetic to the difficulty in leaving a warm, down cocoon. I’m cold, cranky and tired. Spending my night hours and head lamp-cum-strobe light to confirm the bug population of our room was not the best use of my time and I’m suffering now with heavy limbs and bloodshot eyes. No more coffee at bed-time.

Blades of dusty sunlight slice through the 1-inch cracks between the wooden-plank walls, (The Waterfall Inn isn’t interested in flush plank installation, let alone insulation) and I realize what I missed in the low light last evening: the ceiling is festooned with spider-webs ensnared with varieties of live and dead insects; a feast for the corpulent blood-sucker calling our hut home. I shudder and check the recesses of my sleeping bag for the 5th time before hobbling downstairs to the toilet. Troy starts packing his things.

I have to confront my insect issues; they’re starting to embarrass me! (Troy was not the only one I kept awake with my headlamp-assisted paranoia) And there’s no better place than trekking in Nepal for exposure, exposure, exposure. Maybe I should eat one? Ugh. Maybe not. Troy, forever boyish-camping cool, can sleep anytime, anywhere with anything slithering/skittering over his face and body. ** An aside: What the hell?!**

As you may remember from our other Asian adventures, toilets in Asia are porcelain rimmed holes over which you squat to issue your business. Traveling for many months now, I know to bring my own paper and am relatively comfortable in most bathroom situations.

Waterfall Inn’s toilet is a crude cramped affair (like all others on the trek), perched on the edge of a ravine plunging down beyond my line of sight. Still intensifying, the sunlight is misty and pastel, as it’s not yet six am. With my puffy eyes barely cracked, I duck below the ceiling of tin, fasten the wooden door closed behind me and follow normal protocol: sliding my pants off while pulling both cuffs up from the floor.

Dim light isn’t enough to illuminate the inside of the wooden outhouse, and with the wooden door closed, it’s difficult to see. Tired, I squat, my arms and knees brushing the rough front and side beams. I pee, and lean to steady myself with a left hand against the wall, waiting to evacuate the bladder a la Austin Powers. Immediately, I feel a distinctly hairy mass, apparently as startled as me, break into movement. Muffling a scream into a shrill squeal, I recoil upwards, skull ramming painfully into the corrugated roof:

“AAAAAAAH”

Enough to bring tears to my eyes, the near-concussion dazes me momentarily. I rip my moistened pants up to my waist (ever grateful of their black, urine-concealing color) and noisily clobber and kick the door open to an interested audience of both locals and trekkers. Light now flooding the wooden shack, I turned around to see the interloper, fierce, poised at the front porcelain lip. A dark brown, thick-legged, fat-bodied spider, the biggest I have ever seen, stares sinisterly from its cluster of beady black eyes.

As if waiting for a more dramatic punch line, the entertained bystanders gape at me: I’m panting; puffy, wild eyes, glaring from unkempt hair, white-knuckle gripping the waist of my un-zipped pants in one hand, crumpled toilet paper in the other. What? Haven’t they ever touched a huge spider before?

It takes a few seconds to regain my composure. I button my pants, slow my breathing and begin to walk back upstairs.

“Yes, I’m fine… Thank you. Yes, I’m cool.”

Heart-attack and head injuries are fine ways to start the morning.

At breakfast we’re briefed on the tough climb to Tal: 450m of steep ascent before lunch. It’s important to start soon to avoid the heavy heat sure to submerge us in sweat when the sun creeps a little higher. I peel my outer layers off, we iodine 2 liters of water and set out before the rest.

Immediately the trail is challenging. It is wet. The myriad waterfalls breathe life into the slippery growths of algae and moss blanketing the boulders we must climb. Cool air and dank smells of wet wood waft up from the valley. I snag a bamboo walking stick from a passerby for 50 rupees, and hoist my body, and 22 lb pack, slowly up the path. Large rocks and boulders protrude, some loosely, from old broken steps worn slick over time; the circuit, a centuries old Tibetan trading route.

To beat the incline, the trail is cut into steep segments of 15-20 feet that carve left and right, with a small resting switchback at each direction change, all the way up. In some parts water is rushing down over the stones; you’re literally climbing a waterfall. Looking up, I’m disheartened; it looks tough. Starting our ascent, I hear the acceleration of my knocking heart, eventually climaxing in a frenzied pace that reddens and chokes me.

Breathe in. Step up. Breathe out. Step up. Each 2-foot pace up is a determined effort, which musters all of my strength, muscle control for that moment. I can feel the veins in my face and neck throbbing, blood tearing hysterically through me. Ignoring the burning, heavy fatigue in my legs, I fight my way up, step by damn step.

Every few moments, rest. We set our packs down in a switchback and gasp for air.
We continue on in this fashion for two hours, when, finally, we reach the top.

It looks like the next stretch of trail is mercifully covered in shrubbery and outstretched tree branches, preserving cooler air for our sweaty, lethargic hulks. Taking a few healthy swigs of iodine refreshment, I stroll the gentle slope for a few moments to discover it winds steeply skyward, away from the shade; a somewhat depressing view when you’re still breathless, soaked from the last incline. Remembering the present, the view of valley around us, now bathed in a luscious glow, I release the negativity plaguing me. I’m cooled by the breeze, and realize I feel refreshed, alive. The swift kick of my pulse subsides into a warm, throbbing euphoria; the familiar endorphin high of intense exercise. How lucky I am, we are, to be here, living this fantasy. It’s fantastic.

During our respite, a drove of mules meanders past, adorned with yak-hair head-dresses and dull-ringing brass bells, their herder grunting and whistling behind them. As intrinsic and frequently-sighted in this bucolic wonderland as the towering snow caps and dramatic waterfalls, mules are vital trade vehicles in this medieval realm absolved from modern transit. The whimsies of foreign tourists are loaded, hauled to each settlement, even those in the furthest, highest regions of Nepal. You can feast on American candy bars at 17,330 ft!

Too tired to outgun them up the trail, we let each one, propane, Snickers and firewood astride their saddles, squeeze tightly around us. For the first fifteen minutes, I enjoy the slowed pace catching my breath and feeling the breeze dry my sweat. Soon after, however, we both became restless convinced this speed would waste our precious daylight hours, and deliver us into Bagarchap after dusk.

The mules, their herder, Troy and I advance over the ridge we’d climbed all morning; path now sharply descending to a switchback where it curves north towards a suspension bridge. Noticing a much steeper shortcut cutting down ahead of the mules’ path, I lean back, swing my boots sideways and inch down the slope. Instead of curving to break the steepness, this shorter path goes straight down. There are no rocks, just loose dirt and shrubs, and each rushed baby-step, trying to beat the mules around, finished with a slight skid downwards. On my fourth step, I loose it, slide down head-first slowing inches from a precipice, and land in a patch of nettle-like bushes which instantly devour my legs and hands. It feels like sharp thorns rake across my legs and right arm. As I stand, brush the dirt from my pants and pack, and survey wreckage of scrapes, stinging and swelling, an on-coming mule smiles beneath its swaying pom-pom head-dress. It leads the pack, leisurely passing us… again.

A felicitous break comes, as the mules stop just before Tal to drink, and rest. We edge by the watering pack delicately, avoiding potential ill-tempered and infamous rear kicks, continuing north towards lofty valley of Tal. Squarely in the mid-day swelter, our pace slows to a crawl, as we creep into the jagged alpine basin. Trees have disappeared leaving scrubs of juniper, wild carnations, dry grass and dirt to blanket the expanse.

The sky is brilliantly blue, free from any wisp of cloud, so we are stunned to hear the deafening crack and ensuing rumbling resembling thunder. A few seconds pass before the next sickening crack. Is there an avalanche? We scan the low end of the valley, looking for hikers, locals, anyone. The indolent buffalo seem disinterested in the epic roar of their land, content to sun themselves in the bright sunshine.

to be continued--

2006-10-15T21:14:00.000+07:00

Day Three - Bahundanda to Chamje - 1310m to 1420m ( loss of 300m gain of 410m)

We don't wake up to the sound of the alarm at 6:30. The very last people to rise, eat and finally leave at 8:30am, we have little regret agreeing we needed every second of rest. The nagging sense we need to hurry, however, plants itself firmly into both of us, and we rush to pack and hit the trail. I am glad to feel mildy refreshed with 12 hours of sleep, amazed with my body's speedy recovery. Last night, I couldn't have continued another inch, and this morning, my neck and calves are aching, but I'm ready. I think...

We are greeted with smells of fresh mud and the sweet smoke of smoldering juniper; burned as an offering to Budhha. The morning is perfect, again: cooler than yesterday, no clouds, a light mist shrouding the base of the valley. Our view is blotted with all shades of green: terraced fields, spongy shrubs, hemlock and birch. We turn the corner exiting Bahundanda, and I'm confused to see the trail heading back down to the river. After studying the map for our route we learn, depressingly, much of the 1700ft we climbed yesterday will be immediately lost, quickly, in the first 45 minutes; a frustrating situation that occurs frequently on the circuit. Such a waste of energy. Envying the school-bound youngsters leaping down around me in thongs ( of the footwear, not underwear, classification), I chant in slow steps down: God...grant...me...the...serenity ( or at least sure-footing and knees-of-steel like theirs)

Although both of us brought a fully-charged Ipod, we leave them packed, surprisingly, preferring the calming sounds of the valley to music from home. An admitted addiction and usually a welcome distraction, my Ipod would become unecessary added weight for all of the trek. Absorbing Himalayan audibles is as pleasureable as the visuals.

Both of us purchased high-quality hiking boots before setting foot in Nepal, though we did meet several ill-prepared trekkers in low-rise trainers claiming boots were unecessary. This was, of course, before they hit snow and ice. We came to appreciate boots and their water-proofing quickly, as in many places, "trail" is a euphemism for a barely passable incline/decline choked with huge slippery boulders, mule manure, foot-deep mud and/or moving water. Constant attention and care is necessary to avoid injury.

**an aside: Entertainingly, these treacherous stretches would often be described by a Nepali as: "flat" and, thus, the misnomer "Nepali flat" was coined. Along those lines, never fully trust Nepali estimates of proximity or difficulty**

Clumsy under the added weight of my pack, I misstep into a mud-manure mix, and my ankle ( not my ego) is spared with the support of my Northface boots. Traumatic memories involving Bavarian pseudo-stones of cow shit flood me: On a family picnic in Germany, frolicking, my 8-year-old bare foot sunk into a sickly steaming load I'd mistaken for a smooth rock. In a move of cosmic poetic justice, Troy, cackling as hysterically as my family did 19 years ago, would become vastly superior in manure-boot meetings. I spent many a night trying to locate rotten smells before accrediting his unhygenic talent and contaminated boots.

The quick descent levels, path sneaks and winds upwards nestled in moist forest. Sweat-dampened, we continue easily along the slight incline with uniformed children, trail clinging to the sloping bend of the hills. I think about the truth in their future bragging of : "5 miles, uphill, both ways". *see pic*

White water ribbons thread the rocky expanse to the west, zig-zagging down in rainbowed spray from boulder to boulder, falling as much as 3000ft to the river. Before this, the only waterfall I'd seen was the 80ft Sacred Falls on Oahu, Hawaii. These are more than ten times the size, and, unbelievably, even more beautiful. I feel a lightness, a happiness, and continue with a subtle, internal grin. I'm elated to have my soulmate and best friend plodding contently along with me. We are in this moment; I am completely fulfilled.

One of our maps, no doubt published by some hippie, demarcs "healthy" marajuana fields on this leg. We search excitedly in vain, only spotting buckwheat and yellow sprigs of Anise ( the main flavor in black liquorice and Sambuca), settling for the pot-caked hands of a hash-manufacturer just before Lamjung.

"Smoke hash?" he stops to inquire, offering a sniff of his sticky-sweet palms. After giving us a quick lesson in hash production, and politely refusing to show us the mother-lode, he garners 20 rupees with his warm, smiling request ( about a quarter) and continues on his way. *see pic*

Because the hills we climb are slowly creeping higher, it is not long after leaving Jagat - our lunch stop- our hike is bathed in cool shadow, as the sun has ducked behind the westward slope. We feel good.

Jagat is where the Maoists are supposedly collecting "donations" or more accurately: forceful, involuntary extortion with the added bonus of possible violence. I knew Nepal had a history of political instability, but didn't know anything about the Maoists before researching our trip. With strongholds in many remote areas, away from the accountability of law, they hold a carte blanche for their behavior; forcing total compliance with their desires, luring impoverished youngsters to enlist with promises of protection and stolen wealth. All this is under the convenient pretense of representing their political views, and resisting the control of the monarchy. Total crap. They are a wiley militant group, terrorists in my humble opinion, much closer to bandits than political revolutionaries, and tales of their involvement with battery and corruption are rife even though they claim to value tourists and tourism. Extortion and manipulation of the poor Nepalis is even more appalling; squatting in any village they please, ordering the locals to feed and house them at their own expense. They allegedly beat a young trekker bloody, days after we passed their checkpoint, for refusing to pay their "fees" stating he was Polish and sharing their communist views. With the 73 seats they were given in Parliament, they are supposed to end extortion, but quitting a limitless flow of funds in a 3rd world country seems dubious.

We trek blissfully into the late afternoon, discussing the likelihood of skirting them, when we approach Chamje: their new checkpoint. Ten men with loaded rifles, sit and stand behind a crude wood stand, clothed in military fatigues. They stop us and feign etiquette when requesting "fees" for their cause. I do not doubt encountering seething ferocity, now thinly blanketed in civility, if we were to stupidly refuse them. Just wanting to get the hell out of there, we pay them a Nepali fortune: 2400 rupees ( about $33 ), and request passage. The leader launches into an accusatory sermon on our current administration, and inside, my exasperation builds. What an uneducated idiot! Individuals with the interest, finance and education to sit here with them, half a world away from the U.S., don't like the effing bastards either. I think I'm giving them a piece of my mind, rolling my eyes and flicking them off. What actually happens is : we listen silently, nod sheepishly, our proverbial tails jammed down between our butt-cracks in acknowledgement of their semi-automatic weapons. Aroused by our submission ( ?), they command us to stay at the Waterfall Inn, and curtly bid us leave with a wave of the hand.

Rudely yanked from euphoria, we plodded on to Chamje in the wet dusk, taking solace in our eventless and completed rendezvous with the Maoists. Unexpectedly, the Waterfall Inn was all right, perched across the deep canyon from, you guessed it, a dramatic waterfall! I'd underestimated the meditative properties in the sounds of rushing water, and sit on the balcony enveloped with myself for almost an hour.

I'm tired, but thankfully, not like yesterday.

We chat up a strapping bloak from Montana (who attempted to summit Manaslu back in 1999) before retiring to our spidery abode. I force Troy to switch beds when a hairy, seven-inch arachnid crawls into view directly over my head. Much to his chagrin, I click on my headtorch intermittantly, all night, in search for other 8-legged friends.

Rest eludes me tonight.

2006-10-14T22:12:00.000+07:00

Day Two-Besi Sahar to Bahundanda 820m to 1310m

Dawn comes quickly and we chitter excitedly over porridge and Nepali tea about the crystal clarity and our first glimpse of the Himalaya rising from the low structures of Besi Sahar. My clothes and I are clean ( for probably the last time on the trek), the weather is fantastic ( cloudless and 70 degrees) and we're ecstatic when we set out hiking.

The path starts sharply to the east over a smattering of large stones breaking a very steep descent to the Marshyangdi River and then widens, swinging up and north, to a dirt ledge wedged into the mountain overlooking a breathtaking valley blanketed in lush green. Peaks of the highest range in the world loom high on the horizon, competing with sky, far beyond the heights of the mere hills we traverse. *see pic* This is surreal.

Freedom!

My pack feels intolerably, increasingly heavy, at about 22 lbs, and I'm starting to worry about my ability to finish the circuit with it, as it cuts deeply into my virgin shoulders. How much are donkeys?! I ignore the subsiding lower back ache I'd gotten pinching a nerve back in Kathmandu, and focus - easily- on the incredible path before us.

Late October and November being the height of tourist season, I expected to be toe-to-heel with other trekkers, but aside from a few locals headed the other way and one Canadian and his guide behind us, we are all alone on the trail. It's exactly what we envisioned. We continue in content silent awe, listening to the distant rush of the river below.

Nepal shares the same latitude as Florida, and at this low altitude it takes less than an hour for the warmth, humidity and exercise to soak us in sweat. Simple, country-side smells of manure, warm grass and hay are thick. We come to our first shaky bamboo bridge spanning a current of stone-choked water. The bamboo is worn slick and the entire ordeal has tilted precariously sideways. I painstakingly navigate the slippery cylindrical planks in a few long minutes when a bare-foot porter, with a 100lb load strapped to his forehead, quickly shuffles by in less than 10 seconds after me. *see pic*

We downed our last liter of bottled water and nervously cracked open our bottle of Potable Aqua iodine tablets. Following the directions meticulously, we pop two tabs in, wait 5 minutes, then shake and tighten cap, and wait 30 minutes before drinking. This time-consuming process reduces chances of getting water-borne amoebas and parasites, which affect their host with, among other tasty symptoms, eggy flatulence and explosive diaorreah. I've never had water treated with iodine, and I am depressed to see the color change to a cloudy yellow, and taste chunks of sediment. The vitamin tablets purported to improve the taste impart an "Airborne"-esque flavor, which, when mixed with the iodine flavor, is supremely disgusting. I contemplate drinking this urine-like disaster for another 25 days. A local girl stares, puzzled by our procedure, takes a few big gulps from the stream, then continues on her way.

Because we don't have a sherpa/guide or porter, and mainly because I have a nervous personality, we question locals, constantly, about the course:
"Namas-te" Hello, literally, I salute you
"Kati ghanta Ngadi?" How many hours to Ngadi?
"Ngadi na-jeek"? Is Ngadi close?
"Dan ya baad!" Thank you!

The locals are an attractive people, of noticeable Chinese and Indian descent, with smooth features and flat buttery faces. Bare-foot and bow-legged old men hobble slowly by, wearing traditional Nepali hats and vests. The women, with copper hoop earings and swathed heads, squat over grains in their clay abodes as their dusty naked children press their tiny hands together and say:
"Namas-TE!"

Roosters, mules, and buffalo roam the cobble-stoned streets of the medieval settlements. The locals seem to lack middle-age population. We see only youth or eldery; perhaps a sign of the hardships of hill life...

The three roof-riding Spaniards we met on the bus continued yesterday to Khudi, the next town 2 hours from Besi Sahar. We cross Khudi at 9:30 am to break for tea and see them stretching for the long day ahead. They greet us as they did yesterday: in a barage of lightning quick Spanglish they assume, in error, we understand. We smile, shrug and keep going.

For one reason or another most people have time constraints when they arrive to trek in Nepal. Condensing the circuit into 15 days or less is, unfortunately, common and therefore when at lower altitudes they continue as long as daylight and their fitness allows. The Spaniards, along with us and many others, will adhere to a grueling schedule of high mileage and even higher ascent before altitude, weather or (hopefully not) sickness restricts the hike.

We drop down from the wide dirt path and finish the walk to Ngadi, our stop for lunch, in a colorful valley of orchids and fields of corn and buckwheat. Orange, yellow and blue-black monarchs encircle us and the picturesque trail, punctuating the fairytale beauty of this place. I've never seen so many butterflies. We're already dirty, breathless, drenched and both welcome this gorgeous haven to eat and air our boots and socks after 4 straight hours of hiking. I wonder how feet can smell like pickled onions just hours into our month-long hike.

We noticed, oddly, foreigners flock to the first teahouses where they notice other foreigners. This gives an unfair distribution of wealth in the small village, so Troy and I pledge to patronize the most desolate houses. In doing so, we feast peacefully in a vivid garden of lillies, carnations and cherry tomatoes, alone, save the beautiful woman who cooks for us, her 12 yr. old daughter, and a large praying mantis. ( I would later learn that a praying mantis is capable of killing a small bird!) *see pic*

Troy indulges in the national dish of Nepal, infamously plentiful on the Annapurna Circuit Trek: Dal Bhat. Village to village and even household to household the preparation of this dish varies, but you will always receive some form of dal ( lentil soup), vegetable curry, and bhat ( rice). Ever popular with porters and trekkers, Dal Bhat is cheap, prepared with locally grown ingredients, served with free refills, and perfect hiking fuel. After a few weeks, however, most trekkers cannot stomach yet another bowl of lentils and rice and opt instead for strange-tasting interpretations of Western foods: spaghetti noodles with ketchup, yak-cheese and kidney bean burritos, curry-ful chocolate croissants etc.

After lunch, sluggish from carbs and rest, we came upon a very steep, seemingly endless climb to Lampata, the town before our stop for the day. Forty-five minutes in, soaked, sore and beginning to tire, we reached the top of a hill where Troy misreads the map and estimates it will be 15 minutes to arrive in Bahundanda.

We see our first dramatic waterfall leaping from a green Western cliff, and I steal 20 minutes of rest, gazing at the fantastic cascade framed in red blossoms.

**An aside: When I use the adjective "steep" referring to the trail, many might picture an incline similar to a San Francisco street. This is not accurate. The steep areas are such that - especially with a backpack - we need to bend over, swing our steps outward 45 degrees like a duck, and grip the dirt/rocks above us to climb**

Another sweat-slogged hour inches away and we are beginning to doubt our map and guidebook; an upsetting notion on the first day of a month long, guideless endeavor. The sun has now ducked behind the rolling hills, throbbing heat subsiding, and the rocky path continues snaking up and up and up with no sight of Bahundanda.

Feeling the familiar just-out-of-reach-ness I felt running a marathon, a checked my watch to see another hour and a half had passed. It's starting to get dark; where the F&*^*& is this place we should have reached hours ago!? My neck has an acute ache, shoulders are chaffed raw, calves are vibrating in involuntary spasms and we discuss spending the night by a huge boulder on the trail when Troy spots a cluster of thatch and stone establishments on the next peak sure to have lodging.

It is Bahundanda, and not a second too soon. It's been a 10 hour, 11 mile and 1700 ft ascent today. It will be the easiest of our hard days to come and it's a painful crash-course back to physical fitness.

The Mountain View Lodge, highly reccommended in the guidebook, is another 100 steps up from the center of the village, and I am literally on my last shred of consciousness as we stumble into the courtyard. The cheery owner, panting heavily after the 100 step ascent to the cottage, offers us a room for free (probably because our haggard, sweat-encrusted appearance is pitiful). Exhaustion greatly assists acclimitization to village/camping standards, and I couldn't be happier to lay in a powerless, waterless bug-enriched thatch hut on a 6'2 slab of plywood. We're finally here!!

Mist-softened dusk hangs spectacularly over the valley, where we tower above the terraced cliffs we'd climbed for the past 5 hours. The crisp dusk turns chilly as night falls, my wet shirt now cold, and we eat dinner by candlelight on the balcony. I'm to tired to think, write or read. I can't remember when I've been this completely spent.

I keep my promise to Mom, spending $12 for a 1.5 minute conversation: "Hey Mom: We're alive. I'm exhausted. This call is $12. Love you,"

Seemingly all the spiders, beatles and roaches in the hills launch an initiation of the first-timers, partying on our faces and in our sleeping bags, but, for the first time in our lives, we don't/can't care! I say a quick prayer of thanks, and then, doubtful of my own abilties, quietly ask for the endurance I need for this journey.

Tingling and achy, we fall fast and hard into dreamless, coma-like repose.

2006-10-13T22:37:00.000+07:00

Day One-Kathmandu 1420m to Besi Sahar 820m

We catch an old white Datsun taxi from Potala Guesthouse in Thamel to the local bus station at 6:15am. I am nervous about the bus, which is a local bus, as there is no tourist transit between Kathmandu and Besi Sahar, the starting point for the Annapurna Circuit Trek. We have come to understand "local" means more people, more animals, more speed and less caution; my kind of party.

The morning is misty but clear-about 65 degrees-and the sun is a reddening disk low on the horizon. We forego small-talk with the smiling driver, intently speeding and swerving the entire 20 minute drive, who drops us at the curb and points us toward the throng of restless, shouting Nepalis in a concrete compound centered in the bus yard.

Hesitation in our approach to the building (decorated in only Nepali) baits us for the predatory group of 20 who circle, shout and pull at our arms. Are we in the right place?? After a few loud and helpless minutes, we follow a young Nepali- who has decided to snatch our tickets- behind the compound into an empty lot with two vacant buses. I guess this is our ride to Besi Sahar.

In my flip flops, I climb onto the roof and lift our two packs into the luggage bin: a crude rectangle of aluminmum bars raised from the roof about 6 inches.

Stamped on the tickets is a warning of zero responsbility for lost bags. Because the luggage rack is on the roof, watching our bags all the time would entail sitting on them; something, in Nepal, I'm not ready to do. In Kathmandu, we learned baggage "loss" is frequent on this route, and one couple arrived in Besi Sahar sans backpacks, after an 8 hour ride away from civilization.

Hoping to thwart possessionless arrival in a remote Nepali village, I padlock our bags together, as I can't fit the lock to the luggage bar. Dangit! I cross my fingers and charge Troy to monitor roof activity at each stop.

At quarter til 7, the bus, scheduled to leave "promptly at 7am" ( as relayed from the travel agent) is still deserted, and we ponder possible misunderstanding as tens of crowded buses are departing from the front parking lot. Over the next half hour, there's a slow trickling-in of passengers, who, in their congregation by the bus urinate, brush their teeth and blow snot-rockets. One nasty fellow distances himself a few feet from the bus before defecating.

At quarter til 8, the bus driver, cute and about 18 years old, saddled-in, quickly disspelling the morning calm with, what would become, a routine battery of the shrill, multi-tonal horn.

Annapurna, here we come!

Forcefully, the driver commanded access to each foot of pavement with jarring blasts of gas and brake, a method of allowing drivers with the will ( or rather intoxication level) to collide with people, vehicles or animals through first. For me, this style of driving, though familiar, is still not quite tolerable. I pondered the status of the 3 Spaniards and 16 Nepalis riding our luggage as my skull-cum-wild-pendulum smacked the seat cushions after each gas-brake crescendo.

Finally free of the city traffic and loose on the mountain road, we fully memorized an upbeat Nepali song which seemed to last two hours though having only 4 lines. I can't complain, as with the whole bus humming along, it was actually pretty cool.

The countryside is gorgeous; lush, green and wet. The hills remind me of California, but the rice-patties remind me I'm quite far from there. Unfortunately, the real mountains are obscured by the closer hills and mist of the morning, but we're getting closer :)

Just before 11, we slow behind a large stopped dump-truck; the driver of which seems to have departed his vehicle in front of a steep switchback. We sit, stopped, for a few moments before our driver implements his plan of action: repetitive horn-blowing. Now visibly annoyed, he hops out and walks around the bend. Troy and I hang our torsos from the open windows to catch a glimpse of a 35-seater passenger bus which had just sailed off the road and plunged into the ravine.

A few minutes pass, we realize we are all impotent voyers, and people sadly, slowly return to their transportation to finish the journey. I don't know if it was full, or how many died, but I know to survive a fall of 1000ft inside a bus is dubious... Paying closer attention to the foot of the steep ridge we drive along, I notice the evidence of these frequent happenings littering the riverbed below. By the time we reached Besi Sahar, I'd counted six.

High clouds string together in the late afternoon, and we still can't see the mountains. Late, but thankfully safe, we arrive and check into a shockingly basic room where I struggle to embrace the smells, spiders, poor lighting and general filth in the name of adventure and experience.

We lose power at 7pm, which seems to excite the local children who spend the next 5 hours launching bottle rockets and fire crackers outside our window. No matter, though, as we were exhausted from the journey and sleep like babies.

Besi Sahar, like many other small Nepali cities linked to mechanical transit, has all the negative elements of a city, with few of the positive ones. It's littered, noisy and crowded, but we won't be here for long...

The saga begins!!

2006-10-12T22:02:00.000+07:00

Namaste ( hello in Nepali )

Sorry I have been so lax with posting. We have been running around like crazy getting all our gear and medications needed for our trek in the Himalayas. We will be offline for the next month experiencing the most beautiful scenery in the world.

Here is our first trekking itinerary.
Day 1 Besi Sahar
Day 2 Ngadi
Day 3 Chamje
Day 4 Lata Marang
Day 5 Bhatang
Day 6 Humde
Day 7 acclimatization-stay here extra night
Day 8 Manang
Day 9 Gunsang
Day 10 Letdar
Day 11 acclimatization
Day 12 Throng Phedi
Day 13 Muktinath
Day 14 Jomsom
Day 15 Tukuche
Day 16 Kalopani
Day 17 Ghoreipani
Day 18 Birethani
Day 19-22 Pokhara
Depending on how spent we are afterwards, we may do the Everest Base Camp trek.

Thank you all for keeping in touch, sending your emails and love, and we will be back with pics and blog soon. XOXOXOXOXOXOXO

Happy Birthday to my bro John, and belated to my sweet Troy, and I just turned the big 27 myself :P

Cheers!

2006-10-08T17:37:00.000+07:00

Are you craving some adventure?

While we deftly avoided many pitfalls of world travel, rancid chicken injected us, unexpectedly, through the chaotic bowels of SE Asian urgent healthcare. Now, I know what you're thinking: That must have blown. For six days it did, quite explosively, however, to keep my mantra of positivity elevated from mere mortality and the uh....infestation of ravenous parasites eating me alive, I meditated on the hospital's 4'6 wooden slab(the bed) and was Enlightened.

My epiphany : real adventure tourism in Asia! No, I'm not referring to pedestrian kiteboading or scuba-diving. Thrill-seekers: Unleash your attentions from boring activities confined by pesky safety standards and regulations...This is revolutionary.

Still a best-kept secret, the most suspense-filled rides in SE Asia are had by devouring contaminated street-delicacies and checking-in to backwater hospitals. Many boast peeling, yellowed walls, dank communal rooms and antique medical equipment adding a touch of old-world charm to modern excitement. Also, forget the sanitation guards for thermometers and other potentially-infectious devices! Don't worry, bothersome, time-consuming WHO standards won't inhibit fearing for your life.

Shaving years off your longevity and appearance in the quest for adventure has never been easier or more uncomfortable. Be the envy of other extreme sport activists with a cool haggard appearance, stress-induced heart-palpitations and newly greyed hair. Stories of mountaineering in the Andes can't compare to being injected with Hep A B and C by the same smiling nurse in the hospital!

Poorly-trained staff will lead a confusing exchange of questioning and miscommunication in broken English before haphazardly-inflicting healthcare sure to terrify and hopefully ( wink-wink) death-defy.

Why limit your vacation gambles to a few seconds on a bungee cord when there're days, even weeks, of exhillaration from the questionable pratices of medical neophytes? As seconds tick painfully by, satisfy a "need for speed" by quickly dodging air-filled syringes and mis-prescribed medications while resisting total physical deterioration. Hard-core participants can grant the trainee's constant, fruitless harpoons for blood samples and IVs, receiving in return swollen, bruised masses of perforated vein tissue.

You heard it here first : Remote Asian hospitals are the newest conquest for the machismo adrenaline junkie. What's ballsy-er than a zero chance of survival?

2006-09-22T18:44:00.000+07:00

a few new pics posted to fotki from a few days in Ko Phi Phi Don, Ko Phi Phi Leh, and Kata Noi in Phuket Thailand...

More to come!

www.fotki.com/visceraltext

landed in Singapore, and almost with a new laptop!
love you all xoxoxoxoxox

2006-09-18T21:15:00.000+07:00

As you can imagine, we are in a much better place physically and mentally than last week. We tired of all the old men in Patong sporting skullets, tattoos, fat, and young Thai girls. I was tired of laying in bed feeling sick and Troy was tired of sitting inside with me!

Luckily, Troy and Lucas found a nice little beachfront hotel in Kata beach, which is a 15 minute drive south. After two days of surfing, bodyboarding and eating normally, I am beginning to feel like myself again :)

We are still without laptop, but not for long. We leave to Singapore on the 22nd, and will buy the new Toshiba portege as its manufactured there.

I have lots to blog about so stay tuned for hospital stays, our friends coming to visit, surfing, and eating Russian food in Thailand--

xoxoxoxoxox

Thank you to all who emailed their concern :) Love you guys xoxo

Hi to Majella--we miss you!

The pic of the beach is from our hotel, one from sunset yesterday and the other from dinner--

2006-09-13T20:22:00.000+07:00

Many of you know, some may not, but I was just released from Phuket International Hospital. I was admitted in a panic, and eventually diagnosed with a parasite infection and Rotavirus. It has been an uncomfortable and at times scary week, which has now thankfully passed.

Thank you so much to those who called and expressed their concern and sympathy! :) It helps when you're a long way from home not feeling very well. Ruba, Sol and Lucas did meet up with us, but my jaunt in the hospital wrecked much of our plans together, unfortunately.

In addition to my health issues, our laptop crashed... :( I was told everything is gone on the hard drive....videos, pictures, everything....

This is why we haven't posted in a while. I am shopping for a replacement and should have one soon.

I am quite behind on the blogs and will use my recooperating time to catch up!
xoxoxoxoxo
xoxoxoxox

2006-08-27T16:10:00.000+07:00

We’ve finally discovered the art of travel on Asian overnight buses. The trick to weathering these fantastic abortions ( and avoiding complete mental collapse) is treating it like a collegiate night out: be well-rested, get showered, listen to some music, and partake in heavy alcohol/narcotics consumption, knowing full-well it’s going to get buck-wild. The biggest mistake is to arrive on the bus old, tall, or expecting to sleep. If you want to avoid a nervous break-down, follow these rules and allow the most outlandish circumstances to hypnotize you as they inevitably unfold.

Each bus-ride, its own grotesque saga, contains eerily consistent mania in time-release capsules, tailored for a person’s mental/physical limits. In just 14 hours, we were acquainted with meditation and a renewed faith in God as strange, Vaudevillian participants acted-out scenes difficult to endure, comprehend or describe. But for your reading pleasure, I’ll try…

When the Hanoi-bound bus arrived on time ( something we’d not experienced before), I was pleasantly surprised. We stored our bags easily in the luggage bin, and boarded without incident.

This would exhaust the easy quotient of our journey.

Chomping contentedly on Oreo’s, I took out my Ipod and tried to relax in a seat made for someone much smaller than me. Troy’s knees were sandwiched against mine and the seat in front of us. Apparently, the vehicle’s engineers did not consider passengers in the design, because when the seat reclined, you rested squarely on the chest/legs of those behind you.

Just another 14 hours to go.

Boarding after us, were 3, thirty-something British hippies, whose seemingly innocuous decision to pop Valium would later drive Troy to incredible ends. The blackened feet of the barefoot (yes, barefoot) trio trod all the way down the empty bus into the seats, of course, directly in front of us. While we rolled slowly through Hue’s streets, picking up remaining passengers, one bestowed blustering, slurred conversation on how he consumed 12 bottles of wine in 24 hours. Their infestation, loosely classified as hair, came obtrusively over and through the seat dividers ahead, a writhing morass, bringing with it the unwelcome odor of dirt and French Fries. As the intellectual repartee ensued, the messes would throw themselves about their reclined seats in a drugged glee that would prove most disappointing to all the commuters; especially to us and our tattered knees directly behind them. Hours down the road, as we inched away from our rested demeanor, these special people would lose their novelty, and Troy his better judgement.

Somewhere buried in my definition and understanding of “bus-travel”, lie several pre-conceived notions adopted after experiences on Western buses. One such notion assumes the purchase of a ticket secures an individual seat; quite a hapless fallacy if you’re traversing a long distance, on an overnight-bus in Asia.

Plainly at-capacity, we pulled into, yet another, hotel. Troy and I, confused, were mulling over the space needed to stow the waiting family of three, completely oblivious to the growing altercation just outside. If you remember, we learned how unsatisfactory seating arrangements are settled ( pushing and shoving ) on our Thailand-Cambodia bus ride. Wildly shouting profanities in Vietnamese and, surprisingly, English ( “BUU-SHEE”/ “FOOK YUU”) the mother boarded the bus armed with, unbeknownst to us, a handful of rocks. A few seconds later, after a violent tango in the aisle, I thought they’d reached an understanding, as the woman got off the bus. Unpredictably and decisively, she pivoted in a ninja-like maneuver, and began hurling the projectiles through the window and at the driver. I must admit, in a place so completely devoid of customer service….or just any service, I empathized rock-throwing was the next logical step.

Our first disaster under the belt and with a couple extra stones on board, we were on our way, hurtling off into the misty Vietnamese sunset. Save picking up another 4 people from the country-side who would lay in aisle, playing an aggressive game of territory demarcation with the intoxicated hippies and passing 2 dead bodies splayed across the road, the next few hours would pass without occasion.

We made our first stop just after midnight, but the heat and humidity were still staggering. My painfully full bladder forced me to negotiate a motley stew of large insects, urine and feces in what I can unequivocally label the worst toilet I have ever seen. ( see inset photo). Troy, biologically superior and somewhat removed from this particular situation, laughed as I ran horrified, stall to gut-wrenching stall, eventually squatting in darkness, near some sort of sludge-drain. Refusing to employ the stagnant tub of brown, viscous liquid ( with which you are to wash your hands?), I located my trusty Purell- which has been indispensable on our journey: thanks, mom-and splurged on half a bottle.

Upon reentering the bus, I gaped, momentarily frozen in shock. Somehow, I’d overlooked a major caveat of our safe-passage to Hanoi: our bus driver’s missing eye. We learned gratuitous use of the horn is a legal and effective substitute for sight while driving in Vietnam, especially at night on a challenging, mountainous road with a loaded passenger vehicle. I thoroughly enjoyed the luxury my back-of-the-bus seat offered: partial ignorance of the frequency and severity of near-misses, as we passed 18-wheelers, and pitched towards the ravines. Earlier, Murphy’s law would lead me to peruse the Lonely Planet forum where I would read about a Vietnamese bus crash, 2 weeks ago, on this very route. Not to worry, however, as it was clear T.M. brother’s travel agency took its passenger’s safety seriously, probably enforcing routine maintenance and state-of-the-art precautions with our $2 fares.

Never having left the bus, the drugged failures, one drooling with shades on, and both unconscious, had fully reclined their seats onto ours, preventing any ease of seating. Lacking further tolerance, I abruptly righted their seats with two swift kicks; which, with the Valium, they seemed to take in stride. As soon as we pulled away, the lights were killed, and the vicious game of see-saw seats commenced.

Our bodies met with their seat backs and hair in painful, repetitive collisions for two hours, when Troy, deciding to take part in the lunacy, began hashing his plot . Long ago, I’d pulled my knees up to cover my chest, as we jerked violently along, trying to recall the maximum force a breast implant can withstand before rupturing.

While passing a rogue street-lamp, I caught a glimpse of Troy, wild-eyed, holding a tube of super-glue. Upon further inquiry, he confessed a desperate attempt to super-glue the hippies hair to the seat cushion in the darkness; an understandable response to such stimuli.

Exhausted and preoccupied with the glue stratagem, it took me a few moments to notice the pairs of feet coming through, at face level, from behind us. I was considerately roused from a few seconds of shut-eye with a blackened toe-nail inches from my face. Following vigorous elbow jabs, the feet withdrew, but it was only minutes reprieve before the encroachment began again.

I can do this.

Just 4 hours to go.

Eventually, the devilish road leveled, and the ride quieted. There was a palpable, collective sigh with assumptions that the worst had passed. The intermittant air-conditioning snapped miraculously back in order, adding to our optimism and relief. Listening to Coldplay, I focused on relaxing my body, my mind. Maybe sleep was possible on this abomination.

The small, quiet man sitting to Troy's immediate left, however, decided against that concept. Ingesting something ( probably at our unsanitary stop) that enraged his innards, the small man became a spout of projectile vomit. Amazingly, rather than following usual protocol ( lunging for a window/opening/door) he turned in our direction and spewed into the aisle of the bus, on our laptop bag and Troy's calf. As you can imagine, this was the perfect night-cap and happy ending to a memorable sojourn.

In the words of someone else: "Long live TM Brothers tourism agency. I am forever grateful for each moment of my life not spent on this bus"

2006-08-21T22:28:00.000+07:00

**I had a hard time updating text. Bad internet...When we get to Hanoi tomorrow morning I will repost and publish**

Stay tuned my lovlies!
xoxoxoxoxo

DAD, mom has your b-day present and DVD from Cambodia....Call her :)

2006-08-14T19:55:00.000+07:00

Four hours due East of Saigon, on the southern coast, lies Mui Ne, a small fishing town dubbed one of Vietnam’s most natural beauties. To our excitement, our Lonely Planet guidebook described Mui Ne as pristine and undeveloped, boasting the best beaches in the country. Red and white sand dunes are also a famous draw. Naturally, we carved out a 3 day stop from our tight Vietnam schedule to visit.

For the first time on our trip, our trusty Lonely Planet guide wasn’t right! Compared to Nha Trang, Mui Ne may be smaller, but it isn’t necessarily undeveloped. Palatial resorts, built wall to wall, envelope miles of coastline. The sporadic chunks of land remaining are littered with cement pylons, bricks and steel girders; nascent mega-resorts. I wouldn’t suggest arriving sans hotel reservation or local transportation like us, as we spent two hours with our packs in the mid-day heat trying to find less expensive alternatives. Also, later that evening, we walked miles in search of snacks before realizing the total absence of vendors outside the resorts. Mui Ne is definitely not a pedestrian town.

Despite these issues, a relatively mediocre beach ( grey sand and brown water), and getting a flat bike tire 4 miles out of town, we still enjoyed our 3 days. Troy spent an entire afternoon of surfing 3-4 foot waves, which are said to swell from July to October. Natural rock formations and sand dunes are an indisputable spectacle, and sit just 30 minutes away from town. It is a convenient 4 hours from both Saigon and Nha Trang. Mui Ne is ideal if you think in terms of stop-over versus destination.

Just a few days ago, we arrived in Nha Trang: Mui Ne's big brother and the most visited beach in Vietnam. When you see the turquoise water, fine golden sand, rolling green hills and surrounding islands just offshore, you understand why. This place is gorgeous. We haven't delved into sightseeing yet, but I will post again soon after our snorkeling and countryside trips.

Hello/hug/kiss to Maki, Ruba and Majella :-)
HAPPY BIRTHDAY ( a bit belated) to BUBS and DAD!! WE LOVE YOU-
xoxoxoxoxoxo

2006-08-10T19:15:00.000+07:00

What comes to mind when you think of Vietnam? War? Communism? Rice? Both of us had a hard time imagining present-day Ho Chi Minh City, but we definitely didn’t expect to see the clean streets, manicured gardens, booming commercial district, tiled sidewalks and modern buildings that now define the heart of this felled democratic city. This place classifies the contemporary metropolis, especially on the heels of our travels through Cambodia.

In terms of development and cleanliness, I thought it surpassed smog-choked, dusty Bangkok, the proclaimed gateway of South-East Asia. Actually, in strolling through a majority of Saigon’s streets, I guessed we could be in the hub of any major Western city. Well, that’s if you unleash 5 million swerving mopeds, dissolve any shred of vehicular protocol, and infuse a healthy dose of street vendors, cyclos ( a pedal driven carriage) and Chinese culture to the chaotic mix.

Saigon is an inviting blend of ancient eastern culture and modern western comfort that (in my opinion) ought to draw more tourism than we saw. The 100+ years of French influence crops up deliciously in the baguettes and crepes sold on most corners; not to mention the full-scale copy of Paris’ Notre Dame in the city center. Northface, Columbia, Adidas, Puma, and Nike all have manufacturing plants here, so the variety and cost of shopping is really unbelievable. Our immaculate hotel room had up-to-date furnishings, hot water, satellite TV, free breakfast and WIFI for $12 per night.

Exceptional, right?

It’s strange, but fortunate that this unique Asian gem has still avoided the devouring, fanny-pack-clad hordes that inevitably drain all quaint charm from destinations around the world. We enjoyed a leisurely walking-tour, squatted over delicious bowls of “pho” (Vietnamese soup with rice noodles, mint, and beef), explored ornate incense-filled Chinese-Buddhist temples, and listened to traditional folk music all without the nuisance of other tourists. Escaping tour groups and interacting with the locals has become increasingly difficult and our holy grail on this trip.

Also, in case you were wondering, gone are the days of conspicuous prostitution and drug use that tainted Saigon’s steamy neon alleys. Crime and theft have been significantly curtailed. The socialist regime extinguished all lawlessness that branded Saigon a notorious city in the Vietnam War. Clearly, they’ve not only cleansed and rebuilt HCMC, but effectively fostered economic growth under an authoritarian government, seemingly in the footsteps of its sizeable communist neighbor, China.

Both of us agree, Saigon should be on everyone’s must-see list in Asia. The culture. The comfort. The shopping!

For those of you who are not familiar with the Vietnamese currency, ( Troy and I had fun with this) it’s the Dong. Yes, I’m serious, see the photo. Additionally, there are 16,000 Dongs to 1 US dollar, so essentially, you could say we’re all Dong millionaires.

“How many dongs do you have on you?”
“Put your dong away”
“Don’t worry, I’ll pay with dong”
“That’s a lot of dong”

I’ll let it go now, but we squeezed every ounce out of it. 

For higher amounts, the Vietnamese deal in US dollars, ( like Cambodia) as 7-digit-dealings become unnecessarily complex. Even smaller purchases can be confusing, so Troy and I invested .75 cents in a mini-calculator for most of the leg-work. Thankfully, the vendors we’ve encountered have been honest, one returning the equivalent of $15 US dollars for two sodas and a pack of gum. ::sheepish grin::

While pausing at a stand selling Northface backpacks, we noticed a woman selling yellow liquid in various old alcohol bottles. On closer inspection, we noticed the bottles also included a variety of disagreeable matter: cobras, insects, pink blobs of “medicine”, grass-snakes, and scorpions, some with the scorpions picturesquely in the snake’s mouth. Of course Troy, who has become disturbingly eager to ingest any/everything, suggests we buy a bottle.

“It make you strong” chimes the old woman, wrinkled and donned with a thatch conical hat.

Well, honey, if she claims it improves health, I guess I can assuage every gut instinct that screams the contrary and give it a try…

I am happy to announce we are both still alive. Though I did not experience euphoria, hallucinations or any improvement in health, the pungent swig did impart a sticky bitter film in my mouth. Ah, this is “adventure” though, right? :)

Tomorrow we are off to the sand dunes of Mui Ne in our own private jeep tour for just $18 bucks US. What a deal. Troy wants to try his luck at sand-sledding. I will laugh at him and take photos of the fiasco. Maybe, if he doesn't perish, I'll try it too...

We'll try to upload some more pics tomorrow evening
www.fotki.com/visceraltext
XOXOOXOXOX

2006-08-08T21:20:00.000+07:00

SPECIAL THANKS TO:
Barbara and The Peschls
Debbie and Wayne Davis
Murad Ghaith
Tony Lawrence
Kim and Jim Steel
The Olivias
Robert Steel
Don Rillera
Paul Gropelli
The Figaris
Doreen and Lance Johnson
Teeyna
Thais Sales

You all have helped us make a very real difference to people who needed it most. We fed 225 people, installed 5 water pumps, gave 1/2 a month's salary to 2 teachers, 1 admin, 1 principal, and 1 village chief, gave uniforms and school supplies for 100 children. THANK YOU!

We are so lucky to have met Heang, our driver, without whom none of this would be possible. Heang got up early, trodded around in the heat, translated, navigated, negotiated! There wasn't anything he couldn't do :) He was a trustworthy friend above all else, and we will miss him a lot. We both know it won't be too long before we return to Siem Reap.

We also made 3 other friends, Sonlin, Lyda and Sarun, who work at the "Why Not" cafe in Siem Reap. They made us feel welcome and special while educating us on the traditional cultures and Khmer language. Hope you like your gifts guys, please keep in touch!

Not to forget my list for 1st timers, here is the Cambodia edition:
1. There is a national obsession with kareoke. The loudest, fastest songs will be played on long bus rides, in taxis, and waiting rooms in government offices.
2. The Cambodian sales presentation for services or goods is repeating the phrase: "you buy"
3. Khmer children in the city speak an average of 3 languages
4. Amok is the most common dish; curry and coconut milk and delicious
5. You will have a major bug experience. Crickets, Roaches, Spiders and Beetles all start at 4 inches and up.
6. Don't worry, its normal to have kitchen appliances, livestock or a 5 person family all on one moped
7. If you want a career in sales ( take it from me, DON'T go there; but if you insist) watch the expert Khmer rainmaking children at Angkor Wat. We had a child who couldn't be stumped on naming any country's capital, though I did manage to embarrass myself :-P
8. Do not make eye contact with a monkey, or get its attention for a picture. Its low-grunting ( either sexual or aggressive; I didn't wait to find out) is followed by determined attempts to mount your head and shoulders
9. Bring candy/pens/coins to the children instead of money
10. If you give to children, they will either smile, kiss you, bless you or a delicious combo of all three
11. Women wear Saudi Arabia-esque clothing around their head and faces while outside. This is not religious, but cosmetic. Cambodians love white skin and will walk around draped from head to toe in 95+ degree heat to keep it that way.
12. Raw meat stands have no cooling
13. Gas is sold in old soda and Jack daniels bottles, and is 4 dollars a gallon

We love you all, and to all a good night!!!
Tomorrow more from Mui Ne, Vietnam
xoxoxoxoxo