graywanderings

And I remembered my “motion sickness wrist bands” secured two inches from the palm of my hands.  I packed salty snacks and a bit of water, but just enough to keep my palette wet and not enough to make me need to constantly go pee. And hell, I’ll admit it, I’ve even got a little Nora Jones on my i-Pod to soothe me to sleep. Yep, I’m back on a bus and this time I’m ready for it.

I just failed to calculate one little detail.  This is an overnight bus, headed for southern Vietnam.  The roads aren’t so curvy as they were in Laos. In fact, these roads are quite straight, in a forward direction that is.  Motion sickness is not the issue, but space, oh space for one’s body, for sleeping, is a precious, precious thing.

I’ve always longed to be tall, often lying that I’m 5′ 11′ even standing tall to make 6 feet (I just make 5′ 10″ at the doctors) but in a 5′ 6″ x 1′ (literally, a bed one foot wide) sleeping cubicle, like a coffin, a sardine can compounded for one, I really do wish, for once in my life, that I was just a tad (a foot maybe) shorter.  And with my feet slipping into a little nook beneath the head of the bed-seat in front of me (are you getting the picture?) my knees and shins lean against (tortuously squeeze might be a more apropos description, but I don’t want to be melodramatic) hard cold steel.  Lumbar and hipbar and neck bar dig  into my back awkwardly angled at 20 degrees, providing just enough incline for the backpacker behind me to stick his (yes, smelly, but mine are too) feet beneath my head. 

Now, I mentioned the roads being straight (at least on the horizontal, x-axis plane), but not on the vertical, y-axis plane, (yes Dad, pat yourself on the back that’s math lingo I’m using as a description).  By which I mean potholes, lots of them, and water grooves, and earthquake riffs, and ripples from floods, and all sorts of pavement inconsistencies and malformities, and middle of the night mini-bed bumps and jumps and god-awful, back-breaking, moto-destroying dips and divots and things that, well, just need to be fixed by a simple road crew so as to not wake me up in my half sleep and 1/3 dreamland.

And then there’s the swaying.  I know the laws of aerodynamics and the center of gravity for automobiles.  Why would I pick the top bunk?  (Yep, we’re stacked two high and three across on this bus bound for, Nha-Trang I hope).  Everytime the bus attempts to pass a moto on its right and an on-coming semi on its left, the bus sways back and forth as it maneuvers the 1.5 lanes, and us on the top, well we get the worst of it and in my dreams I think I’m on a tiny boat, lost at sea of course.

Fear not though, if my little bed-space or the bumps or the rocking don’t jolt me awake, the blinding lights from those semi-trucks our bus driver just barely avoided will surely wake me up.  Or maybe the loud honk as the driver lays on his horn for even the faintest glimmer of movement in the roadway ahead (I’m pretty sure he’s hallucinating).

And if I make it through all that, the honking and the lights and the swaying and the road jumping on the y-axis and my sardine can down-sized for one, just maybe, maybe I’ll get some sleep tonight. 

Doubtful.  The driver lights his cigarette to begin another bit of chain-smoking (at least 100 kilometers worth), and that’s an aroma that will surely not sing a lullaby to my oh so tired mind. I’m so glad I brought my wrist bands and my Dramamine, but why, oh why did I forget my horse-size, elephant-tranquilizing, sleeping pills?

And the better question: why did I get back on a bus?

It’s not hot yet, but it’s getting there.

5 am brings a calmness to the otherwise bustling world.  People are awake, the sun begins to rise, but life is not yet in full swing.  It’s meditative, it’s peaceful, it’s a time so often forgotten, neglected, under-utilized.

The swish of brooms on the sidewalk.  Garages and gateways slowly opening.  Quacking ducks sitting on the streetside, ready for market.  Women attaching chickens upside down on their motos, freshly bought, as fresh as they get, for the evening meal.  An orange glow sings over the rice paddies bringing out the richest shade of green. Everyone excercises in the park: fathers and sons go for a jog,  old friends play badminton, grandfathers practice Tai Chi and grandmothers whisk red hand fans in a motion much like balet. A man sprays down his sun deck and waters his plants, in nothing but his underwear.  Even the motos that buzz by, taking someone to work, have a tranquil quality to their roar. 

These are the quiet streets, just beginnig to breath life. John Steinbeick described this as “the hour of the pearl.” By which he meant precious, poetic, subtle, glorious.  And he was damn right.

Often times I find it difficult to describe those places and events and experiences that have the most profound affect on me and my travels. Last week’s visit to Halong Bay was a place of natural beauty that caused a bit of wordless blundering.

In these situations, I tend to use words like stunning and beauty and amazing.  But what do these words tell you or me?  Not a whole lot other than making it clear I enjoyed the place and that my skills as a writer lack a bit of depth.

Hoi-An, a cityscape of central Vietnam, a UNESCO World Heritage site, a site almost untouched during the war with America, poses similar difficulties.   Its multi-colored-lantern-lit streets and bridges of red and blue and orange and yellow and green. Its families and children on their Sunday evening strolls. Its riverside cafes with low tables and local noodles made only here with water from one single well in one particular style.  Its diverse architexture with nearly 500 years of influence from Japanese and Chinese and Indian traders that called this city home. Its bustling portside market and locally crafted boats.  Its magic, all its own, does seem almost describable, almost for a moment.

Until I stepped in to one of Hoi-An’s “ancient homes” or “assemby halls” or “meeting places,” built early in the last millenium. Well these will make sense, I think to myself, these are about family and community, two things I value greatly.  These, I will understand.

The assembly halls of the Cantonese, Japanese and Fujian traders come from their need for a place to gather and discuss; to come together in communion, for religion, for important cultural and societal decisions during these seafaring times of old in a country that was not their own. But these important landmarks are almost overwhelming:

ornately decorated walls and floors and ceilings . . . everything painted and designed with a meticulous touch . . . every column and corner and crevice illuminated with an artistic insight . . . 4 foot tall cylindrical incense coils burning hopeful prayers for families and loved ones . . . Chinese caligraphy that dances, spelling out poems and pictures that I can’t quite grasp . . . dragons on roof tops and in fountains wrapping their many heads and many tongues, spitting protection and oh yeah, enchantment.

Enchantment is what these places, whether cityscapes or landscapes, whether brief moments in time or month-long experiences, offer to the wandering traveler.  All the adjectives in the world and enlightened descriptions of the five senses, can’t make sense of enchantment.  Enchantment is a thing all its own: amazing, stunning, and yes, beautiful.

The key word here, “ride.”  I certainly did not learn to drive a moto, but with all the buzzing hornets and my waxing poetics about their constant zipping and cruising around the streets here, Lindsay and I finally said, “why not.  Let’s join them.”

A lovely couple across the street from our hotel could see it in our faces when we walked outside . . . “you want to ride a moto, to the beach?”

Absolutely.

They both snatched helmets for us from under the seats of their almost matching bikes and we placed the brain buckets snuggly on our heads.  This was an added bonus to our $1.50 6 kilometer ride.

I was a bit uncomfortable at first, not sure whether or not to lean into the turns or put my foot down with the driver at a stop light (yes, we actually stopped!). The awkward moment also came when we picked up speed and I went for the “moto-hug.”  My driver laughed and clearly didn’t think too much of this, so I fumbled around for a bit.  And then I found the elusive handlebar at the backside of the backseat.

Bingo. My tension eased and I enjoyed a lovely ride to the beach, followed by a walk on the shore and a crab dinner.

Then the couple returned for us promptly at 6 as planned. . . happy parents ready to wisk their children home. We pulled onto the main road leading back to town greeted by the quintessential red and pink sunset light glowing over afternoon thunderheads and mountain tops and rice paddies.

The laughter of families gathering for the evening meal reminded me of my own parents who first met on a motorcycle. With the breeze blowing gently in my face and the typically stunning countryside passing by, I leaned back with complete comfort, smiling a zen-like grin, gazing off in a dream-like fashion.

For the first time in my life, I entirely understood my parent’s enjoyment of riding these sometimes menacing machines. So I thanked the world for these motos and scooter bikes and motorcycles and BMWs and Hondas and even Harleys, for without a ride such as this, I suppose I wouldn’t be around to tell this or any other story.

If you don’t mind, take a moment and think back to the largest city in the United States that you’ve been in recently (maybe you live there already).  Los Angeles, New York, Chicago, New Orleans, Denver, you name it.  Now remember your history lessons about the “Mongolian hordes” . . . remember them? The Khan armies of nearly a million?  Finally, instead of horses, put those armies on speed bikes, dirt bikes, vespas, scooters of all shapes and colors (just not Harley Davidsons and certainly not touring BMWs) and unleash those masses into that big city you were thinking about a moment ago.

This is Hanoi.

The big difference between the city you’re thinking of and Hanoi? There aren’t really any signal lights and I’m pretty sure there aren’t too many traffic laws here. And if there are any of either no one really cares.  A one way street? Well, for the most part, but there’s a good chance that 1 or 2 dozen motos will be coming the wrong way a moment later.  Or was that the right way?

Okay, maybe I’m over-exagerating.  Just jump to the sidewalk after crossing the busy intersection for a break from the pack after pack of moto mania.

The sidewalk?

Nope.  That’s moto parking.  And if it’s not moto parking, then have a seat on a plastic stool 6 inches off the ground next to a moto. It’s not real comfortable, especially for your big American legs, but in a moment when there’s a piping hot bowl of Pho or a wok full of frying fish and veggies or a delicate plate of pork dumplings or beer brewed that day (beer fanatics rejoice, this is watered-down hoppy sour goodness) put in front of you, you’ll forget about the stool you’re on (until it breaks underneath you).

Okay, back to the street.  You know the sidewalk is no good for walking and now you know to look both ways many, many times before crossing, (just like your mother taught you). Travel a bit further beneath the low-hanging neon signs, wind down another curving street in the Old Quarter (you really wish you had your compass now because you’re pretty sure you just made a 90 degree turn without realizing it) and find yourself in the market:

Huge bags overflowing with spices, big plastic tubs of catfish and crawfish and eel, heck there’s even a pig walking around here some place. And all the clothes and home supplies and school books and office gadgets you ever need right here in Costco size quantities ready for purchase and re-sale and re-purchase. Fruit and vegetables? Yes of course, you’ve seen the stacks of fresh goodness before, but how do they get it all out of here?

Motos.

No, really.  Those same buzzing speeding zipping street bikes are packed to the brim with all this stuff. Perfectly balanced, tightly strapped down (you hope) ready for a knee skinning ride through this true delight of a city.

Sure there are the old ways: the long stick counter-balanced over the shoulder by two baskets filled with goods  (looks like the symbol for justice, and just might be) or maybe the carefully packed traditional bicycle or even a cyclo.

But these forms of movement are becoming obsolete.  Too slow for a city on the move and moving fast? Yes, maybe.  But the real reason? You can’t balance six full kegs of beer on a shoulder basket.  You just can’t do it. And on a hot afternoon like today, that beer needs to be delivered.

How about six kegs on a moto?  You better believe it.

I’ve received some inquiries from some blog readers about where I am at any given time.  I suppose I didn’t take that moment to plot out our current route.  Here it is in brief:

June 15th: LAX – Bangkok, Thailand

June 17th – June 18th: Bangkok

June 19th – June 20th: Vientien, Laos after night train

June 21st: All-day bus to Luang Prabang, Laos (UNESCO World Heritage City)

June 22nd – June 27th: Luang Prabang (including an overnight at an Elephant Village, don’t worry, I got a good skin infection there).

June 27th: Flight from Luang Prabang to Hanoi, Vietnam

June 29th and 30th: Halong Bay, Vietnam (UNESCO Site)

July 1st: Hanoi with overnight train down coast

July 2nd – July 8th: Down the coast of Vietnam including the towns of Hue, Hoi- An (both UNESCO sites) and Na Trang.

July 9th: Ho Chi Minh City (known in the states as Saigon), Vietnam

July 10th: Late night flight, early morning I suppose, to Manilla, Philippines to join our dear friend on an adventure to ENCA Farm and the northern mountains.

July 22nd: Return to Ho Chi Minh City and head towards Cambodia

July 24th – August 3rd: Cambodian explorations including Angkor Wat (UNESCO Site . . . Incredible temples) and Phnom Phen (capital city)

Sipping from my 75 cent beer, I watch what I now believe to be one of the prettiest places in the world slowly float by me.

As a child, I spent summers in Yosemite National Park; during college I explored the canyons and red rock country of southern Utah; I lived and worked in Yellowstone for one summer; I now live near the Rocky Mountains, which locals and travelers here find quite fortunate.

So I am not one to judge and rank, but this bay, with its hump-backed islands rising from the sea, its lush jungles, and its mystical light that casts vague shadows over sea and sky and land, is a poem, a dream, a place to behold.

The brochure of our “junk,” (that’s Halong Bay lingo for small cruise ship) declares “luxury you deserve.” To subscribe to that statement takes some level of arrogance and entitlement.  Hell, it kind of makes me sound like a prick. I’ve done nothing to deserve our comfortable accomodations and delightful food, and I have done even less to deserve the incredible beauty now surrounding me. In some ways, I kind of fumbled my way into this place.

“But hey,” I think to myself as I take another gentle swig from my Beer Hanoi (now this is nectar of the gods), “I’ll take it.” I’ll take the calm ocean air and tranquil waters fit for an advertisement brochure.  I’ll take the towering limestone towers. I’ll take the alien-esque jelly-fish.  I’ll take the leisurely kayak ride through a back bay.  I’ll take the distant view of a floating fishing village and an ancient way of life. I’ll take all of this profound beauty and enjoy it and appreciate it and cherish it for the lifetime memory it has now become.

Laos, I will miss you.

I will miss the haunting sound of drums and gongs at 4 am from the temples: a mystical, dreamy way to wake-up.

I will miss the way the people of your town give morning alms to the monks  in the mist of dawn, and how the monks turn to their friends and family and chant to say thanks.

Laos, I will miss your extensive menus at restaurants, and the way you’e able to still serve food even when the power is out.

I will miss the way you cook with such fresh herbs and spices, the way your culinary treats are as much about aroma and color as taste.

I will miss the way Laotian families walk along the Mekong on Sunday evenings and sit together at temporary sidewalk cafes to have dinner over an open flame.

I will miss riding your prehistoric elephants and bathing them in the river.

I will miss the way the novice monks compete with their rival Wats, playing drums and gongs as loudly and as rhythmically as possible at 4 in the afternoon.

And I will miss the way those same novices calm into chanting later that evening while I eat noodle soup across the street. 

Laos, I will miss the colorful and ornate spirit houses that protect families perched outside of every home.

Laos, I will even miss the way it rains so hard here that the river swells 15 feet in three days and takes away the boat we needed to cross the rushing waters. 

I will miss the way the temples rise above the tree-line as we drive away from a town on a Tuk-tuk or a boat. And I will surely miss the way your people guide me down muddy roads and up steep hills to the temples I can’t quite find on my own.

I will miss dinner and beers on the banks of the Mekong as the sun sets over your stunning landscape.

But most of all Laos, I will miss you.  I will miss the way you have taught me how to wait, how to be patient, how to fall into the rhythm of a life that’s not so fast-paced.  I will miss the enchantment of saying, “things will work out, if not now then in a little bit, if not today then tomorrow.”

Laos, thank you.

I have never seen rain come down like this in my life.  The drops are as hard and heavy as hail, falling to the earth in the proverbial “sheets” or “buckets” or “cats and dogs” . . . whatever you want to call it, it’s raining that hard. The jungle is soaking up the first major water of the rainy season as the lush leaves point towards the sky and the insects hide from the down pour.  The river has swollen to twice the size it was when we arrived, and you can see why.  In every direction, adhoc streams are forming, bringing down the rich orange mud, a color of soil any good farmer might long for. 

The guides are shouting back and forth to one another, laughing, telling jokes, amused at themselves for being barefoot and in mere cotton, while the tourists (that’s us) hunker down beneath their 3-ply goretex jackets and their umbrellas.  The five men are at ease here, especially since they know their day of work is just about over, and the classic Laotian afternoon of rest and relaxation awaits them at the bottom of the hill.

We have a few more stretches of the hill to climb,  unsure feet finding the perfect landing, avoiding the precarious slip in the slick terrain.  Steadily though, we arrive at our destination and the guides jump about with ease and help us to a safe spot to wait for their return.  The rain comes down even harder now and I’m wondering how the four gringos (Lindsay and I, and our two friends from the U.K. that we met on this trek) will make it down the hill without our descent turning into a muddy Woodstuck slide to the bottom. Inevitably, we’re going to get wetter than we are now, so I’m glad my father taught me at a young age to always bring an extra pair of socks when going into the wilderness.

I look longingly back-up the hill to see the tail of Mae Buakham swish away the last remaining fly and then disapear into the woods. She too is surely happy to be done with her days work where she can finally eat freely without me sitting on her hairy, regal neck.

Hey, did I forget to mention that  I was ten feet off the ground riding Mae Buakham, an elephant?