Worth a Thousand Words

I've recently been batting around sad ideas concerning modernity and culture, specifically how technology interfaces with wine.   I'm seeing wine--which I'm so heavily invested in studying right now--as a microcosm of the world at large.  Perhaps something as simple, widespread, and as perennial as wine could be a useful touchstone in discussions of future.  What makes a wine good or worth money?  What do we consider to be an improvement in wine technology?  Is it machine harvesting as many perfectly ripened and lab tested grapes as possible and producing as much wine as we can make bottles?  Whatever happened to the honed generational skills of the farmer?  What about terrior?  Where does mechanization take the romantic--and indeed appealing--element away from wine?  How much does the romanticism matter, so long as we have the convenience of inexpensive and well-made wine on our grocery store shelves?
From the slow food movement to vintage clothing to handcrafted, biodynamic wine I'm seeing these reactionary trends within my generation that has seen so much technology advance so quickly.  NASA is trying to start a "space tourism" industry, and we still can't grasp the genetic mutations that sometimes occur in grapevines.  We're churning eggs out of chicken-powered factories, and can't wrap our heads around the fact of skyrocketing obesity and cancer rates in the developed world.  It all seems too much too fast, at the expense of complex systems that have developed over millenia...  and cultures that have been in place for thousands of years.

These thoughts swirling after a particularly aggravating viticulture class, I stumbled across this photographic essay on spiritual life in Bali, with commentary from the artist John Stanmeyer: 

"The Balinese culture is under severe stress from development and modernity. How much longer will the Balinese even be speaking their own language? How much longer will people be able to read the ancient Sanskrit texts?
I’m intense and passionate about it because I do feel in some regards, around the world, we’re having cultural genocide. Cultures are vanishing. We’re homogenizing ourselves across the planet. We have language loss on an epic level and we have cultural loss on an equally epic level. And that I find to be tragic, especially when you have rich, ancient cultures that haven’t changed for so long but now are on the verge of a breaking point."

http://lens.blogs.nytimes.com/2010/09/16/high-balinese-ritual-low-holga-technology/

And so, what to do?  When is globalization a good thing?  To what extent....

Happy Easter!

I wish lots of chocolate and bunny love to everyone on this beautiful Easter Sunday. It's is a highly secularized holiday in Australia, notable for public holidays on both Friday and Monday. Shops have been closed since Thursday, and many people left town to enjoy the final warm weekend before cooler fall weather sets in. Yes, it does get cold here.

I went to an Episcopalian Eucharist this morning, just to soak in the meditative calm that is generally associated with churches on their most popular day of the year. No less than three babies were hurriedly carried, screaming, from the sanctuary. But the hymns were lovely and reminded me of home. I should start going to church more regularly.

The roomies and I were treated to brunch of lovely blintzes with strawberries, cooked by resident Chef Jeff, and the Easter bunny did leave behind chocolate eggs and hot cross buns. After the feeding, we trundled off to the beach in my gorgeous little car, and joined the throngs of Australians enjoying the sunny day. I laid back and promptly fell asleep.

Last night was a long and fun one. I was the female escort for my three Columbian friends at a salsa dance party downtown, and for reasons I cannot fully explain, I chose to wear strappy stilettos. By eleven, my feet were numb with pain, and pain isn't particularly conducive to quick, sultry dance steps. I managed to catch the heel of one shoe on the straps of another, and took a nasty fall smack on my knee. It's a lovely bruise to accompany the motorcycle gash. Just another battle wound, really. I tried to pretend I wasn't fazed, and thankfully my partner and friend just kept on twirling me like I was a rockstar. I do love dancing.

At some point rather late in the evening, I consented to dance with a burly Asian-slash-Australian-looking dude with long curly hair pulled back in a bush of a ponytail and giant biceps bursting forth from a tight sleeveless-tee. I don't know why it surprised me that manhandled me in a way that would have qualified as abuse in most Westernized countries. You can tell a lot about a man by the way he dances, and I suspect this guy makes crude demands of hapless young girls when he gets into more private settings. Note, he wasn't the uncomfortably sensual type, or one of those guys who "oops" touches you provocatively. He simply drove me forcefully past where I was able to follow his lead, and kept throwing me around, laughing as if it was good fun. It was like rape on the dance floor. In lieu of being vocally rude, which I probably should have been, all I could do was survive the song, desperately looking towards my Columbian men in hopes they would recognize my distress and step in. They were preoccupied with blondes.

Then, the real kicker, the brute dropped me! He shoved me into this treacherously low dip, and rather than feeling his mammoth arms scoop me back up to a standing position, I felt the smack of my horizontal body against the wood floor. It was surprisingly painless, but I did struggle to think of a more embarrassing moment as the crowd around me stopped dancing to ogle, giggle, and ask if I was alright. No one asked the thug if he was alright in the head. He wanted to keep dancing, and just kept on laughing maniacally as if it were all good fun to chuck a girl on the ground. I don't know if he actually meant to do it, but the dance continued as viciously as the first half, and I tried to pretend I didn't want to spit in his face. When the song ended I scrambled quickly back to the Columbians. For the rest of the night, I danced only with Manuel, who leads as if I'm a delicate and gorgeous thing to show off. He's the sort of partner that makes a girl look good. Somewhat more enjoyable than watching the disco ball as if it were the moon among stars and I reclining in a country field.

I suppose it takes all types to make the world go round, but maybe we as a humanity could do with fewer men who like to harm small animals for fun. Long live the bunnies. Long live the Christian ethic. Merry Easter to all.

Scrounging Among Beauty

It was a rough day of classes. Yesterday was the annual Norwood Food and Wine street festival, a massive confluence of gorgeous boys in big sunglasses, gorgeous girls in flowing long dresses, amazing aromas, and plenty of vino. Perhaps I indulged in more wine than food. This morning hurt. The sun was supernaturally bright.

By 7pm when I arrived home, my physical discomfort had been offset by a foul mental state. Too much coffee, not enough sleep, too many acorns of random thoughts being chased by squirrels in my head. Life's been moving pretty fast recently.

I realized that I could use a good run. Unfortunately, when I packed my boxes and bags back in January, I used the same sort of crap decision-making that led to today's hangover. For some reason, I put my tennis shoes (useful ~4 times a week) in one of the boxes entrusted to a freight shipping company, and put my sexy stilettos (useful ~2 times ever) in my carry-on luggage. I have no idea when/if I'll see those freight boxes again, and the freight company offices are temporarily snowbound in Boston, so can't even provide tracking information. For all I know, my sneakers are at this moment kicking the bottom of the Marianas Trench. Until I receive confirmation, though, I absolutely refuse to pay $150 out of my dwindling bank account for new treads.

So I put on flip flops (thongs!) and went strolling. It turns out that my heretofore unexplored neighborhood is gorgeous. Just south of the little web of streets where I live, the suburb becomes an upper-upper-middle class wonderland. Manicured gardens meander prettily around the terraced, clean architecture of tasteful two story homes set among shady green trees. Light plays through the leaves as the cool evening breeze bustles down streets named "Elm," "Cedar," "Hatherly." I stumbled upon the very house which, without a doubt, is the dream abode that's been floating outside of fixed reality in my mind for years. It exists! I wanted to go sell my soul to start mortgage payments this very instant.

The evening detox walk had a secondary motive. Tomorrow morning is "hard rubbish" day, which means the city garbage collectors will pick up any larger trash, construction materiel, old furniture, etc. For poor students, it is a good time to watch the curb. I still need a bedside table, after all. I've also been on the lookout for an old, paint-stripped window frame. I think it would make for a neat look on my mantle. So I was vaguely, surreptitiously eying trash piles. Slowing down just a bit, but not enough to make the other evening walkers think I'm the sort of person who looks through trash piles.

And then, in a pile of doors and rotting 2x4s I spotted a metal trellis. Maybe 6 inches wide by 8 feet high. Wire. Not too rusty or bent. It had potential. It would be perfect to hang on one of my very bare bedroom walls. I could clip photos to it! Postcards! I can't live without decor for long; I have a real need to get creative with my living space. It's been almost a full week in this room, and I have paltry little to show for it. This other man's trash was looking like an absolute treasure. But picking scrap metal out of a trash pile is not something I do often. And walking a mile home with it under my arm is awkward enough. Nevermind that I'm passing lawyers arriving home from their Mercedes-powered commutes and well-heeled young couples pushing their perfect babies in thousand dollar prams. There's a gorgeous sunset happening, and I'm lugging home an unwieldy wire checkerboard. I assured myself that my find was just as worthwhile, precious, and normal as the showbreed white dog leashed to a stunning young man in casual loafers. I considered explaining the situation. "It's for art," I would tell the guy. And he would be bowled over by my offbeat beauty, whisk me away to one of the nearby bistros for a bottle of wine and a chat about eclecticism. He would be cultured and wealthy, interested mostly in my mind, and he'd ask me to all sorts of swish cocktail events where I could show off my hot stilettos. Alas, he didn't even invite my banter with a double-take. I swear his dog snorted at me.

So I have some doing to do before I'm ready for that gorgeous house on Northgate Street. At least the wall of my comfy little bedroom looks cooler than it did this morning.

Backtracking: Danang Shrooms

As I endeavor to pull my life together in Australia, I think back to the weird and exciting events of my recent travels. There's a particularly good story that took place during the exodus from Hoi An.

We left Hoi An in a rush so that I could attend a hastily scheduled doctor's appointment at a Western-quality, Western-doctor-staffed medical clinic in Danang. I had forwarded my parents a number of horror pics of my engorged leg, and their distress quadrupled when Jacksonville-based doctors said the leg was in a state of cellulitus (ick) and I was probably harboring a staphyloccocal infection that could cause permanent disfigurement or amputation. These are awesome things to hear about one's leg while one is trying to enjoy the charms of the developing world.

Dad emailed to remind me that I'd be uglier with an indefinitely mottled leg. Mom emailed to tell me that she'd researched every medical facility within 500 miles of me. Their scare tactics worked. Thank you, Parents. Off to a doctor I went, knowing nothing they could do would be as harrowing as getting the first stitches of my life on a newspaper-covered "operating table" in a government hospital from a doctor who spoke nothing like English. As it unraveled, a cool $114 (US dollars, please) got me in with a doctor who confirmed the Jacksonville diagnosis and out with two weeks' worth of knock 'em dead antibiotics.

Multiple choice: Complete this sentence.

Moms are always:
(a) right
(b) omniscient
(c) badgering
(d) irreplaceable
(e) all of the above

We had several hours to kill before our plane to Hanoi, so we asked the nurses for a restaurant recommendation, and were soon in a taxi headed to someplace called Ashira or Asima or something like that. They had said something about mushroom soup. Sounded appealing. We walked in the door to find no less than thirty waitstaff occupying a space that could accommodate maybe 60 wealthy customers, of which there were currently five, plus us. Picture that we are carrying our backpacks, dressed for a morning of milling around Hoi An. We don't smell particularly bad, but I'm not exactly wearing strappy heels that show off my perfect pedicure. And we certainly can't communicate. Andrew mimes scooping out of an imaginary bowl to indicate we want soup. We are seated on the second floor.

When the manager came to deliver our menus and our peanuts (appetizer? garnish? to be eaten with chopsticks?), we learned that the restaurant had opened the night before, hence all the bustling fanfare with the waiters. There were no less than four people servicing only our table, and no less than ten guys at anytime lined along the wall staring, watching, waiting for us to flinch so they could whisper comments to one another. My nerve-wracking travels in India herded themselves into my mind. We opened the menu, and found... mushrooms. Page after page of pictures of mushrooms. When I master wines, then cheeses, I'll have to turn attention to mushrooms. Apparently there is huge variation and variety, and certain Asian restaurants revel in it. When it came to ordering, we were befuddled. The manager helped us to select a "very nutritious broth" and three different types of mushrooms, as well as some cabbage. I ordered a bottle of wine (which was terrible).

The meal proceeded thus: A huge steaming pot of broth was placed in the center of our table over a purpose-built burner. Plates of mushrooms and cabbage arrived at intervals. A waiter whose sole purpose was to watch us eat mixed the shrooms into the broth, and theatrically ladeled this soup into our individual bowls. Three sips later, when our broth levels got low, she scooped more in. In case there was a moment this dedicated scooper couldn't handle, there were also individuals devoted to refilling our wine and water glasses at least once every minute. Thus the next three quarters of an hour passed: Bite, bite, scoop, flourish, guys along wall snicker, bite, sip, eat a peanut while wine is topped off. Andrew, who embraces awkward moments, enjoyed himself thoroughly. I tried to focus on earthy flavors.

Oh, but it wasn't over. After the broth went away and our dessert of fresh pineapple was gone, the bill came. And not only was the bill breathtakingly high by Vietnamese standards, but we didn't have the cash to pay it. The restaurant did not accept credit cards. I start to imagine what it would be like to spend some time washing dishes for this place. Once again we summoned the manager and explained our predicament. Ten minutes later, Andrew, I, our backpacks, and the manager were all cozy together in a taxi, combing the city center for an ATM. One that would take an American bank card.

We arrived at the airport with time to spare, thank heavens, and as I hobbled onto the Hanoi-bound plane, I could almost hear South Vietnam breath a collective sigh of relief that my bumbling self was headed out.

Hoi An

I've fallen behind in my posts. I'm sorry. The paradox of writing while traveling is that travel is, by necessity, a detachment. One tries to immerse oneself in the moment, rather than holding on to home and comfort. The past wanes dimmer, and it grows hard to drum up the motivation to sit down and share.

All that said, let's do Vietnam justice.

If you travel to Vietnam, go to Hoi An. Yes, it's touristy. Sure, it's a bit on the expensive side. Go anyway. It is just great.

We arrived via bus, and wandered from the station into the Old Town. Historically, this was a hub for silk trading, so it's full of beautiful old buildings, Chinese great houses, and charmingly narrow alleyways. The Thu Bon River runs under an arched footbridge (used by motorcycles as well as pedestrians, of course), and tourists gather for obligatory photos on a pretty little Japanese covered bridge. At certain times, the whole downtown area is closed to motor traffic, and the ancient Oriental architecture feels almost fake in its prettiness.

We checked into an alright hotel on An Hoi, which is a small island connected to town by the "footbridge," and then we set out in search of food. Half a block later we settled into couches in a breezy, Mediterranean-style cafe, ordered up some pricey delicacies, and played chess. Delightful.

Aside from its picturesque buildings, Hoi An is famous these days for food and for tailoring. Most storefronts offer at least one of these forms of indulgence, and if they're not, they're art galleries. On a tip from another traveler, Andrew and I signed up for the Red Bridge Restaurant cooking class, which promised a trip through the local markets and an organic farm to collect ingredients for a five hour cooking class. We started early, meeting up with our chef-guide Phi, who trained in a rather intensive and exclusive vocational program in Hanoi. First to the organic farm, where neat little rows of greens were planted in a manner distinctly reminiscent of perfectly spaced rice paddies. We collected some green onions, bean sprouts, mint, and saw coriander. Then on to the market, where we found meat and prawns, and got a quick lecture about MSG. "You hate your life?" Phi asked. "Buy this."

Groceries in tow, we took a van to the Red Bridge restaurant and set to preparing a feast of a lunch. First off, we started the thin beef stock that is the basis for Pho, Vietnam's ubiquitous and delicious national dish. Next we learned to make rice noodles from the paste that is formed if you leave rice to dissolve in water for days. Absolutely painstaking work, the fresh-rice noodle making. Not only does it demand several days forethought, but then also a slow and precise process of forming, steaming, and then cutting the noodles. Makes Italian pasta from scratch look like lazy work (it's not)! Next up was the curried prawns wrapped in banana leaves, a pretty and simple, savory dish which I will find occasion to use. Next we learned to properly chop a series of vegetables to make a mango and red pepper salad with a light, salty dressing and sesame seeds. Finally we finished the assembly of the Pho... stock with noodles, veggies, and meat. And we ate and ate and ate, lounged in the sun, then took a boat back up the river to town.

In the evening, after a small dinner at a market stall, I decided to indulge in Hoi An's other specialty. I picked a tailor based solely upon a pretty dress hanging in the store window, and was promptly in the able hands of Mrs. Kim Phoung, who speaks quite passable English, and has a heart of gold. She carefully guided me through the process of picking fabrics and cuts for a little hooded jacket and a green silk cocktail dress, then took expert measurements and heard me out as I described important design details such as an interior pocket in the jacket. She would have the items ready by 3pm the following day.

Unfortunately I woke up the next morning to terrifying, motherly emails suggesting that my still swollen leg indicated a serious infection. Several stateside doctors had looked at pictures of the wound and reported grim predictions about future disfigurement if I didn't get some powerful medicine. As is so often the case, Mom was right, and I booked a doctor's appointment at a Western medical clinic in Danang.

By 11am I was at Mrs. Phoung's door, wondering if she could do me the special favor of expediting my order. By the way, we had discussed her making a duplicate bathing suit from one I had with me, and if she could get that done by 3pm also, that would be just swell. As it turns out, Mrs. Phoung doesn't make bathing suits, but she has a friend that does, so we hopped on her motorbike and drove across town through a warren of tiny streets until we arrived at the shop of another tailor, this place notable because it was strewn with Lycra instead of silk. The woman took my measurements, looked at my original, offered to make 2 for $20. I picked out fabric. Then Mrs. Phoung reminded her friend of the 3pm deadline, and the friend laughed. Nevermind.

Back at the original shop twenty minutes later, Mrs. Phoung got a call from her friend. "Okay, I'll do it." While we waited for her delivery, Mrs. Phoung shared with me a snack of warm, cooked, spiced snails that she bought from a street vendor. She showed me how to use a sharpened twig to reach up into the tiny spiral shell, pierce the animal, and pull it out to eat. Her daughter showed me the best way to peel sections of a grapefruit. At 3pm I was the proud new owner of a specially made mini-wardrobe, and while I was waiting in the shop for a last minute alteration on the dress, Mrs. Phoung for the first time noticed how swollen my leg really was. Immediately she jumped into action, ran to the back of the shop (which is also her home), and found a tiger-balm-like ointment that she rubbed on my calf. It was never clearly explained that a topical salve would not strike at the deep infection.

As we sped in a taxi to Danang, I marveled at the magic of Hoi An. In such a seemingly serene place, extraordinary magic is unfolding in the hands of extremely hard working entrepreneurs. From food to ambiance to clothing, the place has a deft grasp on what will make a good tourism destination, and even the commercialism of it all is downplayed by the charm of the culture and the genuine nature of the locals. I was smitten.

Danang: Where No One Speaks English

I've debated at length whether or not to post my favorite picture of the nasty wound that by this time has become the defining event of the trip. It is a stark comparison shot showing the healthy, normal knee alongside the engorged, stitched, red, and oozy one. Fortunately for the squeamish, I think I'll err on the side of mystery and spare everyone the gore. Suffice to say that three days of rest felt nice but changed little, and by the time I hobbled into the airport at Nha Trang, I had become the sort of oddity that stops all (pedestrian) traffic. Had I thought ahead and dressed the part, I might have earned some pocket change posing as a handicapped beggar.

Yet onward we press, though my leg be rotund and discolored and aching, and though I pick my way ever more slowly through the treacherous zooming traffic. All part of the healing process, I say!

***For those of you who are terribly concerned about my well being, please rest assured that I will, it turns out, survive. Leg intact. For those of you who prefer suspense as a literary device, I offer this: Things were looking grim. I penned a truncated will just in case friends and family needed tools to deal with a sad ending.***

If we had been still in Singapore, land of beautiful law-abiding wealthy people, I likely would have been quarantined on the spot and fined for being disabled in public. But in Vietnam, happily, they let infected gimps like me into airports and onto planes. In short order, we were soaring over the rice paddies on our way to the country's third largest city, Danang. This commercial, sprawling, architecturally vapid place is the gateway to one of Vietnam's most charming towns, Hoi An. We hopped in a taxi, pointed to the map and address of the bus stop, and asked the driver to take us there. He spoke zero English. Smiling and nodding, he brought us to an industrial sort of road far from our target. After several minutes of frustrated gesticulating, we gave up and set out on foot. Surely someone could give us directions!

People tried, they really did. As we wandered from metal shop to car dealership to restaurant to (small jail??), everyone was happy to express his or her opinion about what we were looking for and how far we needed to go to get there. With answers ranging from 3km to 100m to "you here!", and no taxi in sight in this scrubby part of town, I was beginning to feel a creeping worry. And as it rose up from my stomach to tighten my chest and force me to breathe deeply, I assuaged my nervous mind that (a) this is why I do not travel alone-anymore-to developing countries where I do not speak a lick of the local language and (b) it was noon. We had plenty of time until real crisis.

Finally I suggested we try our luck in a bank, so we poked in, hapless as sheep and with backpacks in tow. None of the tellers understood us in the least, but one of the customers stood up and said he could be of assistance. God bless him. And he was quite a help, though his command of English began and ended with him telling us to follow him. We crossed the two-lane highway of a street, and waited on the curb with him until he flagged down a tiny yellow bus, presumably the right one, and he shuffled us on it, leaving us at this point to fend again for ourselves. We were the only non-locals aboard, and certainly the only Caucasians. Oh, the staring. I think the staring is the only thing I really hate about traveling outside my comfort zone. I can handle all manners of anxiety and I can manage an ever-growing set of insane situations, but just don't watch me! I feel like an animal in a zoo... "Oh isn't it cute how she tightens her backpack straps! And see now she's checking her watch! Just like we do, honey!" Fifteen awkward minutes elapsed on the local bus, but true to our helper's word, we alighted at the city bus station. From here we had only to follow the trail of other dizzied backpackers to a bus labeled "Hoi An." Our safe haven, and a break from the infernal walking, was only an hour away.

Dalat

A six hour bus ride turned into an eight hour journey over an extraordinarily potholed highway. We arrived in Dalat after midnight the night before last, and although the bus company provided a free taxi to our final destination, the hotel gates were closed and lights were off at the two places where we'd requested rooms. Finally the taxi driver suggested his friend's place, and we settled into the sorta clean twin beds of a pretty sparse, relatively overpriced ($10!) room. It was clean enough. Never mind the peephole in the bathroom door. I was tired, limping and bleeding enough that I would have slept on a comfortable moss patch.

In the morning we set out to find better housing, and under the influence of several Panadol, I felt competent to tackle the adventure. Dalat is a hill station, initially established by the French as a cooler respite from the heat of Saigon. Back alleys evolve into narrow stairways winding from road to higher road. There's a large dammed lake in the center of town, which was probably quite pretty when it had water it. This year it is a mud pit because they opened the dam to facilitate a bridge expansion project. All over are signs of an eclectic local spirit. There is a huge radio tower that has been lighted and outfitted with a ball to resemble the Eiffel Tower. Cafes cater to artsy tourists, and adventure companies offer rock climbing, hiking, and abseiling trips. I was looking forward to a bike ride to a trail head to hike 5 dormant volcanic peaks. By the end of the afternoon, it was clear I would be doing no such trekking.

We did manage to crawl and climb all over the "Crazy House," built beginning in 1990 by a Vietnamese architect who wanted to bring her people back to nature. The house is a 30,000 square foot exploding plaster tree, with branches and limbs providing the stairways and overpasses that allow you to navigate from pod to pod. Rooms (which you can book for $35 a night) are about as kitchy as can be. There are mirrors on all surfaces, ceilings especially, and creepy plaster animals with glowing red eyes serve as chimneys. I've attached a picture to jog your imagination, and I encourage a Google-image search to get a better of idea of just how nuts this place is.

We found ourselves fantastically clean and modern accommodations in the Dream Hotel, aptly named. The owners, Mr. and Mrs. Dung, are wonderful people who run a tight operation. I was happy to hobble home to clean sheets and a well-appointed bathroom. I was even comfortable enough to make the dreaded call home: "Mom, don't worry, but I got hit by a motorcycle."

When I woke up the next morning I learned that my resourceful mother, had used scanty information to track down contact information and email Mrs. Dung. After breakfast, she instructed me to go get dressed; we were going to the hospital. The government-run hospital here in Dalat is tidy and bright, full of locals, many minorities hill tribes, all wide-eyed and strained-looking. They appraised my situation and couldn't figure out what was so dire about my situation that I was dragging my leg around like a ghoul. Mrs. Dung is an absolute saint. Without her translating, the whole attempt at medical aid would have been crazy. The doctors spoke little English, and the system for triage and patient handling seems as random as the use of accent marks in Vietnamese writing. I got an x-ray to verify the patella is intact (it is!), and then they ushered me into a little room for stitches. I've watched people get stitches in American emergency rooms. They don't look happy. I watched the clouds pass in the window as the doctor stuck me with the lidocaine syringe and I thought, "Well. Now I've really done it."

If there's one medical procedure I might trust in the developing world, stitches are it. Doctors see a lot of lacerated skin, and this particular man made quick work of the four stitches binding my knee back together. He iodined the wound, and sent me on my way with gauze and a prescription for painkillers, antibiotics, and anti-inflammatory drugs. And, I was surprised to learn, the whole experience was free, paid for by the Vietnamese government. I'm still limping pitifully, because the knee joint is swollen and bruised, but a few more days of sending Andrew on all my errands, and I should be functional again (thank you, Rew!).

Cu Chi Tunnels and Motorbike Missiles

The last morning in the Saigon area was spent touring the Cu Chi Tunnels, a 200 km network of underground rooms and passageways that housed the Viet Cong headquarters from which the 1968 Tet Offensive was launched. The tunnels, part of a subterranean system under much of the country, was a vital component of the guerrilla tactics that so hampered US forces. The Marines in fact specially trained soldiers as tunnel rats to go down into the mole-holes armed with a flashlight and knife. No wonder that some of the most traumatized veterans were the ones sent into the dark to kill with their bare hands anything that moved. The tunnels were never effectively infiltrated.

Our local guide, Mr. Thong (see right), is a proud native of Cu Chi and a wounded veteran of the fighting that took place. He described in detail the punji stake pits and explosive booby traps that the villagers devised from GI rubbish. "The American--big country, strong country--" he explained, "They bring lots of Budweiser and when they throw away the can, we pick up and put bomb inside. We recycle!" The jungle surrounding the village was rife with spear lined holes that were covered with brittle branches and leaves. Our guide explained that they wanted to maim, not kill soldiers, because "they go home to America and show the family, the friends. Look what the Vietnamese can do." So deeply satisfied was Mr. Thong with his peoples' war effort. Using clever ingenuity, they thwarted the most powerful of military forces.

The experience was a provoking juxtaposition to the War Remnants Museum, and was fairly nauseating in its own rite. I was somewhat appalled that Mr. Thong, knowing Americans were part of his audience, would be so blatant with his opinions. Of course he thinks of himself as a patriot against foreign aggression, so much so that he has rationalized beyond the humanity of his own actions. I was sickened by the pride in his voice as he described watching an American soldier die, even as I felt some sorrow for him when he told us about the death of his mother and siblings. He was happy to show off his battle wound, and tell us the details of his life in the tunnels. When we arrived at the half-blown up US tank, he encouraged us to climb aboard for pictures. He explained in gross detail the way spikes tear a leg when set at different angles in a pit. Ego loosens the lips better than any torture.

War is hell.
------------------------
Back in Ho Chi Minh City, we had an hour and a half to catch a bus to Dalat. We downed a noodle-soup lunch at Pho 2000 (which claims fame for having served lunch to President Clinton in 2000). I haggled for some tank tops in the marked (gypped again). We began to cross the last major street between us and our hotel, our bags, and our 6-hour bus ride up into the mountains.

Let's do this in slow motion (envisioning the classic Frogger format): I look to the left. I pick the perfect split second to skip between motorcycles. I dodge a dump truck. Hop across twenty more lanes of motorcycle madness. At the-rare!-concrete median I muse that it's not even rush hour. Traffic is coming from the right now. I do a couple more quick glances to the right, and begin weaving through the next twenty lanes. A truck is coming. I slow down. My moment comes... I step... I hear Andrew yell "SARAH!" I am blindsided by an Aussie tourist driving salmon-like against the traffic in the middle of the street.

They say time slows down in traumatic moments like this, but it wasn't until later when Andrew gave me his version of the play by play that I knew I'd been dragged for nearly five feet on my knee. The guy stopped long enough to yell "Are you okay?" And I screamed "No!" Andrew cursed the guy, and we continued our dash through the now-stopped traffic to the sidewalk. No sense hanging out in the middle of the raging river.

On the sidewalk, I took one look at the jagged gash across my kneecap, burst into tears, and was ushered by the street vendors into a nearby pharmacy. The pharmacist was a genuine saint. She took one look at the blood dripping on her tile floor, collected some first aid equipment and set to cleaning me up. We were on our way in no time, back to the hotel, into a taxi, onto a bus. It wasn't until a rest stop in the middle of absolutely nowhere that I looked at the wound and realized proper medical help was probably a good idea.

How's that for a cliff hanger?

Angkor Wat Temple Tour

I'm so flattered to hear from those of you who are reading my blog! Thank you, and I hope I can keep sending out stuff worthy of your interest.

It's certainly been an intriguing couple of days in Siem Reap. I rather expected Cambodia to be on par with India in terms of frenetic energy and shocking culture, and instead I am pleased to find a more relaxed, gentler place here. Smiles are more regular, beggars more rare, and even the touts that harry tourists seem to do so with a sense of humor and leisure. At one temple, a small girl learned my name, and remembered me when I emerged from sightseeing an hour later. She switched languages along with me from English to Spanish to French to Italian to Chinese, laughing each time at the game. As I drove away, she waved goodbye, "Okay, Sarah. I see you next time, then you buy a star!"

We've done a complete tour of the Angkor temples, stunning memorials to a grand civilization. Angkor Wat is of course the most famous, best preserved, and most overrun by tourists. The complex is surrounded by a picturesque moat, rising up as corrugated towers meant to emulate the closed lotus blossom. It is the quintessential photo-opportunity. But so is every other ruin...

Lest I digress into guidebook descriptions of each spot, suffice that each is distinctively beautiful. Bantey Srei has especially exquisite carving, Angkor Thom sprawls impossibly in all directions. Ta Prohm, a less restored and still overgrown temple, was especially beautiful. Jayavarman VII constructed the temple's face image to represent Prajnaparamita, the personification of wisdom, which was modeled after the face of his mother. I plan on paying similar tribute to my mom when I grow up and run my own civilization. (thanks for paying for my education, parents!)

A favorite spot was the Srah Srang temple, which rises up in a pyramid high enough above the trees to give a view back to Angkor Wat in the distance. The steps to the structure are guarded by pairs of lions at each level. Removed a bit from the press of tourists, this temple offered a reflective quiet. It was a good time to contemplate what this all must have looked like in the 12th Century. Hard to imagine... as Parisians were building Notre Dame, the Khmer civilization was in full swing along the shores of the massive Tonge Sap Lake. Then the Thais moved in.

After a full day of temples, we wandered the more modern meccas of Siem Reap: the night market and the nightclub district. The night market is geared squarely toward tourists, offering all sorts of pretty goods: silk purses, silver jewelry, shells, turquoise, wood carvings, t-shirts. Peculiarities abounded, too. At every corner was a gaggle of tourists with their feet in a shallow aquarium full of tiny fish that "massage" feet by eating off dead skin. Nauseating. The lively streets and alleyways overflowed with open air restaurant seating. Lights, hawkers, the occassional trio of she-male prostitutes. This was the section of town where backpackers set up camp... we'd been wondering what happened to all the Americans at night! We invested a dollar in greasy, gooey "crepes" from a street vendor, who filled the dough with condensed sweetened milk and Milo powder. Finally we tracked down our tuktuk driver, Mr. Vannam, and headed home.

Today is sunnny and beautiful, and we take to the skies again to fly to Ho Chi Minh City (Saigon). From there we wander into Vietnam.

Best,
Sarah

Siem Reap

We arrived in Cambodia after a full night of partying on the white sand Tanjong Beach of Sentosa accompanied by gorgeous guests of a gorgeous wedding. Our 6 AM flight out of Singapore was a stark way to enter the other real world.

On the ground in Siem Reap, the welcoming committee was a uniformed line of customs officials--men who collected, passed along, stamped, and eventually returned foreign passports with mechanical efficiency. They took particular interest in my paperwork, snickering as they shuffled it along their desk. I figured they were impressed with the interesting stamps I have collected from the weird corners of the world. When I went to the airport restroom, I realized my dress had come unbuttoned at an inopportune spot while I was fitfully sleeping on the plane. I sincerely hope I was a bright spot each in of their mornings.

We had booked accommodation in advance to provide a soft landing at a plusher hotel in town. A driver met us at the airport doors and whisked us away to a paradisial little spot where Sarah Brightman, Andrea Boccelli, and Josh Groban play on repeat in the lobby while mosquitoes lazily drift in from the poolside through dark wood window frames. We spent the day appreciately napping and reading. The trip to dinner marked my first ride in a tri-wheel Tuk Tuk, the distinctively Southeast Asian means of carting Westerners from site to site.

Dinner was a fantastic culinary experience in that I was surprised by flavors I'd never before tasted. Cambodians make constant use of prahok, a fermented fish paste that far outshines Thai nam pla in its smelliness. We sampled a fried noodle dish, a dip (fish sauce) with vegetables, and fish amok, each of which bore that same undertaste of fishy odor. The amok, a sort of curry souffle with spinach, peppers, and fish poached to a soft flaky texture, was far and away the highlight dish. The others were simply too pungent. Back in 8th grade Latin class, we read with astounded disgust a recipie for the Roman condiment garum, which is made by leaving fish in a pan in the sun for several days, then mashing it into a paste with salt just before it starts to harden. With each bite of this new cuisine, I couldn't help but think of fish decomposing, much the same way I can't eat Caesar salad when I think about anchovies. I can't add this dinner to a list of favorites, but I will remember it for a long time. So excited was I to discover a new set of flavors, particularly one about which I have a strong opinion.

After some more much needed rest, we'll tackle the Angkor Wat temples!